Page 11 of Someone Like You

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I’mthirty-seven.”

“So what? My girlfriend’s ten years younger than me.”

Ian shook his head. “I have nothing in common with a twenty-five-year-old.” He took his water, downed it in a gulp. “We’d bore the shit out of each other.”

“Or maybe she’d get you out of your comfort zone.”

“Don’t think so, mate.” Ian put the glass down and picked up his espresso. “There’s a reason it’s called acomfortzone: leaving it makes youuncomfortable. Dunno about you, but I’m too smart to make myself uncomfortable intentionally.”

Phil stirred his sugar, focusing on the grainy texture grinding under the spoon. The cogs in his brain were fighting to elaborate on what Ian had said. He could see the sense in it, heagreedwith the reasoning, but he remembered his life before Abby: just himself and his books, his apartment. No social life. No friends.

A sad, lonely life.

His brow furrowed. With hindsight, he couldn’t remember ever seeing his life assadandlonelybefore he started dating Abby.

“So, Phil…” Ian took a biscuit. “What brought you to Scotland?”

Phil had his cup halfway to his lips when he noticed the second glass of water, still full next to Ian’s. He drank that first.

“I had a nasty burnout last spring,” he said. “I was strongly advised to take it easy for a while, go somewhere quiet where I could‘reconnect with myself’and shit like that.”

“And Glasgow issomewhere quiet?”

“Compared to Chicago? Backwater country village.” Phil tasted the espresso: still too strong, but he managed not to grimace this time. “Abby was born here, has a nice apartment in Partick…. It was the most sensible place to go.”

Ian chewed pensively on his biscuit. A crumb got stuck in the beard on his chin; Phil couldn’t stop thinking about brushing it away. “Has it helped?” Ian enquired. “Movin’ here.”

The crumb fell, releasing Phil from his stupor. He had to concentrate to remember the question.

“Abby’s happy.”

“Not what I asked.”

No, it wasn’t, was it?

“I’m… doing okay, I guess.”

“You miss your old life?”

‘No’was the answer Phil’s mind automatically supplied. His old life of big public events, parties, barbecues, weekend trips… He didn’t miss the hectic rhythm of any of that. The truly good thing about moving to Glasgow was the sweet, unconditional peace it had granted him. Abby had some old friends she was catching up with and making new ones at work, at the gym… She could make friends anywhere in no time, even at the grocery store. Her bubbly spirit didn’t know rest and none of her habits had changed from Chicago to here, because Abby had an innate superpower Phil had never had, would never have, and deeply envied: resilience.

“It was a frantic way of living,” he said earnestly — way more than he’d ever been, even to himself. Saying it out loud felt like dropping a massive boulder he’d been carrying on his back for years without a reason. “I’m a writer, you know? A quite successful one. I don’t mean to brag—”

“Didn’t think you were.”

Phil’s cheeks relaxed into a small smile. “I love writing, but in the last couple of years I’ve realised I don’t love being a writer. Not sure it makes sense.” He cast Ian a wary look. Ian stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, sprawling out as far as his legs allowed him. Their thighs touched. The tips of his fingers skimmed Phil’s back and a shiver ran down Phil’s spine.

“Writing is a passion,” he said. “Being a writer is a job.”

That was exactly it, spelled out more clearly than Phil himself had ever managed to. Beaten at his own game.

“The job was all about showing up and smiling for an audience. Lots of ass licking, too. I’m not cut out for that. I rolled with the punches because I thought I’d grow into it. Spoiler alert: I didn’t.” He clicked his tongue, annoyed by his own weakness. “Does it sound ungrateful if I say it feels good to have pulled the plug on it?”

“No.”

Phil laughed. Ian wasn’t a man of many words, and yet a single syllable spoken by that rough voice was enough to quench the guilt plaguing Phil’s conscience.

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