Page 36 of Sleep

“I don’t even want to know how you got my number.”

It was slightly unhinged how much I enjoyed our banter, the way he motioned for me to resume my place on the sofa, where he joined me shortly after with his now familiar repertoire of coffee in small white cups. He’d also lost the jacket, loosened his tie.

It didn’t take long for me to be splayed out like I lived here, having even made myself cosy with the blanket back over my knees. I loved it up here. It was like having my very own London rooftop bar but with comfier seats and less noise. I said so out loud.

“That was my intention when we took on this building project. Having all those things embedded into a place I’d designed to fit my needs, where I could enjoy the city without any of the hassle of having to socialise with other people.”

I nodded. He’d mentioned it before, and I got it. I was actually very much the same. I enjoyed the interaction at work, but I preferred peace and quiet at home. Maybe I was just old. Maybe I was still not quite myself. Whoever I was supposed to be.

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

I smiled. “This is not a therapy session, but thank you for asking.”

“Not a therapy session. So what are we doing here?”

I loved this. The way he didn’t play any games. So I decided not to either.

“Jonny, are you queer?”

Seeing a grown man squirm was not a comfortable experience, especially since my words were the cause of him suddenly getting up from the sofa, spilling the dregs of his coffee over his leg as he muttered something under his breath.

“Okay,” I said softly. I had training for these kinds of things, and I’d obviously read the room completely wrong. “My apologies. I may have been grasping at straws there.”

Silence, other than the light thuds of him pacing up and down, refusing to look at me, then heavy breaths as he leaned on kitchen island worktop, shoulders stooped, eyes closed. Crap. What can of therapy-needing-bullshit had I opened here? I wasn’t a psychologist. I was a hobby therapist with a few courses under my belt, licensed to run group sessions.

I got up and walked over, put my hands firmly on his shoulders and turned him around. He’d asked for a hug once, and I’d told him I wasn’t a hugger. I did air kisses and friendly slaps on backs. Handshakes. Smiles. I was all about consent when it came to touching other people, the same thing that I appreciated in my own personal space. Had never been an affectionate child.

But he looked so lost, his whole body shaking despite my grip on his arms.

“Jonny? I’m going to hug the shit out of you right now. And to continue this stream of honesty that you and I have going on, I’m not sure why, but I just…” Good grief. Where had all that training gone? Consent or not, I put my arms around his back and pressed my chest against his. That’s how you did this, wasn’t it? Hugging? Friendly support?

“I’m not much of a hugger either,” he mumbled. “Wasn’t a requirement at university.”

This wasn’t a hug. It was some kind of awkward, we’re-leaning-against-each-other moment. At least he was talking. So was I.

“I’m not very good at this,” I admitted.

“Have you seen me?” I liked that his voice was a little stronger. “I can’t even…say it out loud.”

“I hear you.” I leaned back, putting a little space between us and placed my palms on his chest, the way the heroine did in those movies. Stupid, but it felt right. “I hear you even if you don’t say anything. But sometimes it’s good to know these things so we don’t say the wrong words, insult or offend when we don’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to hide with me. I mean, look at me. You know what Mabel is about.”

“I barely know you,” he said, finally looking at me. Properly.

God, those ice-blue eyes. I had to give myself a good old internal shake again. What the hell was I doing? Jonathan Templar was old enough to be my father. Well, a very young father, maybe.

“How old are you, Jonny?”

“Fifty-one.” His hand had found its way to my side and was gently resting somewhere between my shoulder and my neck—a comfortable weight. “Is the age difference a problem?”

“Problem for what?” We were talking in bloody riddles again. “No games, just tell me what you think is happening here.”

“Ehhr…” He laughed self-consciously. “I think you asked me if I’d figured out who I am, and in return, I had to admit that I’m over halfway through my life, and no, I still have no idea who I am or what I want.”

“There’s no time limit on finding out what you need.”

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