Page 106 of Boyfriend Material
“I want to trust you, though.”
“You don’t have to. But you can trust that I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by turning our relationship into a public spectacle. I don’t particularly need the money, and I’ve invested more than a decade in a job that relies on my reputation for discretion.”
I gave him a brittle smile. “I’m probably worth a lot more now that my dad’s on TV.”
“My career means far more to me than any sum of money I could reasonably be offered.”
It took me probably too long to Rubik’s cube my brain into something that could make sense of this. “Okay. Yes. I see that.”
“And, for that matter,” he went on, “so are you.”
Well, that was a thing. “Thank you. Really. I…fuck, how do we do this?”
“I confess”—Oliver had gone a little pink around the ears—“I hadn’t thought that far ahead. This is new territory for both of us.”
“Um. I don’t want to sound cold-feety, but what if we just…carried on as we were?”
“You mean,” he said slowly, “you want us to continue pretending to be in a relationship that we admit feels real to both of us?”
Wow, trying to do the right thing was hard. And seemed very similar to fucking everything up. “I’m worried that if we try to change too much all at once, it’ll go wrong somehow and then I’ll have let you down and you’ll be on your own at your parents’ anniversary and it’ll be my fault.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’m not going to put a family party above our relationship.”
“You don’t have to.” I put my other hand over his. “Leaving aside my occasional meltdowns, which I promise I’ll learn to deal with, this is working well for us, and will definitely do what we need it to do. Why rush? Or mess with that?”
He was giving me an “I’m not quite sure who you are, but I like it” look. “I’m beginning to think you might be better at relationships than you’ve claimed.”
“I,” I announced, “am growing as a person.”
“Perhaps I…I could also do better.”
I smiled at him, too tired to care how goofy it was. “You don’t have to. You’re already perfect.”
Bed happened pretty soon after that. And, having just exposed the full depth of my emotional wibble, it seemed a bit pointless to worry about what Oliver would think of my boxers or no-pack. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t disappointed or repulsed—instead, he pulled me down into his arms, where I lay quiet and cared for, and quickly drifted off to sleep.
* * *
We woke late—well, late by Oliver’s standards so, like, nine—although I kept him in bed for another hour or so by octopusing myself around him and refusing to let go until he told me very firmly he needed the bathroom. While he was abluting, and probably remembering to floss and all of those other things we’re supposed to do but don’t, I dug out my phone and called work.
“Coleoptera Research, Protection… Oh no, wait, that’s not right.” Apparently I’d got Alex. “Coleoptera Research, Reunification, and—bother. Coleoptera Rescue, Research, and—”
“It’s me.”
“Me who?”
“Me Luc.”
“I’m sorry, Luc’s not in yet. Alexander Twaddle speaking.”
“No, I know who you are, Alex. I’m Luc. Luc is me.”
“Oh.” I could hear him thinking. “Then why did you say you wanted to speak to Luc?”
“I didn—I’m sorry, I must have misspoken.”
“Don’t worry, it’s easily done, old thing. Only yesterday, I answered the phone with ‘Good afternoon’ and then realised it was only 11:30.”
“Alex,” I said slowly, “wasn’t yesterday Sunday?”
