Page 70 of Someone Like You

The screen blacked out. He pressed his forehead against the phone, groaning inwardly. It’d be three long days until Saturday.

At least he had the pictures now: something to torture himself with for the rest of his days along with the bracelet.

He scoffed to himself. He really wasn’t good at this forgetting thing. If Abigail hated him, he couldn’t blame her. He’d been in her shoes, except, unlike her, he’d been left behind. It wasn’t the confrontation he was afraid of: he had nothing to hide. It was being seen as a back-stabber.

At home, he grabbed a beer and took it to the living room, where he sat alone staring into the void. There were still a couple of non-alcoholic beers in the fridge. He doubted he’d ever have the heart to drink them. They could stay there forever, for all he cared. Perhaps one day they’d come in handy again. Someone would come back for them. Hope was free, after all.

A whiny meow preannounced Kibble’s arrival. She came trotting through the door, the belly pouch flapping from side to side as she approached with a string of bubblymrw mrw mrwthat sounded like questions. With one final bossymrwshe jumped onto Ian’s lap and arched up against him, demanding pets.

“Aye, aye,” Ian tittered, obliging the request. “Spoiled wee shite. Thank fuck I’ve got you.” It was like she understood, stretching up until her head poked against his chin. Beard scratches were her favourite.

Ian thought back to how she had cuddled up with Phil after his panic attack despite hissing at him at first sight. He’d grown on her even faster than he’d grown on Ian, but then again, despite being a notorious hater of strangers, Kibble had a special sensitivity towards human emotions and the trusting way she’d acted around Phil had only reaffirmed Ian’s impression of him.

Not that he hadn’t always known Phil Hanson was a beautiful person, but being Kibble-certified was a status not many had achieved. Ian himself had had to work for days to earn baby Kibble’s trust, yet this random American dude had shown up and within minutes Kibble had been all over him, purring like there would be no tomorrow.

Notlike. There really would be no tomorrow.

Ian sighed. His father was right: why couldn’t he have something uncomplicated for once?

It wasn’t much to ask.

Something good without catches, without sick twists.

Justonce.

Just once…

* * *

It was still raining. It hadn’t stopped since the day he’d left Phil by the door of the café and Ian was starting to suspect the weather was just acting as a cruel reflection of his inner state. If that was the case, this winter was going to be even worse than usual. He didn’t mind. He loved running in the rain.

Waiting at the red light, he watchedLa Dolce Vitafrom afar, its warm lights and cosy facade, and wondered if he’d ever be able to separate the place from the memories it held. Meeting Abigail there seemed an appropriate way to come full circle, and maybe get some closure. He wasn’t expecting a jealous tirade — Abigail was too graceful for that —; it’d be a civil heart-to-heart. He was ready to answer every question in all honesty, if not without shame, without fear. If Phil had told Abigail the truth, so would he.

The light went green. Even from across the street Ian could tell the café was packed. Tea time was a nightmare he’d had always steered away from, with few highly motivated exceptions. Pushing through the door, he was enveloped by the hot, stifling air typical of overcrowded spaces. Every cell in his body wanted to leave, go backoutside to the fresh air, the peace, but Abigail was there, at the smalltable by the window that Ian had once considered he and Phil’s table, and the duty he had towards her prevailed over the claustrophobia.

She was in casual clothes — jeans, a knitted jumper, trainers; she could have easily passed as a teenager if her bearing hadn’t had that mature elegance to it. Even dressed as a kid, even from across a crammed room, she exuded a confidence that most self-professed alpha males Ian had met couldn’t have dreamt of.

As he approached, he felt an irresistible desire to hear her say she wasn’t right for Phil, that she’d be stepping down and leaving Phil to Ian’s care because that was the right thing to do and the best thing for Phil. Everything Ian had said and done, in reverse.

As if.

She glanced up from her phone the exact moment he stopped in front of her, deep brown eyes zeroing in on him, expressionless. “Thank you for coming.”

Ian didn’t reply. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the back of the armchair, followed by his hoodie. He would’ve taken off the t-shirt, too, if he could have. The room was too stuffy for his liking.

“I knew he’d given it to you.” Ian noticed Abigail was staring at his wrist. “Please, have a seat.”

And, like a well-trained puppy, Ian sat. He didn’t know how he could be feeling so big and so small at the same time.

There was a cup of tea on the table, a slice of lemon floating in it. Abigail picked it up, peering at Ian from over the rim. “You’re not ordering anything?”

“Not in the mood.”

She nodded knowingly and took a sip. “So.” Another sip, then the cup was set back down. “It has come to my attention that you broke Phil’s heart.”

Ian had anticipated a variation of this line, but not the baffling business-like tone.

“He told you.”

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