Chapter 28
I guess we’re seeing each other. In secret.
Brendan knows, because he watched it happen, as does Eric, who on the few occasions he’s home, corners us to share Zoopla listings of perfectly nice houses in Staines.
And of course, Nicole knows. Nicole who I frequently find in the staffroom with Cian, eating KitKats while asking him for advice on how to get through to her twelve-year-old son.
It’s irritating that she gets to abundantly spend time with Cian while I cut short any conversations he initiates and warn him to stop putting things on my desk after work; a Twix one week, a pair of Cartman socks the next . . .
In our third week of being ‘together’, Cian invites me to his place, and it’s exactly how I pictured a flat with two men sharing to be. Plain. Uncluttered and slightly sparse.
‘I hate it,’ Cian complains, yet doesn’t explain why. I assume it’s because it’s not one of the homes he was meant to buy with Vic. Crazy that after so many months, the knowledge of her and this future they were meant to have still pinballs around my insecurities.
Cian’s room is neat and full of clothes I never see him wear, piles of trainers, sports equipment and stacks of books.
Mostly non-fiction about natural disasters and more books on terrorism than I’d expect any one person to own.
He recommends a few to me, I read the back covers and put them straight down.
‘How are you so smart yet you don’t read?’
‘I do read,’ I say, ‘I read Wikipedia.’
There are photos, mostly unframed prints, which sit dusty and curling on a shelf. One of him and Brendan biking in a forest, another of him and his sister as teenagers’, mid argument while their mum poses unaware.
He tells me more about his mum and how she began spending an increasing amount of time in Eastbourne with a friend before leaving Brendan for good.
When I ask Cian why he didn’t move to be with her, he simply says, ‘The offer wasn’t there.
’ Another time he makes a comment about being discarded by his mum; that’s the word he uses, discarded, and it stings because he laughs when he says it.
Mostly we go out, branching away from our old patterns of sitting on the sofa watching films and eating sandwiches.
We go for cold walks around all the major parks, seem to eat constantly, and one weekend I take Eric’s car and Cian guides me out to a forest to find a pub he used to love.
It’s only when we reach Epping that he realises he can’t remember the name of it, and we get lost for over an hour.
‘It’s old age,’ he moans. ‘First my sight, then my bones, now my mind.’
The constant anxiety about ageing is something I picked up on before, and the more time we spend together, the more I realise how preoccupied he is with what’s next.
I find out him and Brendan don’t talk when they’re not living together, though they do continuously exchange content, their chat thread full of memes and YouTube videos of fitness influencers.
I learn Cian has a roster of four things he can cook very well and no intention of adding to it.
After he makes me a jalfrezi, he warns I must wait until Valentine’s Day for the next one or he’ll run out of ways to impress me.
I discover he’s ticklish and can fall asleep in minutes if I gently scratch his scalp, and when I wake him up, he will always deny he was asleep.
The weirdest thing I uncover is that he’s known Jeff, his flatmate, since university but the only things they ever talk about are hackathons and politics.
And I love it, peeling him back like this, though it’s been almost a month and we’re already in this routine where we have sex but don’t sleep together, which I know is my fault.
And we hold hands and kiss but only behind closed doors, which I think is also my fault.
And we discuss everything, except his anti-commitment comment or the detail that I’m in love with him and, in a roundabout way, he’s admitted he knows this.
And this, I would say, is both of our faults.
I worry the longer we leave these things, the longer neither of us brings them up, the harder they will be to tackle.
But the truth is, I’m enjoying being with him too much to rock the boat.
The second time I go over to his, he sits at his desk, muttering about ‘fucking air con’ while alternating between his laptop and work phone. Chat was having issues with the data centres overheating, and Cian had been doing long hours because of it.
‘Why are you cackling back there?’ he asks.
‘You’re like a student,’ I say, as he turns to look at me lying on his bed. ‘Sitting at your little desk with your books and pens, doing your homework.’
‘Shut up,’ he taunts as he spins back to his screens.
My own phone rings and Cian whines, ‘I will pay you to change that ringtone.’
‘It’s my mum, probably calling to talk about my birthday.’
‘When’s your birthday?’
‘In two weeks.’
He spins back. ‘Why didn’t I know this? Hang on, it’s your thirtieth.’
‘I’m not celebrating.’
‘What’s the big deal?’ he asks, softly countering my defensiveness.
‘There isn’t any deal. That’s the point. It’s right before Christmas and I don’t want anything. She wants to do a family lunch.’
He flicks up his eyebrows and grins. ‘Am I invited?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s a family lunch.’
‘I’ve had lunch with your parents before. Your mum liked me. Not as much as she liked Ikenna,’ he jokes. ‘And Eric likes me. I think.’
‘He does.’ I yawn. ‘He said you’ve got great thighs.’
‘Zoe.’
‘I’m kidding. He didn’t say it. But I know he thinks it.’
‘I really can’t come to your thirtieth?’
‘Please stop saying thirtieth like it means something.’
He tips his head and stares as me as if reading for some truth in my expression.
‘You can take me for afternoon tea if you’d like,’ I offer, hoping it’ll be enough to placate him.
‘Cool.’
I jolt awake. The room is dim, with just the desk lamp on by the dark computer screen. Cian’s not there and I have no idea what time it is. I’m still in my clothes with the duvet over me. Did he do this? When he comes back, he’s changed into a T-shirt and joggers.
‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ I ask.
He gets on the bed next to me. ‘I tried. You were out. Sorry I worked so long.’
The cold hits me as I slide out of the bed. ‘Where’s my phone?’
‘It’s half one,’ he says. ‘Go back to sleep.’
I find it wedged between the mattress and the bedframe and bring up Uber.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks.
‘I didn’t expect to stay over.’
‘It’s half one,’ he says again.
‘I didn’t bring anything.’
Cian storms out of the room, but I’m the one who should be annoyed. This was the only evening this week we could see each other, and he let me sleep through it. I book a cab immediately and quickly gather my things.
A folded towel and new, still-in-its-package toothbrush are thrown on the bed. ‘I’ll get you a T-shirt.’
‘Don’t bother. I’ve ordered a cab.’
His face clouds and he audibly blows out through his nostrils. ‘Even with Ikenna,’ he asks, ‘in all that time, you never slept over?’
‘Why are you bringing him up? There’s no comparison.’
‘It’s the only thing I’ve got. You’ve not exactly been open with me about all this.’
‘Neither have you,’ I snap back.
He closes the bedroom room and glances at me. ‘No?’
‘No.’
‘What do you want to know?’ he asks, his body language closed. ‘Tell me what you want to know.’
And now something that was not on my mind a few seconds ago occupies it entirely. ‘It wasn’t that long ago when you were still pining for your ex. I know you wish things were different, that you weren’t living here, doing this.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ He puts his hands over his face.
‘Why don’t you talk about her?’ I plead. ‘Why don’t you ever explain what happened, why you broke up.’
‘We broke up,’ he starts, his composure gone, ‘because she didn’t want me. I’ve told you that before and I don’t know why you keep making me say it.’
Is that what I’ve been doing? Making him continuously drag up something hurtful.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, though I’m not sure what for; it’s all bad.
He doesn’t respond, just stands there on the other side of the bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’ll stay. Let me cancel the cab.’
‘No, you should go,’ he says, not unkindly. ‘I’m a noisy sleeper. And I know you’ve got a long day tomorrow.’
I go to him, putting my arms around his middle and while he moves to accommodate me, he doesn’t reciprocate. All I have to offer are apologies, and I sense from the rigidity of his stance they’re not enough.
‘Are you sure about this?’ he asks. ‘Sure about me?’
I curl into him in the hope it’ll be the reassurance I don’t know how to vocalise.
‘I can’t be with you if you’re unsure.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say into his T-shirt. We pull apart as my phone rings and Cian snorts down at it. ‘You’re never going to change that ringtone, are you?’
‘No. I will. I keep forgetting.’
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘you don’t want to get another one-star rating.’
Cian goes to the wedding of a university friend that weekend.
He doesn’t elaborate too much on it, other than moaning about an early-morning train to Epsom and how expensive everything on the gift list was.
I’m yet to meet any of his friends, other than Jeff, who I meet by default because of the flat, and Dev from work, who always seems remarkably suspicious of me.
And while this shouldn’t be weird at this stage in a relationship, it plays into my insecurities because of the friends who were in his ear, as Brendan said before.
What are they saying now? Are they telling Cian I’m wasting his time?
Are they the ones causing him to question if I’m sure about him or not?
I’m no longer obsessing about Vic, because it’s ridiculous; they broke up almost a year ago. It’s more the idea of what their relationship was, that it was serious and close, while what I’m building with Cian feels half in and almost flippant. Though I do wonder if she’ll be at the wedding.
I send Cian a message to wish him a good time, yet when I read it back it feels thin and impersonal, like we’re people who don’t truly know each other.
What I really want to message is I miss you, or Let me know when you’re back so I can come over or even Send pictures, because I want to see who he’s with, who’s in his life outside of me.
On Sunday evening I sit on the sofa, pretending to be fascinated as Eric shows me the crime map of Staines compared to where we live now. When he gets up to charge his laptop, I send Cian the message I should have sent two days ago.
Me: I’m sorry about how I acted the other night and I’m sorry that I left your place. I am sure about you. Of course I am. Can we spend some time together next weekend?
Four hours later I receive not a thumb-up emoji but a one-worded answer of:
Cian: Cool