Page 53 of Someone Like You

“Abbs, if…” he began, holding his breath. “If everything goes back to functioning normally in my body, would it be okay if we… if things between us stayed as they are?”

Abby glanced up at him. “You mean platonic?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” Abby comfortingly rubbed a hand over his abs. “Are we still okay with physical displays of affection? I can stop if—”

“God, no,” Phil interrupted her with a relieved laugh. He may not always be in the mood for it, but he couldn’t have lived without hugs and kisses. “Please, keep that coming.”

“Okay.” Abby was in the middle of settling back against him when she suddenly perked up again. “Hey, if you think you’re asexual or anything like that, that’s totally fine.”

Phil had considered that many times, but that was before Ian and his enticingeverythinghad come around. Phil’s dick twitched if he so much as thought about Ian’s sharp comebacks, let alone if he went as far as recalling the scratchy depth of his voice and his massive chest pressed against his back.

He’d never slept with a man, kissed one, or even had a single homosexual thought before meeting Ian. He had no clue what it was like to have sex with a guy, although one way or another he’d gathered enough basics toimagine, but the thing was: the arousal he experienced around Ian was unprecedented. He’d never felt that for anyone else, women or men. The chemicals in his body acted differently when Ian was close, when he spoke, when he laughed… It was like Phil was going through a second puberty and had to discover himself all over again. Atforty-fucking-five.

“Definitely not asexual,” he choked, suddenly parched. “Just… confused.”

Abby nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder. “You’ll figure it out,” she said, her voice taming away all the restlessness simmering inside him. “And if you don’t, we’ll just stick to what you’re comfortable with.”

“You sure?”

Abby grabbed Phil’s chin and urged him to look at her. “I don’t need sex to be happy with you, P. J. Hanson.” A feathery peck graced his cheek.

The sword of Damocles hanging above Phil by a thread rattled, reminding him that withheld truths were lies, too.

He couldn’t live like this — pretending with Abby, pretending with Ian.

If the price for honesty was losing them both, so be it.

* * *

They chatted much more during their runs than they did in the beginning. A matter of improved lung capacity on Phil’s side, surely, but it’d become almost a necessity more recently, as if they were both afraid of what could slip out of their mouths if they let silence take over for too long.

Phil knew all too well what would slip out ofhismouth. It’d been lingering there for quite a while now, barely restrained, a mess of feelings and instincts that could’ve been summarised in three stupidlittle words that made him feel like a cheater just for rolling them around in his mind.

“... she was tiny. Barely ten. If I’d got my hands on him, I’d be in jail and he’d be six feet under. I’m not cut out to deal with these cunts.”

Phil fumbled, trying to remember what they’d been talking about before he’d zoned out. Some game Ian had just been to. There had been a brawl? Triggered by what?

“I don’t think I could survive a stadium,” he said. “Was invited to a couple of football games, but it was VIP suite seats. I kinda liked that.”

“I’d take you to anOld Firmif I wanted to kill ye,” Ian huffed, thinking of the Glasgow Derby, where his beloved Celtic played their oldest, most bitter rivals, Rangers. “The pub is decent most of the time.”

“I liked that too.”

A dimple appeared in Ian’s cheek. His gaze was fixed ahead, minuscule drops of perspiration dotting his forehead. Phil loved when he tied his hair back, baring the strong neck with all its mesmerising tendons and veins. As someone who’d always appreciated feminine beauty, he should probably be at least slightly fazed by being so attracted to someone so masculine. He found it hilarious that he wasn’t, not one bit. It felt too natural to bother him.

He wiped his sweaty face into his shoulder, puffing out a couple of deep breaths while checking his watch: optimal heart rate, 80% of the track completed. If he’d told last year’s Phil he’d be able to run ten miles in an hour and a half, old Phil wouldn’t have even laughed. He would’ve just said:‘You mean we’re stillALIVEin a year?’

Alive and very much kicking.

Despite the highs and lows.

Before he had a chance to boast about the excellent pace they’d been keeping, a searing pain stabbed his left calf, forcing him to stop and bend over.

Ian instantly skidded to a halt. “What’s up?”

“Cramp.” Not an excuse, this time. Phil hated cramps. He wasn’t great at keeping himself hydrated, or keeping himself in good condition in general, and he knew —he knewhe should be drinking extra water in preparation for a run, but he never did. “Fuck, fuck,fuck.”

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