Page 23 of Someone Like You

“I have zero interest in soccer,” he admitted, “but why not? Abby’s a very passionate Celtic fan, I’d have probably watched the match with her if she’d been home.”

“Knew that woman was special.”

“She is. Just a bit apprehensive.”

Just saying that made him feel childish and ungrateful. Apprehension was the lesser evil when people found out you were depressed, after all. The worst was when they believed everything going on with you was bullshit. Phil’s own father had chosen none other than Christmas lunch to inform Phil that having a son who required psychological therapy was an embarrassment. The exact words had been:‘What kind of pansy needs a shrink to deal with his own shit? Grow some balls and walk it off like a real man!’At which Abby had set her cutlery down, wiped her mouth, and amiably told Mr Philip Hanson Senior that he could stick his bigotry up his arse. Thenshe’d dragged Phil out of his parents’ house for the last time in his life, and neither of them had looked back since.

He told the story to Ian, so that he could understand just how truly special Abby was.

“She’s a literal angel. There’s just no way to convince her that solitude doesn’t bother me. The contrary, in fact.”

Ian swirled around the puddle of coffee remaining at the bottom of his mug. “I assume it’s a bit unsettling for her.” His deep, grazing voice trickled down Phil’s spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “You had a buzzing social life with her, and now you don’t leave the house… I reckon what she sees is a man who’slostsomething…” A knowing gaze pierced Phil. “Not one who’s trying to get something back.”

Phil’s jaw fell slack. He, a seasoned novelist, had never been able to spell that out so concisely and efficiently. Ever since meeting Abby, his life had taken off and he hadn’t realised how draining it had been to try and keep up with it until he’d hit rock bottom. To Abby, the point of recovery was to get back to how it was before the burnout; Phil had different aspirations: after recovering, he was hoping to return to how it was before thecauseof the burnout, before that chapter of his life that most people would’ve calledglamorous.

Ian was right.

Ian had been right since the day he’d told Phil he shouldmove onrather than try to go back.

* * *

That night, Ian showed up at Phil’s doorstep at 7 in a sinfully tight t-shirt in green and white stripes that made his chest look even larger than usual.

Phil cocked an eyebrow at it. “Couldn’t find a comfier size?”

“Itwasa comfier size,” Ian countered. “Twenty years ago.”

It was hard to envision Ian as a seventeen-year-old boy, shorter and smaller, maybe a bit lanky — nothing like the handsome devilhe was now. Had he ever looked naive or had he always had that cocky aura? What did those dimples look like without a beard? It was less than half a mile from the flat to the pub and, while they walked there, Phil’s imagination kept straying back to a younger Ian and what he must’ve been like.

“There’s pictures,” said Ian out of nowhere as they turned the corner onto Crow Road. “For the right price.”

So Ian was a mind reader now. Phil was tempted to play dumb, but Ian was too smart to buy it, so he asked instead: “What did you look like when you bought that shirt?”

“Tiny. One-eighty soaking wet, if I was lucky. Long blond hair. Still dashingly handsome, obviously.”

“Surely not as modest as you are now. Wait, did you just sayblond?”

“Aye.” Ian’s hair was so dark it was close to black. It was hard to imagine itblond. “Not sure what happened.” He paused, then asked: “What were you like?”

“Twenty years ago or as a teenager?” There was a significant difference. An eight-year gap didn’t seem much now, but Phil was already an adult when Ian wasn’t even of age.

“As a teen.”

“Ah.” Phil scratched the back of his neck. “I guess you could describe me as a scrawny Eminem wannabe. Quite pathetic, to be honest.”

Ian stuffed his hands in his jacket’s pockets with a lenient shrug. “Weren’t we all at that age?”

“I’ll believe you ever looked pathetic when I see those photos.”

“Lookin’pathetic andfeelin’pathetic isn’t the same.”

Unarguably true. It made Phil feel better to be reminded that looks didn’t always reflect how one felt inside.

“There it is.” Ian pointed at an old-fashioned pub at the end of the street. Big golden letters on a dark green wooden background spelledThe Smiddy. Before pushing the door, Ian turned to Phil: “You sure about this?”

“I’ve been to a pub before, you know?”

“I’ve had a wisdom tooth removed before, doesn’t mean I liked it.”

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