Page 6 of Our Bright Christmas Town
I met Dom at the local café, him fresh off the train and me still nursing last night’s emotional bruises. We hugged like it had been ages rather than one measly day since I left our London flat, then ordered spiked hot chocolates. Ideservedsome sugar, and Dom’s sweet tooth just about financed the local dentist’s holiday home.
“All right, mate,” he said once we were alone at the table. “Tell me how your plan to subtly check whether Ashby maybe fancies you turned into a rom-com plot.”
I leaned back and raised a brow. “A rom-com plot?”
Dom grinned like he’d just invented holiday cheer. “Yeah, you know—you try to test the waters and he appoints himself your gay pick-up coach.”
That was… depressingly accurate.
I’d trudged home from Ashby’s flat last night, icy air slapping the tipsy glow from my cheeks, vaguely gutted after he’d basically told me, in so many words, that he’d help me pull blokes in some Newcastle bar. Which, well—not ideal when I’d kind of hoped he might volunteer himself.
I tipped my head back for a sigh. “Still not sure how that happened, to be honest. I just wanted to, like, see how he’d react, you know? To the idea that I’m bi. Whether he’d maybe show some interest.”
Yeah, no. In fact, he’d seemed almost put off by it. That didn’t make sense, though. Not unless he worried it would impact our friendship.
“And you ended up with him offering to be your wingman. Show you the ropes.” Dom laughed, if kindly.
“Yeah. Not the ropes I was hoping for.”
He snorted. “Kinky.”
“I wish.” A bit of a stretch, maybe—it was all still so new. Ashby, my oldest and best friend, and suddenly, I looked at him and thought,oh. I’d missed him something fierce since the summer, and then, when Dom and I had kissed among hollers and cheers, it clicked that wait, how had I never considered it before? Not Dom, but guys in general, and Ashby in particular. Because I’d noticed things about him before—the way his shoulders tapered to a slender waist, the flex of muscles in his forearms. I’d dismissed them as normal appreciation, no big deal between friends. Ashby was fit, and his job kept him in shape.
But now? It was like I’d looked up from a black-and-white photograph and realised the world was drenched in colour.
Our hot chocolates arrived. The first mouthful was a sweet explosion on my tongue, sugary fireworks in my brain—a glucose-fuelled dopamine rush disguised as magic.
“Well, hey,” Dom said after a minute spent in blissful silence. “Tonight’s your chance to rock up in a tight shirt and flirt outrageously to make him jealous.”
“I don’t think he’s the jealous type.” Certainly not with any of the girls I’d dated, and his own relationships had all been casual.
Dom set his mug down with a pointed, “Uh,right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
A burst of laughter by the counter made us both glance over—the barista showed off latte art in the shape of a wonky hedgehog, complete with cocoa-dusted spikes, much to the amusement of a cluster of uni students home for the holidays. I knew some of them by sight, must have been a year or two below us in school.
“We’re talking Ashby here, right?” Dom picked the thread back up. “Ashby Miller? Because, mate. Definitely the jealous type, him.”
I squinted at Dom and no, he didn’t seem to be taking the piss. Huh. “How do you know? Did he say something?”
“Like he’d tellme.”
“I thought you guys were getting along now.” It came out more plaintive than I’d intended. For a while there, trying to be friends with both Ashby and Dom had felt like a juggling act.
“Yeah, we’re fine. But, see, that’s my point.” Dom leaned forward, intent. “When you and I started hanging out? He acted like I stole his boyfriend.”
Dom wasn’t wrong. But, well. “Could be platonic. Maybe he thought I was drifting away from him—just as friends.”
“Maybe,” Dom said, clearly unconvinced.
“Don’t you think I’d have noticed if he wanted more than friends?” I spread my hands, not sure what case I was trying to defend. “And he sure isn’t pining away or anything—I’ve seen him pull plenty of times. He’s had boyfriends, too, even if he ditches them like a pair of socks that shrunk in the wash.”
“Hey, pot? Stop judging the kettle,” Dom said, and yeah, point.
“I just don’t have thetime,” I protested anyway. “And I’m still friends with most of my exes—unlike him.”
“Ever wonder why?” Dom asked.
