Page 18 of Someone Like You

Phil reached for his glass, stared sourly at the Pepsi swirling inside it. “I can’t become her husband when the best I’ve been to her in the last two years is a lousy friend.”

“That’s more than a lot of husbands out there can say.”

Phil ducked his head with a silent laugh. “You’re a skilled rhetorician.” The gaze that lifted on Ian was a pinch less burdened and brimming with that haunting softness again. “Ever contemplated being a writer?”

The only thing Ian was contemplating at the moment was so foolish and forbidden he felt ashamed of himself.

“Nah.” He turned to the wine again, draining the whole glass, but it didn’t make any difference. “I’m just good at yappin’.”

Phil smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

Ian couldn’t bear to look at him. Phil didn’t miss the change in his mood and scrutinised him with a deep crease between his brows, mutely asking what was wrong. Ian was saved by Abby’s return.

“Sorry, it was my mum.” A halo of sunshine spread in the room as Abigail came in. She laid thetiramisùon the table, then took some small plates out of a cupboard behind her “Everything alright here?”

“Peachy,” said Phil with his eyes still glued into Ian’s. He, too, had the look of a deer caught in the headlights, and though the conversation resumed smoothly, Phil’s question still lingered in the air, floating around Ian, begging to be answered.

But Ian didn’t have one, didn’t know why he feltresponsiblefor a man who wasn’t his to care for.

‘But I know it’s happening, and it tortures me.’

He chased the quote out of his head before the rest of the poem unfolded and made things worse.

An hour later, on the way home, he couldn’t remember what thetiramisùtasted like or what they’d talked about while they ate it. He’d sat there, chatting, conversing, but he hadn’t reallybeenthere.

He’d been trapped in his head with thoughts that had no business existing, too weak to ignore them, too stunned to fight them, riddled with guilt and shame that couldn’t fully overshadow the unnamable warmth dwelling in his chest.

There was a new text notification on his phone when he got home from an unknown number. When he opened it, his heart sank. Kibble ran to him, meowing sweetly, and demanded to be picked up. With Kibble nestled over his shoulder, he leaned back against the door and reread the text twice, elation and remorse battling in his conscience. Everything he couldn’t admit he wanted, handed out to him on a silver platter with ablessing.

He felt dirty — a dirty, selfish opportunist, because he barely had any hesitation when he texted back:‘I’ve got this.’

chapter 5

PHIL

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

He leaned onto the sink with a stifled groan, horrified by his own reflection. He hadn’t looked so battered in weeks. The grey had crawled back into the bags under his eyes, which were blood-shot and swollen. What a sorry spectacle to wake up to. Thoughwake upwasn’t quite accurate, since he’d barely got a total of four hours of sleep in two nights. An unknown restlessness had possessed him, replacing his usual flat insomnia with an endless agony of tossing and turning that had forced him to move to the guest bedroom to avoid disturbing Abby.

A double dose of trazodone had been as useful as plain water, but that was the highest dose he could take without health hazards. He’d tried everything else that usually helped: a snack, a walk, some TV… All useless. He felt…empty. Like something was suddenly missing and he couldn’t tell what. And it didn’t make any sensebecause, if anything, his life was improving by the day. He hadn’tlostanything… Why would he feel like something wasmissing?

He’d been in Glasgow for months and had never felt like this until now — like he was limping, gasping for air.

He managed to push himself through his morning ritual, but it was more challenging than usual: the light was too bright, the water too cold, his throat too dry to swallow the pills. Shuddering at his own reflection, he heard the echo of a gravelly voice calling himHandsomein a tone that over time had lost part of its playfulness, sounding less and less like a joke and more like… He didn’t know what to call it.

He could’ve used some of Ian’s mockery right now, if only to find some motivation to kick himself into gear. Spite was a miracle fuel. But Ian wasn’t here now, and it was probably for the best, because Abby hadn’t stopped gushing about him since Sunday night.

“He’s a delight!” she’d chirped right after Ian had gone home. “And so good-looking! You didn’t mention he was so handsome!”

The remark had made Phil uncomfortably hot.

“Oh, yeah, despicable of me to appreciate someone for their personality,” he’d retorted, but the sarcasm had only added to Abby’s hype.

“You like him.”

“He’s… tolerable.”

“Is he single?”

---