Page 54 of Pansies

“Let it go, will you? You can’t weigh my gayness by how many men I’ve been with, and it’s the least important part of what I’m trying to tell you. Which is, if I was looking for something that night, it couldn’t have been anything good.”

Alfie plonked his hand firmly over Fen’s. Fen started at the sudden contact but didn’t reject it. “But wefoundsomething good, anyway? Right?”

No answer. Fen was staring at Alfie’s fingers, splayed so possessively over his own. “I don’t know how I can like you,” he said, eventually. All dreamy and confused.

“Cos everybody needs a bit of home sometimes.”

“Are you ready to order?” Mr. Ali materialised at their table, and it took every last ounce of courage Alfie had not to jerk away from Fen. However, if the man noticed they were practically holding hands, there was no outward sign it bothered him.

Fen, who seemed kind of shaken for some reason, politely asked for tikka paneer, followed by vegetable biryani with paratha.

“Fuck no.” Alfie groaned. “You’re a vegetarian.”

“I was vegan for a while, so you can congratulate yourself on a lucky escape.”

“I’d still have asked you to dinner. You just wouldn’t have been able to eat anything.”

Fen laughed, and it had a startled edge to it, like he didn’t quite believe it was Alfie who’d made him. He had such a good laugh, though. It was like his smile: a bit too much.

Alfie wanted to bask in it, but he suddenly remembered he was missing his cue. He held out his menu, grinning at Mr. Ali. “They don’t even bother to ask me what I want anymore.”

“That’s because you always have the same thing.” Mr. Ali tucked his notebook away and took the menu.

“What can I say? I know what I like.”

And, wow, that sounded weird with Fen sitting right there, his hand still trapped under Alfie’s.

But Mr. Ali only smiled and turned to Fen. “And what is it you do?”

Oh God. Too late, Alfie realised that Fen was probably going to get the same polite interrogation as the rest of his dates. He rushed to the rescue. “He’s got a flower shop.”

“I’m a lighting designer,” said Fen.

Huh? They hadn’t even got to starters and Alfie was already losing the plot. The hot gay florist he’d met in South Shields was apparently neither gay nor a florist. Definitely still hot though, so it wasn’t a total bust.

“You mean,” asked Mr. Ali, who was somehow managing to learn more about Fen in two minutes than Alfie had since he’d met him again, “interior design? Or for television?”

“Theatre actually.”

“Theatre?”

“Well, I was working on it. It takes time to make a name for yourself, but I was getting there.” His hand twitched under Alfie’s, inviting the press and clasp of his fingers. “I was getting there.”

Mr. Ali nodded his approval—Fen had clearly passed Round One of being allowed to date Alfie—and left them to it.

“I had no clue you did that.” Alfie hadn’t meant to sound quite so accusing.

“You didn’t ask.”

“And the shop?”

“Is what I’m doing now.”

“But,” Alfie pressed, “you said you were a lighting designer.”

Fen dragged his hand free. “I am. Was. Am.” He sounded, suddenly, on the verge of tears. “I don’t know.”

Alfie was horrified—mainly at himself, his rough and careless ways, rampaging through a conversation like a confused bear. “Fen, it’s all right. I didn’t mean to give you the third degree. I just wasn’t sure what was going on.”

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