Page 22 of Someone Like You

“Sit,” Phil ordered. Oddly enough, Ian acquiesced, grabbing the closest stool and taking a seat at the counter, hands clasped in front of him. More than a little bemused, Phil got to work, opting for pancakes, since they were one of the few things he could decently pull off. Muscle memory kicked in right away; as he gathered the ingredients, he was all too aware of Ian’s smug look following him, and once again he had a feeling he’d just fallen into a scam. But then something else dawned on him, something so mind-blowing he nearly dropped the milk carton.

He wascooking.

Not just shoving junk food or leftovers into the microwave, but actually preparing a real meal starting from scratch. Stunned, he froze in the middle of the kitchen, grinning at his own hands while trying to remember when it had been the last time he’d cooked for himself. Months. Likely close to a year. Abby would never believe this. He couldn’t wait to tell Doctor Raji.

“Hope you like pancakes,” he said, turning back to Ian, who was watching him intently with a hint of dimples just above the line of the beard. “I can make scrambled eggs if you prefer—”

“Pancakes are grand,” Ian gently interrupted him. A warm tingle tickled the nape of Phil’s neck.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Is decaf alright?”

“Aye.”

Ian would have certainly preferred an espresso, but Phil was banned from using Abby’smoka, because the first time he’d been near one Abby’s aunt Bruna had caught him washing it with soap and apparently for Italians that was a capital sin that fell just below murder and pineapple on pizza. Phil had his own American coffee machine: for once Ian would have to stoop to drinking‘muddy water’. He filled up a mug and pushed it to Ian, who was clearly refraining from grimacing the same way Phil had grimaced at his first espresso inLa Dolce Vita.

“You sure you don’t want some sugar or milk?”

“Positive.”

“Guess you don’t get to look like that eating sugar, huh?”

Ian must have detected the hue of bitterness in Phil’s words, because he said: “You add more protein into your diet and you’re a step closer to lookin’ like this.”

Protein was the last of Phil’s problems. It was the vacuum in his soul that had devoured all the willpower that had kept him in flawless shape since his twenties. He was doing the bare minimum, just because low-intensity workouts were part of his recovery therapy, but his figure was very far from its former glory.

He filled up a mug for himself, avoiding the sugar. “It’s too late to salvage this wreck.”

Ian took a long swig of his coffee, kept it in his mouth for a moment, watching Phil with slightly narrowed eyes, then swallowed.

“Quite attractive for a wreck.”

Phil scoffed, but quickly realised Ian wasn’t just teasing as usual.

“You mean it,” he marvelled.

“’Course I mean it, ya dick.” Ian’s stern stare left very little room for doubt.

“You find me attractive.”

“I’m sure a lot of folk do. It’s not exactly hard to believe.”

Itwas, at least according to Phil’s rationality. His dry mouth, on the other hand, begged to differ. He was flattered. This and the look from before were just stroking his starved ego.

The pancakes preparation provided a welcome distraction. Phil sensed Ian’s stare as he cut down some mango to throw into his Greek yoghurt bowl; a couple of the pancakes nearly burned, but, aside from that, for being his first cooked meal in forever, the result wasn’t bad.

“See? Protein,” he said, pointing at the bowl. He offered some to Ian, who gladly accepted. Phil was absolutely indifferent to the white smudge the yoghurt left on Ian’s moustache, so much so hedidn’tavoid looking at him until he wiped his mouth.

Ian occupied an awful lot of room. The kitchen, a spacious one for British standards, had shrunk to the size of a cubicle the moment he’d entered it and, though there was the whole width of the counter dividing them, Phil felt very much like they were pressed together like they’d been that time at the café, only not side to side, but in front of one another, without a safenothingto stare into. Because if Phil looked up from his plate, there was a six-foot-five colossus occupying the entirety of his view. It was like he couldn’t breathe properly, as though Ian’s bulk wasn’t just taking up all the space, but also all the air. And yet it felt oddly… familiar. Just sitting together in silence, companionably,comfortably, like old friends. Except they’d known each other for just a few weeks andPhil had never been so at ease with people he’d known for years, if not decades. With Ian, he felt like he didn’t need to adapt his natural behaviour to fit in. Ian got him and, above anything else, Ian respected him — histrueself, not the charming persona Phil had fabricated to deal with the world. It was surreal — the second surreal event of the day. And it wasn’t even 8 AM.

Phil made a lame attempt to strike up a conversation by asking Ian what he was up to for the day, but Ian’s brief, flat answers didn’t leave much room for small talk, which Phil had never been fond of anyway. He was simply trained to fill silences, because experience had taught him that people preferred meaningless jabbering to a silence they didn’t know what to do with. Phil happened to enjoy silence. It was refreshing to be with someone who shared his aversion for prattle

“There’s Celtic versus Real Madrid tonight,” Ian began at some point. The plates and the mugs were empty, 9 AM was ticking closer. “I’m going down the pub to watch it. Fancy joining?”

The only sports Phil occasionally followed were basketball and rugby, and sometimes wrestling, and he wasn’t big on any of those.

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