Chapter 11
Martin
I stop the car, turn off the engine, take a few deep breaths, and step out just as his car pulls up beside mine.
We’re at the local pub beneath my apartment.
I hadn’t chosen it with any real intention; it’s not like I wanted to bring him to my place.
He told me to pick somewhere close to home, and this was the only spot that came to mind.
I could have invited him upstairs, but I was worried he might get the wrong idea.
The problem is, I actually do have that kind of idea, but it’s all his fault.
If he hadn’t kissed me at his sister’s wedding and pressed his body to mine, making it very clear how much he liked it, I wouldn’t be in this situation.
If he didn’t look at me, talk to me, or — better yet — if he didn’t exist at all, I wouldn’t have a problem.
The Captain is real — every glorious inch of him. What started as a silly crush has spiralled into something dangerous, my secret fantasy growing too fast, taking over, turning into an obsession, like a degenerative disease that can only end one way.
I’ve met men like him before: you never stand a chance. They drain you, body and soul, until there’s nothing left, and no one can help you find your way back to normal.
Yes, the Doctor likes the Captain.
The Doctor is such a loser that he’d rather be messed with than ignored.
“Shall we go inside?” He nods towards the entrance.
“After you,” I say, opening the door for him.
“Such a gentleman,” he teases as I pass him. It’s as if I can hear Evan’s voice in my ear, whispering, You’re a loser, Dad.
I enter and look around. Most of the tables are nearly empty. It’s already ten p.m., and there’s never anyone in this pub during the week. I signal to the first available table, and he takes a seat while I head to the bar to order two beers.
I take the drinks back to the table, sit down opposite him, and immediately take a few sips to hide my embarrassment and try to relax. After a thirty-six-hour shift, I really need it — even though the reason for my nervousness is certainly not work.
How the hell can I sit in front of him without looking at him, fantasising about him, or making a fool of myself?
“So,” he begins after taking a sip of his beer. He leans back in search of a comfortable position, looking perfectly relaxed and ridiculously sexy. “What’s it like being… well, a doctor?”
Is he being serious? Why is he asking me about my job?
“Oh, it’s… you know…” I almost stammer.
Come on, Martin. He asked you about your job, not whether you wear underwear.
Oh God! I can’t think about underwear right now, nor can I think about whether he wears any.
How did I even end up thinking about underwear?
He looks at me, one eyebrow raised, waiting for me to say something.
“Do you really care?” I ask doubtfully, afraid his question is just another way to mess with me.
“Of course. Your world has always fascinated me.”
“Oh.” I open my eyes and mouth wide. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Why? Do I look like an idiot, all muscles and no brains?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you think so.”
“I’m not thinking anything. I don’t even know you. For all I know, under those ten kilos of pecs, you could be some nerd with glasses and an asthma inhaler in your pocket.”
Did I seriously just mention his pecs?
He looks at me, amused. “I don’t have asthma, and I can see perfectly well,” he says confidently.
“You don’t have to ask me questions about my job. I mean, you don’t have to be nice.”
“I told you I’m interested.”
His voice drops a tone. I won’t get through this first meeting if he talks to me like that.
“I’ve always wondered what drives someone to choose such a path. Is it a vocation, like when Jesus appears to you in a dream and tells you to become a priest?”
I burst out laughing involuntarily, but he doesn’t take it badly; in fact, he smirks at his own bullshit.
Well, I suppose that when you’re Jamie Murray, The Captain, you’re allowed to say whatever you want.
No one is likely to call you out on it, especially since everyone is too busy admiring your muscles and abs or getting lost in the striking blue of your eyes.
But if you look closely, you can see a hint of grey branching off from the pupil, gradually fading into the most transparent blue I’ve ever seen — a blue tending towards crystal clear.
“So this is how it happens?”
“Not quite,” I say, sparing him the full, forensic analysis of the colour of his eyes.
My son is right: I am an unprecedented loser.
“It’s not really a calling or a vocation. At least not for me. Let’s just say I always knew. I never had any interests outside of medicine. By the time I was fourteen, I was certain of my future, and I worked hard to achieve that goal.”
“And you only focused on that?”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “And now I’m the boring Doctor Dickhead.”
I know they call me that. I’m pretty sure that charming little nickname started with my dear friend Ryan.
At first, it bothered me, but then I realised it’s just part of the game.
Ryan can’t stand me, and I don’t think he’ll ever accept me in his life, especially since Chris and I are very good friends.
He feels threatened by our relationship.
I also suspect he doesn’t fancy the idea of me being Evan’s father, or maybe he just can’t accept that I exist at all.
There’s nothing I can do about that. I am here, and I will continue to be present in my son’s and Christine’s lives, whether Ryan likes it or not. He can call me whatever names he wants.
“I don’t think you are boring.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s just that most people can’t see it through.”
“And do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“And is this one of those times?”
He gives me a small smile and takes a sip of his beer.
“I don’t know yet,” he says, “but I think I’ll find out soon.”
If he makes another comment like that, with that tone, that smug gaze, and that smile that says, ‘You’re my prey, start running if you don’t want me to swallow you whole’, I’ll drag him back to mine, even if I have to carry him on my back and risk a few fractured vertebrae in the process.