Chapter Six

Sam

We’re outside his flat, and I’m not even surprised we’re in bloody Kensington.

At first, I suggested eating in the car, but I could tell he wasn’t fond of the idea. He shook his head.

“Sod it, let’s go to my flat. Promise not to murder me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope. My murder shift starts at three a.m. You’re good.”

I think I’ve been here once before, during a flower delivery for Lyla. Those days, where I’d spend all day driving around London, visiting offices and posh apartments endlessly hold some of my favourite memories.

During those hot summers, I’d drink Coke and fizzy lemonade on the van, and vibe to her 80’s cd’s, because of course, the van didn’t have Bluetooth. The rest of the year, I’d heavily lean on cheap gas station coffee to survive the day. It helped me become familiar with every nook and cranny around London.

So, it’s not surprising that I figured it out on the way back from the bagel shop. All the lefts he was turning…yeah. Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t look the part.

What I was really surprised about, is how smooth the conversation was, and although it was mostly about trivial stuff, I find everything that leaves his mouth entertaining.

His building is old and posh and very close to Holland Park, and although there are only six stories in total, there’s an elevator. It’s only when we’re riding up, with the food cradled in my arms that I start getting nervous.

As soon as he opens the door, to reveal the interiors of his flat, I feel so out of place, that I start to wonder why I thought it was a good idea to chat up a bloke who looked this posh. I mean, yeah. I was expecting it, but I’m still shocked as he holds the door for me and lets me in first. It’s gigantic, really. There are all sorts of lamps and rugs, and the windows take up a whole wall, framed by heavy, thick bottle green curtains.

I hear his keys being set on some sort of glass bowl, and then he walks around me. My feet seem to be glued to the carpet as he starts taking off his dress shoes. “I-this-“

He lifts one of his eyebrows at me, “Use your words, Sam.”

“Theo.”

“Yes?”

I lean down to untie my shoelaces. He’s still watching me from above as I look up to speak, “You live here?”

He nods, “I’ve lived here for a couple of years. My grandparents own the building,”

“Oh, wow. It’s mad posh.”

He smiles at me and shakes his head.

I sigh, as I realise we won’t be a good match. Everything from the way he talks to the delicate way his hands move feels too above me.

I don’t know him yet, but I don’t even think I could actually take him home to my flat. It’s tiny, cramped and the only decorations are a couple of photos from my Uni graduation ceremony and the trip Andrea and I took to America. It took us ages to save for it, and we made the most of his dad’s free airline miles. Surely, he’d expect expensive gifts and trips and whatnot, and I can only give him…well, myself.

He’s waiting patiently for me, watching me as he leans against the wall.

“Come on. Let’s just eat. I’ve seen you sniff the bag twice already,”

I flush because it’s true, “I didn’t, I swear!”

He chuckles, and it’s such a pretty sound that puts all of his years of piano training to shame. His grey eyes are warm, and there’s not a hint of superiority in them. He looks happy to be here with me, and who am I to decide, again?

I decide to throw my hesitation out the window just for today because after all, he brought me here.

Theo

We’re sitting on the floor with our backs to the couch. Somehow, although there’s a couple of sofas and a perfectly fine dining table we could eat on, I always prefer the living room or the kitchen table. I figured the living room is comfier, plus we can watch the rain and spread our selection a bit more.

I think I’ve used the dining room on counted occasions. Just the thought of sitting at that giant table alone while destroying a burrito is funny to me, so I avoid it altogether.

I like the way Sam has opened up to me, bit by bit over the couple of hours we’ve been together. I mean, doing stuff together, not actually together. Slowly, he’s started revealing things to me without having to prod him.

He’s a messy eater and hasn’t lost his teenage appetite, he hates white wine and goes through seasons when it comes to pies. Sometimes he’s obsessed with cherry pies, other times blueberry, or the universal classic, apple pie.

I’m pleased with myself that I bought all that extra dessert because his eyes got wide as I kept placing them on the coffee table. He scarfed down one after another, taking bites from each one. We made it a game, to rate from best to worse.

“Peach pie is my new thing. Yeah, definitely,” he said as I pushed the last of the slice towards him. He finished it off in one bite. It was a bit like watching a wild dog having a meal. Normally, I’d be appalled to see someone eat so sloppily, but if anything, I was happy to see him eat.

He’s now telling me about his work. The conversation flows easily, and surprisingly, it doesn’t make either of us uncomfortable to talk about what we do. I tell him about my PhD and the university lessons I teach as my actual day job.

He raises both eyebrows and lets out a low whistle, “So you’re smart, smart? Like Academia smart, huh?”

I shrug, a habit I normally despise, but seems to be convenient when I can’t find the right words, “My knowledge is only deep on my field, yes.”

He gives me a wicked grin, “Professor and researcher by day, piano man by night. Lovely.”

I can’t help but feel embarrassed. Not about what I do, but about the way it sounds when it’s said like that.

“Has a nice ring to it.” he continues.

I shake my head and cover half of my face with my palm for some drama, “You’re killing me.”

I finally stop stalling and ask him about himself. He’s much more interesting. He’s only twenty-four and a vet. I think that’s just lovely and fitting for him, with his big hands and soft personality. I rather like it. I refrain from telling him so.

“I work in Brighton, uh, that’s where home is. And I do odd jobs sometimes, here and there when the money is tight, going into the countryside for the weekends to deliver goats and stuff.”

I nod, “I’ve not been much, but I’ve heard it’s nice and quiet, ” I tell him, “Wow. I can’t decide if that sounds very cool or very scary.”

He gives me a big grin in return, “It’s both. Always both. The first few minutes of the labour, when adrenaline is overflowing are especially cool.”

“I wish my job had some adrenaline in it,” I joke, “Have you been in Brighton for long?

“Yeah, a bit. I got the offer and moved there because I wanted to be close to the sea,” he explains, “and Andrea got engaged, so I guess it was time to move out, anyway.”

I lean back, letting myself finally slouch for the first time tonight. It's hard to keep a good posture when you have eaten this much. The light is dim, only a couple of lamps are on. I tried to make this empty flat seem warmer and homey. I like the way he fits here, golden in the semi-darkness.

“Do you like the sea?"

I hate myself. So lame, perpetually lame.

“Yeah. I mean, I never went to the sea when I was growing up. And I like taking long walks around the beach with-“

Here it is. The dealbreaker.

I can’t let him say it first, “Your girlfriend?”

He frowns. “No. I, we broke up a long time ago. Like three years ago or something,” he explains as he turns to look at me. It’s a little unnerving, “I go with Muppet. You dating someone?”

So articulate, Wilcox.

“Not that is any of your business, but no. I don’t do that anymore,”

His face falls.“Dating? Why?”

I wave a hand dismissively like I’m talking about tomorrow’s weather and not my awful love life. “Not my scene, I believe.”

I glance around the room to avoid meeting his gaze. He’s shaking his legs uncoordinatedly. His jacket lays discarded on my sofa, and his forearms are exposed since he decided to torture me by rolling his shirtsleeves up. There’s a constellation of moles dusting his tawny arms. I can’t look away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him nod. He doesn’t say anything else for a long minute.

I finally face him. He’s looking down with a soft expression on his face, staring at the carpet underneath him. We must make quite a sight, wearing our suits on the floor, surrounded by empty paper bags. For a second, I let myself imagine that this is what it would be like if we were together. Late nights, early mornings, desert tasting sessions. It almost sounds too good to be true, which it usually is.

We’ve finished eating a while ago, and there’s no real excuse to have him here anymore, but I don’t want him to go. I don’t want to be needy.

So, I decide to keep stalling, asking him more questions. He tells me about growing up in care homes, fistfights and bad Christmases. It makes me feel terrible for assuming all the wrong things about him.

And it makes my urge to protect him from this world considerably larger.