Page 38 of The Photograph

By the time we’ve drunk our cocktails and headed down to Crush, I’ve sunk right into myself. En route, Alan and Shaun gripe about Ho’s and the people and anything else they can thinkof, and the two unfamiliar guys join in. Walking a few steps behind with George, I lean into him and say how bad they are, but he shushes me as he studies them, smiling.

“They’re cute though—don’t you think?”

And ah, okay. He wanted some admirers along.

“We’re quite the glamorous little crowd,” he adds.

Thisis his criterion for his evenings out? Perhaps that’s why he’s friends with Alan and Shaun, and why did all this never occur to me?

How different was this with Alex? His initial wide-eyed embarrassment that morphed into delight. He hung on my arm at 2 a.m. wondering how he was going to survive at work and said he was wrong to resist going and how much he’d loved it. Then I told him that 3 a.m. would make no difference and dragged him for a hot chocolate.

We stop at the end of the line.Not too big a wait tonight.

George leans in and places his mouth against mine, trying to deepen the kiss.

Drawing back, I shake my head at him, and he laughs, taking my face in his hands. “It’s okay, we’re at Crush.”

“I met somebody,” I say. And he drops his hands as his whole face changes, the warm flush of alcohol giving way to the pinched expression I saw earlier, tightness creeping around his eyes.

“Why didn’t you say something? God, how embarrassing.” Shaking his head, he stares down the street, a red tinge building on his neck.

I pat his arm. “It’s okay.”

“It’sokay? My boyfriend tells me he’s found someone else and then says it’s okay?” His head turns toward me, eyes theatrically huge, and the red gathering on his throat has reached his cheeks now.

“I just meant it’s okay that you kissed me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say as quietly and calmly as I can.Please don’t do an epic George meltdown in the line for Crush.

“Too right! You sat in Ho’s nodding and letting me babble away. You should have told me this little detail first. Why didn’t you say anything before you came out?”

His pink face is so close to mine that I look away. “I’m sorry. I ought to have done that.”

He blinks at me, and his eyes fill with tears as he turns away, pressing his fingers in the corner of his eyes.

I put my hand on his arm again. “George, we haven’t been boyfriends for a while now.”

Spinning round, his mouth pinches. “We had sex a few weeks back, a threesome if I recall. You didn’t say I wasn’t your boyfriend then,” he hisses. He waves his hand in a dramatic arc. “Felix said we were really good together if youremember.” He tosses the last word into my face.

It was a hookup. We broke up a long time ago.Doesn’t he understand what an actual relationship looks like?Maybe he doesn’t. That slithery feeling is back. Have I ever taken the time with George to ask the questions that might get to the bottom of how he sees things, his view of the world? He just gossips …all the time.He doesn’t know me, but perhaps I’m guilty here, too: I don’t know him either.

“George, we agreed …”

“Youdecided, Dessy …”And oh God, here we go.“You said I wasn’t good enough for you, that I couldn’t keep it in my pants and you wanted more. Well, let me tell you”—he jabs my chest—“no guy keeps it in his pants.”

I could laugh. I could cry. Our views on what makes a relationship are a million miles apart. He doesn’t see being faithful like I do. Being close to someone, being open and honest about who you are andtrusting, he has no idea what that lookslike. Sucking in a deep breath, I look off up the street. I love George dearly, and now he’s upset.God. Here we are outside Crush, and I’ve wrecked his night. This conversation could have happened over a quiet coffee. I snort to myself: When have George and I ever had a quiet drink anywhere?

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Sorry?” he says, tipping his head back and staring up at the night sky visible between the two buildings towering over us on either side of the street.

“I’ve ruined tonight.” I run a hand over my soft curls.

“You’ve ruined a lot more than tonight.” His lips twist. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Dessy, you’re gorgeous—of course you were always going to find someone better than little ol’ me.”

He presses his hand against his chest, and I fold my arms over my body as his theatrics kick in. Can I not for once have a straight conversation with him? All this second-guessing, working around an explosion or drunkenness or a desire to party, party, party, never stopping to examine anything too closely. I want to be his friend, but all he wants is to create drama.

Alan and Shaun and the two other guys are standing apart from us now, trying to appear like they’re not eavesdropping.

“Do you want me to go?” I say, lowering my voice.

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