Page 43 of Toy Boy

Megan is free to live her life without me.

But I’m struggling to live mine without her. I’m fucking struggling…

Xander

The sun set a long time ago, and I have no idea what time it is because I haven’t felt the need to look at my watch. But I’m guessing it’s late, because Megan’s turned the music down and lowered her voice as we talk, she doesn’t want to disturb the neighbours.

I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting out here, chatting about everything from favourite TV shows to the kind of dishes we love to eat but could never replicate – hers Chow Mein, mine Pad Thai – but it feels like five minutes. Time’s gone too fast, but that’s what happens, right? Time moves faster when you’re enjoying yourself.

Glancing over at Megan, she’s rested her elbow on the table, and her chin in her upturned hand, and she’s looking away from me, at what, exactly, I’m not sure. I think she’s just taking a moment.

“It’s late. I should probably go.”

I’ve stuck the world ‘probably’ in there to give her a chance to tell me I don’t have to go anywhere. I’m hoping she picks up on that.

Her head shoots back around, almost as if my words have yanked her from a dream she’d lost herself in for a second or two. “No, I… You don’t have to go. Not yet.” She quickly checks her watch, squinting to see the time in the dim light of the almost burnt out candle lantern. “It’s notthatlate.” Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles. The kind of smile I’ve seen a lot of tonight. The kind of smile that lights up her face and makes her eyes sparkle, a genuinely happy smile. “Stay for one more drink at least.”

She stops short of saying please, because I don’t think she wants to sound like she’s – I don’t know – begging? She doesn’t have to do that. I want to stay.

“Alright.”

The second I smile back at her she gets up and heads inside, gently squeezing my shoulder as she passes me, and I’m not sure whether that was a deliberate gesture – to keep me seated – or whether it was something purely reactional. Either way, it’s nice, being touched by her. It’s actually the closest we’ve been since that earlier kiss, and it reminds me how much I want to feel her that close to me again. Tonight, or another night. Soon.

“I don’t know if you drink whiskey…”

She leans over my shoulder and places a glass containing a generous measure of whiskey in front of me, her arm brushing against mine as she does so. It’s another reminder of how that need to touch her again is refusing to fade. Maybe she’s doing it deliberately; maybe she feels that need, too, but I’m still playing this by ear, lettinghertake the lead.

“Doyou drink whiskey?” she asks, sliding down into her seat and sitting back, lifting the tumbler to her lips, and sipping her drink, her eyes locked on mine and, man, it’s powerful. Her stare. I really do think she wants me as much as I want her, but there’s still something holding her back. Or someone.

“There’s not a lot I don’t drink. With, maybe, the exception of crème de menthe.”

She laughs quietly and sets her glass down. “I drank a pint of that once. For a dare, I’d just like to point out, not out of choice, and it was bloody vile!” She pulls a face, drops her head, and shakes it, and when she looks back up the smile’s returned, and I swear my heart physically jolts in my chest. I wasn’t expecting to feelthis, or anything close to it, but she’s bringing out shit in me I never thought I’d ever feel. I’ve certainly never feltthisbefore. “It was on a cruise, a few years back.” She leans forward and rests her elbow on the table again, her chin back in her upturned palm, her eyes staring down into her glass. “A good few years back, actually. Before I met…”

She leaves that sentence unfinished, and it’s impossible not to hear the sigh she lets out, her eyes briefly closing.

“Sorry.” She gives her head another shake as she looks back up at me, and she’s still smiling. But it’s taking a bit of time to reach her eyes. “I have no intention of talking about Scott Warren tonight.”

She visibly flinches, just a momentary flicker, but it tells me that she regrets even saying his name.

“Would he not have approved of your crème de menthe drinking days?”

I’m trying to lighten the mood, and it works, because the next time she looks at me her eyes are once more bright and the smile she gives me is wide and real and I take a sip of my drink as I wait for her to answer my question. I want to hear about her ex-husband, but only what she wants to tell me. I need to know if the man she was married to really is the man I’ve heard about.

“Scott Warren could suck the fun out of a party without even trying. But I don’t think you want to hear about my ex-husband.”

No, I do. I really do.

“I won’t be a sec.”

She gets up and heads inside again, reappearing moments later with what’s left of the bottle of whiskey.

“But just in case the conversation heads in that direction, I’ll keep this close.”

She throws me another smile, and I arch a brow, and we both take another sip of our drinks.

“How did you meet him? Your ex?”

That was a brave question to ask, considering we still barely know each other, but I’m just throwing it out there to see how she reacts. And for a moment she stays silent, her gaze drifting this way and that before finally focusing on the rapidly dimming candle lantern.

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