Cool down 2
Aiden
“It’s not even that far. A two-and-a-half-hour drive at most,” I say to Eggo, looking out over the house’s quarter acre rear garden.
There’s an enormous lawn, and at the end, a little vegetable plot, a greenhouse, and a shed. A blank canvas, not that I have green fingers, and I’ve heard coastal properties can be a bitch to grow plants in, but I’d be game for another future special interest.
“The journey’s three hours minimum,” he replies with heavy emphasis on the word minimum. “You’re breaking the law, princess.”
“Whatever gets me to you faster,” I say. I plant a gentle kiss on his mouth, and he melts into my touch.
“How long do you think it’ll take us to christen every single room in this house?” he asks, trailing his lips down my throat.
My brain instantly wants to go the literal route and calculate the actual answer.
Three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, two reception rooms, a kitchen, a utility .
. . Do the downstairs and upstairs halls count as one or two rooms?
And is he including the boot closet, and the porch, and the gardens?
And if so, we’ll need to consider an average nut time of approximately ten minutes, faster without any edging, and a refractory period of about half an hour to an hour—so long as Eggs doesn’t fall asleep—with a maximum of three nuts per day to avoid overexertion . . .
“About four days if we go flat out like a lizard drinking,” I say.
He laughs and tugs on the waistband of my shorts. “Then maybe we should start now.”
Behind us, something scrapes across the kitchen tiles. We whirl around. Chelsea, our estate agent, is standing beside the dining table. She has no intention of sitting in the chair she just pulled out, only of alerting us to her presence.
“Pardon the interruption,” she says, smiling. “I thought you’d like to know that your offer’s been accepted.”
It takes a few seconds for the meaning of those words to sink in.
Over the past few months, Eggo and I have been travelling back and forth between Bath and Cornwall, looking at what must be close to fifty properties.
It had started to feel like the perfect place didn’t exist. Like we were asking for too much—Eggo even began referring to it as his “Pi in the sky fantasy.”—when in fact all we wanted was a minimum of two bedrooms, one for us, one for Logan, a decent-sized garden for my now veteran doggo, and for the property to be within walking distance from the pub.
“Offer’s been accepted,” Eggo repeats in a whisper, as though saying it any louder would undo its magic. He stares at me for a few seconds longer, the comprehension dawning on his face. Then he lets go of me, high fives Chelsea, then hugs me again. “Hell yeah! Fuck yeah! Oh Jesus, I might cry.”
The past four and a half, almost five years of sharing my—our—little two-bedroom house in Bath, has been nothing short of a dream.
We’d wake up together, go to training together, play matches with each other, hang out at home and at Owen’s pub and in the park with Trekkie.
We’d been on so many holidays. Exploring new cities, lazing around on new beaches, weekends away in caravans across the country with an excruciatingly quick-growing Logan.
But during the last two years on the pitch, Eggo’s suffered from injury after injury.
Rotator cuff, ACL tear, concussion, rotator cuff again.
It got to a point where the mishaps were stacking up faster than the recovery time, and we—because he wouldn’t make the call without me—decided retirement was the only sensible choice.
The 2031/2032 season would be his last. We started looking for houses near Newquay so Logan would only be a twenty-minute bike ride away from his father.
I still have another year or two, maybe even three in me before I retire and join him, so we’ll be doing the long distance thing for a while.
I’ll visit Cornwall between games. Eggs and Logan will come to Bath and watch me play, and the couple of months of the off season will be completely ours. When I finally give up rugby, whenever that transpires, I’ll sell my house and move in with him, and we’ll live happily ever after.
“Spider-Man!” Eggo yells.
There’s a sound like a herd of elephants stampeding down the stairs, and a few seconds later, a blonde-haired, five-foot-eleven almost teenager crashes into the kitchen.
“Did you choose a bedroom?” his father asks him.
“You got the house?” Logan says not answering the question.
“Yeah, we did!” He wraps his son in a hug and kisses the top of his head, though he hardly has to bend to reach him now.
Logan wriggles free. He’s reaching that age where all affection is revolting.
“Which room will be yours, then?” Eggo asks again.
“The middle one. Well, the one over the kitchen.”
“Ah, the one with the sea view,” says Chelsea. “Good choice.” She turns to the adults. “I need a few signatures from Finn, and then I can talk you through your next steps if you like.”
Eggo points his thumb at me. “That’s okay, I’ve got a mortgage adviser right here. Aiden explained all the stuff we have to do now, and I’ve been studying very hard.” He puffs out his chest in faux pride.
“Where shall we celebrate tonight?” I ask Logan as his dad is off signing the forms Chelsea’s brought.
Logan’s been showing me his new room. He’s explaining where all of his things will go, including his six tarantula terrariums, because “Mum said if she finds one more escaped cricket in the bathroom, she’s going to set all the spiders free in the woods by the skate park.”
“Food? Tonight? Where should we eat?” I remind him. Like me, Logan often gets lost in his own thoughts.
He shrugs. He’s only a few inches off my height now. Considering where his DNA comes from, it’s not surprising. He’s simply a gangly, unwrinkled, fair-haired version of Eggo.
“Dad said he was gonna book somewhere with Nan and Gramps too.”
“Okay, so where we going, then?”
If anything, Eggo’s offspring is fussier with food than I am. He’s vegan, with the exception of mozzarella for . . . reasons only fathomable to Logan’s brain.
“The burger place on the beach?” he suggests. In all fairness, they do serve a mean plant-based cheeseburger and veggie loaded fries, and the restaurant is literally on the sand.
“Sure. I’ll ring them now to reserve a table.” I get my phone out of my pocket. “Is your mum coming too, and Bran and the boys?”
Logan simply shrugs again.
“Well, go ask your dad if they’re gonna be there. I need to know how many to book it for. It’s Friday night, better make sure they’ve got space.”
“Okay,” he says. He doesn’t move or raise his voice. “Hey, Dad, are Mum and Bran coming tonight?”
I laugh and look over my shoulder expecting Eggo to have walked into the bedroom, but it’s still just the two of us.
Was it a slip of the tongue? Or did he mean . . .
“Are you asking me?” I say.
Logan nods.
“I said to go ask your dad.”
“I did.” He stares at me.
It clicks.
There’s a rushing sensation inside me, like every emotion I’ve ever experienced is trying to burst out of me at once.
“Your . . . I’m . . . You called me Dad?” Okay, fuck, I’m crying now.
Logan backs away from my emotions as though they’re contagious. “Yeah, is that alright?”
I can’t squeeze the word yes out of my too-tight throat. I want to hug him, but he’s flat against the wall of his new bedroom, and besides, he’d hate the affection anyway.
“Woah, what the fuck happened in here?” Eggo says, strolling into the room with Chelsea at his side. His eyes rake over my damp face and his son cowering. “You don’t like the house or something? Seen a ghost?”
“I called Aiden Dad.” Logan leans against the built-in cupboard as though he hadn’t just upside-downed—in the best possible way—my world. “We picked Reefs for tea. Is that okay?”
I don’t get to hear Eggo’s reply. His enormous arms sweep both me and Logan into a hug so tight it could almost cause injury.
“Reefs is perfect,” he says, finally letting us go. His eyes are rimmed with red and his face is dewy. “I love you both so much.”
I thumb a stray tear from his cheek.
“Um . . .” Logan pushes away, literally sliding under Eggo’s extended arm. “This is my bedroom now. Can you please be cringe old people somewhere else?”
“Nope. Never,” Eggo says, dragging Logan into another hug and this time planting dozens of kisses on his head.
He reaches out a hand, grabs my T-shirt, and pulls me into it too, but a moment later, he abruptly lets us go, and runs full pelt down the stairs.
“Wait, I need to show you something in the garden. "
Logan is the first to go after him, and I’m playing catch-up. Chelsea’s at the rear.
When I finally reach the back yard, through the panelled glass doors, Eggo’s standing in the very centre of the lawn. As I get closer, he drops to one knee.
“Oh my god,” I say, either out loud or in my head, I have no idea any more.
Eggo pulls a small black box out of his pocket. He’s shaking as he opens it to reveal a white-metal ring.
Eggo is shaking.
My Finn isn’t the fearless, unflinching, bull-headed guy he so often presents himself as.
“I was gonna wait until tonight or until everything with the house went through, but . . . you know I’m useless at making plans,” he says.
“But this is the one exception. This is the only plan I’ve ever dreamt of.
To be yours forever.” He scrapes a hand over his face, drying his tears. “Pi, Aiden, will you marry me?”
I’m half giddy with laughter and half on the brink of tears as I reach into my own pocket and fish out a near identical black box.
I had been planning this. Plotting a proposal.
I had envisioned us on the beach, dipping our toes into the sea when I popped the question, but the most wonderful thing about Eggo is that without even realising it, he’ll ruin all of my plans and yet somehow make everything better.
“Is that a yes?” he asks, getting to his feet and cradling my face.
“It’s a fuck yes,” I reply.
Behind me Chelsea whoops. She’s filming us on her phone. “Sorry, I know this is a little unprofessional, but I took the liberty. I’ll send you the video and then delete it from my gallery.”
Eggo’s crying too much to answer her.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Logan steps forward and gingerly accepts a hug from his father. “You could plant a tree in this exact spot. It will grow as your love grows.”
“Oh, stop it. That’s the most fantastic idea I’ve ever heard,” Chelsea says.
I take a few moments to remember everything as it is right now.
This perfect house, even though it needs a lot of DIY and TLC.
This perfect garden just waiting for an obsessive overthinker like me to come along and transform it.
The birds chirping from the rooftops, the cloudless blue skies, the very distant blue of the ocean intercepting the horizon.
All one million feet of Logan referring to me as, “Dad.”
And Eggo. His cheeks ruddied and damp, and what appears to be a record-breaking grin stretched across his perfect face.
My throat feels like it’s on fire, but I squeeze out a few words regardless. “Fancy going tree shopping in a bit?”