Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aiden
“Why the hell am I fucking everything up again?” I asked as I slumped down against the worn wooden bar of The Nag’s Head, letting out a long-suffering groan like I’d run a marathon and then gone straight into a maths exam.
The last ten days had been a non-stop emotional shitshow, coupled with endless hours of cleaning, sorting, and trying to get my fucking life together.
All while trying to avoid my feelings for the two men I’d left in Lincoln.
It hadn’t worked, and I was miserable as fuck. Which was why I’d dragged myself down to the pub in the hope Bacon would take pity on me. Or at least feed me.
“Do you actually want me to answer that question?” Bacon asked, putting a pint of cider down in front of me. “Or do you just want cider and sympathy?”
“Is that an option?”
“Cider, yes. Sympathy, no.”
“What? Why the fuck not?”
“Because you don’t deserve any,” Bacon said. He walked down the bar to pull more pints for other patrons, pausing to yell across the packed room. “Ollie Bates, don’t you dare touch that fucking TV.”
“But I wanna watch the Liverpool game,” Ollie moaned. He was nineteen and a little dickhead, but that was pretty much my opinion of all nineteen-year-olds.
“Tough shit, we’re watching Leicester. This is a Leicester pub, so we’re watching Leicester.
Touch it again and I’ll have your fingers.
Don’t like it, then go somewhere else.” He glared at Ollie, who returned to his seat with his mates while cursing Bacon out.
“Fucking teenagers, man,” Bacon muttered. “Twats, the lot of them.”
“Remember when we were nineteen?” I asked with a wry smile.
“We were fucking saints compared to this lot.”
That was a lie, but I wasn’t going to point it out.
Not when I was trying to wrangle sympathy out of my best friend.
I picked my cider up and took a long, slow sip as I looked around the pub.
It was busy and noisy, as it always was on a Sunday afternoon, the smell of roast dinners mingling with the lingering cigarette and vape smoke from people’s clothes.
All the old wooden tables were full, the battered stools and chairs digging into the threadbare red and gold patterned carpet which hadn’t been replaced since the late nineties.
There were a few prints of various beer and Guinness ads on the off-white and wood-panelled walls and random beer paraphernalia stuck up above the bar, but again none of it was new.
The outside of the pub was just as battered, with chipped, whitewashed walls, a wooden door with flaking black paint, a swinging sign that had once had a horse’s head painted on, and gold-plated metal letters spelling out the pub’s name, two of which were missing and had been for close to five years.
Bacon had tried to make a few improvements over the years, but they were always met with resistance by the locals.
Their argument was that if Bacon made it look too posh, then other people, those from the large houses on the nearby new-build estate, would start coming and take it over.
Bacon’s argument was that he’d like the pub to not look like there was an eighty percent chance you’d get stabbed when you walked in.
The compromise seemed to be Bacon could do up the inside first, fix anything that was structurally important, like the roof, and maybe replace the missing letters on the outside. But there were never allowed to be hanging baskets.
There could, however, be a small safe space sticker in the window and two small Pride flags behind the bar. Bacon had added those himself and dared anyone to argue about it. The ones who’d tried had been immediately kicked out and had their photos stuck up on the Banned For Life wall near the bar.
One guy had tried to pick a fight with Bacon about it but had backed down swiftly when Bacon had pulled out the golf club from behind the bar.
I hadn’t been here at the time, but I wished I had.
Only because the story kept growing in the telling, and last time I’d heard it, Bacon had taken on a gang of sixteen single-handedly, armed with nothing but a golf club, a bar rag, and a pint.
It gave people something to talk about when they were bored at least.
“Can I have lunch, please?” I asked, smiling sweetly at Bacon as I put my drink down.
“Maybe.”
“What the fuck is maybe?”
“It means if you stop being a wanker, then perhaps you can have some.”
“You’re being a right dickhead today,” I muttered into my pint.
“You’re the one who came in here moaning about how you’ve fucked your life up and asking me why the fuck you’re doing it,” Bacon said as he pulled a few more pints then began to measure out a couple of glasses of wine.
It was the sort of stuff Devon would faint at the idea of being called wine.
“I’m guessing this isn’t just about the kitchen? ”
“No.” I took another long drink, needing some courage for what I was about to admit. “I miss them.”
“And who would that be?” Bacon asked innocently.
Like he didn’t know. I’d ended up spilling my guts to him the day after I’d gotten back from Lincoln because I’d been wearing a Knights T-shirt I’d pinched out of Bailey’s wardrobe like some sort of fucking trophy.
He’d known I’d slept with them in the past, but he’d been far too fucking delighted to discover I’d stayed with them for two days.
“Hunter and Bailey.”
“Did you tell them that?”
“… No.”
“Any reason?”
“Because I’m a coward,” I said, draining the last of my pint and pushing the empty glass towards Bacon.
He sighed and took the glass, sliding it into the dishwasher behind the bar. “You’re not a coward, Eggs. You’re just… daft.”
“Thanks?” I wasn’t sure that was any better.
“What’re you afraid of? ’Cos nothing scares you, except when it comes to relationships. Then you run faster than a cat from a bath.” He kept working as he spoke, and I appreciated that. It was easier when I didn’t have to look him in the eye.
“I don’t know. I guess, that they’ll figure out they work better as a couple and decide they don’t want me? Or they’ll realise what a pain in the arse I am and decide I’m not worth it.”
“Stop that!” Bacon said, hitting me on the hand with the soggy bar rag.
“Ew! What the fuck was that for?”
“I’m not having none of this ‘woe is me, I’m not worth it’ bollocks. You’re awesome and you know it. And if people have an issue with you, that’s their fault not yours.”
“But—”
“No fucking buts,” Bacon said, smacking me with the rag again. It was gross. “You’ve never let anyone get to you this much before, and I don’t get why you’re so determined to prove to yourself they don’t want you.”
“It’s safer, I guess,” I said quietly, fixing my eyes on the speckled tiled floor behind the bar. “Can’t get hurt if there’s nobody around to hurt you.”
“Let me ask you this: when was the last time you let anyone get close enough to hurt you in the first place?”
“I don’t know.”
“Getting hurt is part of life, like dodgy politicians, bad refereeing, and taxes. You can try avoiding them but doesn’t mean you’ll manage it. Sooner or later, they’ll be part of your life. It’s how you deal with them that matters.”
“You’re totally over that penalty decision against Leicester last season then?” I asked with a grin.
“Erikson was fouled and everyone knows it. We should’ve made that final,” Bacon said darkly.
He shook his head and waved his hand at me, the disgusting bar rag only a few inches from my face.
“Anyway, this isn’t about me, dickhead. This is about you trying to run away from the best thing that’s happened to you, besides meeting me. ”
“We’re not even together, Bacon! How can they be the best thing that’s ever happened to me?”
“Fine, might be the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” he said pointedly. “And excuse me for trying to help you shag two men with thighs bigger than my head. Jesus fuck, Eggs. The fact they wanted you to keep in touch is proof enough they want you.”
“I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Well, you did, so suck it up, buttercup.” He put both his hands on the bar and glared at me.
“Look, you’re right. This could go totally arse up in six months and it’ll hurt worse than stepping on a plug in bare feet and you’ll wish you never met them.
But it might not. And you’re sinking that ship before she’s even had a chance to get out the harbour. ”
“I suppose.”
“No suppose about it, that’s what you’re doing. Also, if they wanted to only be a couple, don’t you think they’d have done it by now?”
“Honestly? No. They’re horrifically unaware of their feelings.”
“That’s rich coming from you. I don’t think you’re allowed to judge anyone considering how allergic to emotion you are.” His head snapped around. “Oliver Bates, you get your fucking hands off my TV!”
“Or what?” he yelled.
“Or I’ll tell your mum exactly what you was doing last weekend when you were supposed to be helping her redecorate her sewing room.”
The whole pub went silent, watching the pair of them.
Ollie puffed up his chest for a second, then deflated like a burst balloon and slunk back to his seat.
“That’s what I thought,” Bacon said. “And that goes for all of you. Keep your bloody hands off my TV unless you wanna start paying the bills. My pub. My TV. My choice.”
There was some muttered assent throughout the room, and the chatter quickly resumed. Although there were more than a few dirty looks thrown Ollie’s way for causing the disturbance. I chuckled as Bacon walked down the bar to pour a few more drinks, but his words were ringing in my ears.
He wasn’t the first one to have said them. I’d heard them more times than necessary over the last few weeks. But from him, they hit differently.
Maybe it was because Bacon and I had known each other for so long. Maybe it was because he was my best friend and knew me better than anyone. Or maybe it was because Bacon was one of the only people I’d allowed to get close to me, so he knew it was possible for me to let people in.
Whatever it was, his words felt harder to shake off and dismiss.
He slid another pint across to me and smiled, fonder this time.
“Look, Eggs, I know you. Better than I know anyone. And I know how much you want to be loved. You can deny it all you want, but you love playing all those dating sims, and your favourite films are Crazy Rich Asians, Notting Hill, and The Holiday. You watch every single shit rom-com Netflix puts out, even if they make no fucking sense. You bloody love romance, and that’s not a bad thing.
Not like you seem to think it is. You deserve to be loved, so let them love you, you daft bastard. ”
He glanced up as the front door swung open with a screech and his smile widened. “Would you look at that. You can tell them now.”
“What the—” My gaze followed Bacon’s all the way to the front door where Hunter and Bailey were standing, looking around for me.
They were battered and bruised, and Bailey seemed to be carrying his weight on one foot. But they were here. For me.
I couldn’t stop myself from smiling as a barrage of fireworks exploded in my chest.
Bastards, both of them. Complete and utter bastards.
But they might just be my bastards.