Page 10 of Someone Like You

EnteringLa Dolce Vitaagain was like walking back into a dream etched in Phil’s senses rather than his memory: the smell of wood and dust typical of old libraries mixed with the aroma of fresh coffee brew, the soft light, the clinking of the ceramic cups Sandra was stacking on the rack above the espresso machine… The sense of familiarity it gave him was a mild shock.

“Welcome back!” Sandra cooed as soon as she saw Phil. She abandoned her cups to rush to the counter.

“Same as last time?” Ian asked Phil.

“Yes, please.”

Sandra placed an elbow on the counter and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Am I to expect you boys every Saturday?”

“Maybe more,” said Ian. “If Phil can get his arse out of bed a bit earlier during the week.” He gave Phil a solid pat on the back.

“Name the time and I’ll be there,” Phil grumbled as Ian nudged him to move forward. It was a busy morning and the cosy table bythe window was taken, much to Phil’s disappointment, and the only spot available was a tiny table in a secluded corner with an equally tiny semicircular sofa that forced them to sit elbow by elbow.

Ian was struggling to accommodate his legs. “Bit tight, eh?”

“It would be perfectly comfortable if there weren’tso muchof you.”

“Someone’s jealous.”

“I’m too concerned about keeping myself together on the inside to give a fuck about what I look like on the outside.”

Phil instantly regretted his burst of honesty. It wasn’t like him to overshare, especially with a stranger. Not that he talked to many strangers in general. He turned to Ian, mortified by the amount of self pity that had seeped into his words, but Ian didn’t seem uneasy.

“Keep working on the inside,” he said. “The outside’s doin’ alright.”

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Both. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Jesus.” A weird sensation coiled around Phil’s sternum and spread to his throat, tingling in his ears. He tried — he reallytriednot to give in to it, but there was no controlling it: it bubbled up from his chest and broke out without his permission, a genuine, hearty laugh that cleaned upsomethinginside him on its way out, like water washing away a clot of grime. It was like a noose had just loosened its grip around his neck. He could still feel the mark it had left in his flesh, but that was nothing compared to the amazement ofbreathingagain.

Ian’s face was a mixture of mirth and disbelief. “It wasn’t even that funny.”

“It wasn’t,” Phil had to concur. “God, I hadn’t laughed like this since—” His mouth shut. He couldn’t remember since when. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d let out a laugh that hadn’t been a polite ruse.

Ian waited for him to finish the sentence; when it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen, he asked: “Perks of the pills??”

People usually walked on eggshells when Phil’s depression came up. They were embarrassed and dismissive, eager to avert the conversation to less uncomfortable topics. Even Phil’s oldest friends hadn’t really known how to behave around him after his official diagnosis, as if just talking about his ‘condition’, as they called it, could somehow make it worse or trigger some negative reaction. Getting asked about it so straightforwardly was refreshing. It made Phil feel less like a broken toy and more like an actual person.

“My shrink calls it SNRI-induced apathy,” he answered just as straightforwardly. He pursed his lips, raising a cynical glance on Ian. “I call it‘these drugs took the suicidal thoughts out of my head, but also the taste out of my life’.” Ian pinned an unreadable stare on him. “Sorry, too much information.”

“Did that laugh give you a bit of taste back?”

Phil couldn’t help the smile that spread far higher than his facial muscles were used to as he heard himself reply, both baffled and amazed: “It did.”

His gaze met Ian’s. Phil detected some kind of elation in the way those blue eyes weighed on him. Gentle. Kind.Understanding.

Phil’s stomach swooped. He felt warm — warm everywhere. Even inside.Especiallyinside.

“Here we are, guys. Sorry for the delay.”

A young woman broke into the bubble of silence that had formed around Phil and Ian. She deposited two coffees, two glasses of water, and a sugar bowl on the table, plus a small plate with some biscuits on it. “On the house,” she told them, her smile broadening as it lingered on Ian.

“Thanks, Anna.”

Phil waited for her to leave, then pulled a cup to himself. “She likes you,” he commented casually while pouring half a sachet of sugar into his coffee. He studied Ian’s reaction, or lack of thereof. All he got was a side eye.

“She’stwenty-five.”

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