Chapter 11 #2
“People always thought she was my older sister and were surprised when they found we were mother and son. She had me when she was young—well, under age to be honest. God knows how she managed to keep me, but she did.” He stared at the photo, was lost in it, and I knew he’d momentarily forgotten my presence.
“I never knew my father.” He said the words quietly, it felt like he was talking more to himself than to me.
My stomach tightened. That was one thing, at least, that we had in common.
“He did a bunk when Mum got pregnant with me. I guess I owe my colouring to whoever the sperm donor was.”
“Is she…?” But I already knew the answer.
Kit shook his head. “I had her in my life and that’s what’s important. Anyway, to the here and now.” He raised his glass. “And to surviving my cooking.”
I huffed, relieved the moment of melancholy had passed, and took a sip. The wine was surprisingly good, not that I was much of a judge, and I let the taste settle on my tongue, aromatic and rich, before glancing back at Kit.
“You’re not off the hook yet,” I said. “Let’s see if the food’s as good as the wine.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm, making my skin tingle. “Fair enough. Come on, let’s sit down because you’re making me nervous just standing there.”
I lowered myself onto the sofa. It was as comfortable as it looked and I let myself sink into it.
“Do you realise you just sighed? It does that to you, this sofa. It’s kind of like a big, cushioned hug.
If you’ve had a bad day, the sofa will see you right.
God, I’m a crap host. Hold on.” He jumped up and rushed to the kitchen, returning with a bowl of olives.
“It’s what grown ups do when they invite somebody over for dinner.
Olives and drinks beforehand,” he said, placing them on the coffee table.
“And how often do you invite somebody for dinner?” How many men do you invite… The thought felt wrong and I pushed it away before it could take root.
“I don’t. You’re the first.”
He said it plainly, a simple matter of fact, and before I could even begin to think about those words, he was gone again, back to the kitchen, from where the faint clatter of plates and utensils came, and the soft scrape of a drawer opening.
The domesticity of it all was unnerving.
I wasn’t used to the homeliness, the normality of it.
It was something others did, but not me. Never me. Or not until then.
“Come and get it,” he called. “Hope you don’t mind having it on a tray in your lap.”
Two plates sat on the breakfast bar, both heaped up with lasagna. It was a mess, food styling clearly not one of Kit’s strong points, but the aroma was rich with garlic, cheese and red wine and I closed my eyes and breathed it in deep on instinct. Kit’s laughter had my eyes snapping open.
“You look like you’ve gone to your happy place.”
I had, but it had nothing to do with the dog’s dinner on my plate.
We sat back down on the sofa, close enough that I could feel the faint warmth of him but not so close that it felt intentional.
“It’s nothing fancy,” he said, handing me some cutlery.
I forked some up and took a bite, chewing slowly, taking my time, making him wait.
It was amazing, not because it was the best lasagna I’d ever eaten, but because it was home cooked, and it had been home cooked for me.
My eyes watered a little, but I told myself it was only a reaction to the fresh from the oven heat of it.
“It’s edible,” I said after a moment, keeping my tone as flat as possible.
Kit gave me a look, his eyebrows raised. “Edible? That’s all you’ve got?”
I shrugged, taking another bite. “I’ve had worse.”
His lips twitched, and for a second, I thought he might argue. Instead, he dug back into his food.
“There I was, slaving away in the kitchen, and all I get is it’s edible and I’ve had worse,” he grumbled.
“I’m eating it, aren’t I? I didn’t realise you’d invited me with the sole intention of fishing for compliments.” I kept my face straight as I heaped some more up. There was no way I was going to let even the tiniest scrap escape.
“I didn’t.”
My hand with the fork hovered between the plate and my mouth. At some point, the music had stopped, leaving us in silence, which stretched out like the melted cheese on the pasta.
“Let me get us some more wine. White still okay for you?” His words were casual and light and I thought I must have imagined the moment of strained silence. Until I looked at his face, which was washed with red.
He brought the bottle back with him, filled our glasses, and picked up the remote control for the TV, pulling up a list of streaming services.
“I said food and film. You’ve got the food, so here’s the other part. I made an executive decision about what to watch. Hope you don’t mind.” He looked at me and grinned. The little sod couldn’t give a damn whether I minded or not.
“As long as it’s not some romance or shit like that.” Or crime, because god knows I had enough of that in my life.
“You don’t like romance? People finding their happy ever afters?” he said, all wide eyed innocence. “I could almost call you cynical.”
“I don’t, and I am.” I shrugged, and attempted a smile to soften my words, but how could I like something I knew nothing about?
I went to fork up some more food, but my plate was empty. Kit laughed as he grabbed it, rushing to the kitchen to pile on some more. I hadn’t eaten so much carbohydrate in I didn’t know how long, and I was savouring every mouthful.
“I was intending on Pride & Prejudice, the version with the delectable Colin Firth, which I’ve watched I don’t know how many times, but there’s romance and shit, so I’ve made another executive decision, and it’s this.
” He pressed play on the remote, and the title of the film came up.
I didn’t watch TV of any description very much, but this was a film I had seen, on some obscure channel in the late small hours.
“Spying and corruption at the heart of 1980s British government.” I turned to look at Kit, cocking an eyebrow. “Defence of The Realm, with Denholm Elliot giving a masterful performance.” I couldn’t remember how I’d picked up that particular nugget.
“All right smart arse, but at least it means you like it so I take that as a win.”
We settled back into eating, topping up our wine glasses every so often.
The film rolled out, the dialogue competing with the clink of our cutlery against our plates.
It was a good film, and any other night I’d have been pulled into it.
But this wasn’t any other night. My focus kept drifting back to Kit, to the way he ate, easy, unhurried, and relaxed, like this was just another night for him.
Like I wasn’t sitting there, silently analysing every moment.
“What?” he asked suddenly, catching me off guard.
“Nothing.” I looked away.
“You were staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
He snorted, setting his empty plate on the coffee table. “If you say so.” He stretched, pushing his arms into the air, his sweatshirt riding up to reveal a narrow strip of taut, pale skin, before he melted back into the sofa, as relaxed as a cat lounging in the sunshine.
I leant back, mimicking his posture, but it felt awkward. Forced. The sofa was too soft, too inviting, and I didn’t know how to sit on it without feeling like I was letting something slip.
“This is weird,” I muttered.
Kit turned his head toward me, his expression curious. “What is?”
“This.” I gestured to the comfortable, slightly untidy room that was so much a home. “Sitting here. Eating proper cooked food, and watching a film. It’s not something I do often.” Or ever. “It feels a bit strange, I suppose.”
“Strange good or strange bad?”
I hesitated, my fingers tightening slightly around the stem of my wine glass. “I’m not sure. Just strange.”
Kit didn’t push me. He just nodded, like that answer was enough, and turned his attention back to the TV.
We didn’t speak, but there was nothing strained or awkward about the silence between us, and little by little I relaxed into the sofa, allowing it to give me its big hug.
I let the low hum of the film wash over me, along with the warmth of the room, and the faint, but rich smell of the meal which hung in the air.
It felt good, it felt safe. It felt right.
“You’re different.” The words slipped off my tongue before I could stop them.
Kit turned to me, the question in his eyes clear and unguarded. “Different how?”
“You just are.” I returned my attention to the TV, unable to hold his gaze.
He didn’t press me on that either, and I was grateful.
After a moment, he shifted, and his knee brushed against mine, just a light touch, fleeting but enough to send a jolt through me.
I froze, half expecting him to pull away, but he didn’t.
Instead, he leant back further, letting his shoulder rest lightly against mine.
The contact was so small, so subtle, but it made something inside me loosen.
In the spring, just a few months away, I’d be hitting forty.
Yet, for the first time ever, I’d been invited to another man’s home for nothing more than a casual meal, a few glasses of wine, and a film.
No agenda, no ulterior motive, no expectations, just the two of us slouched down into the comfy, squashy sofa.
With the warmth of Kit beside me, his company easy and undemanding, the last of the tension in my limbs melted away as the faint, unfamiliar feeling unfurled that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t need to keep my guard up tonight.
And that scared me more than I wanted to admit.