Page 60 of Beautiful Losers

‘Thank you,’ I say, nudging his arm with my shoulder. ‘No one has ever done anything like this for me before.’

‘You deserve it.’

‘Why have you been avoiding me?’ I say, emboldened by the wine.

‘I haven’t been avoiding you,’ Jack replies quietly, refusing to return my gaze.

‘Oh come on. I’ve barely seen you the past few days and you ate the granola! Since when do you shy away from highlighting my culinary failures?’

‘It was one of your weirder combinations for sure,’ he smiles.

‘Seriously, what gives?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I saw you in theépiceriethe other day. I waved at you from the till. You pretended not to notice. It looked like you were taking a forensic interest in the list of ingredients on a tin of tuna.’

‘Oh,’ I say, mortified.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, watching my face intently. ‘I thought it was cute.’

Without thinking, I lean towards Jack and kiss him. He doesn’t seem surprised, doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t quite take advantage of the moment either. I pull back, unsure of myself.

‘So look,’ I say, before my brazenness dissipates. ‘I like you. A lot. Your hair smells great. And I bet it feels good too. Can I? I’m just going to …’

I reach out and run my palm along his head.

‘Jesus, wow. That’s soft. Umm, so look, the thing is, since getting to know you, I realise you’re actually not an arsehole …’

‘Fiadh …’

‘And I know you’re leaving in two weeks, and that’s totally fine. I only want you for your body anyway.’

‘Fiadh,’ he says again, softer this time. He puts his thumb gently on my lip then runs the back of his index finger along my cheek. I have to remind myself to keep breathing.

‘I’m going to kiss you now. Is that okay?’

I nod. He reaches his hand up to my cheek and pulls me into him.

31

I wake up fully clothed, fighting waves of nausea. Through mascara-encrusted eyes, I make out a thick wooden beam running the length of the ceiling. There is no beam in my room. I reach across the bed, patting the mattress for clues and land on a leg that (terrifyingly? Reassuringly?) does not belong to me. I feel my way up the leg – it’s important to be certain in these matters – and arrive at a firm buttock. The buttock shifts in my hand, its owner rolling over to face me.

‘Morning,’ Jack says with a groan, his eyes closed.

I can feel the heat of his breath. It smells of red wine and garlic, and I think I catch a hint of cigarette smoke as well.

‘Morning,’ I say, self-consciously. Waking up in Jack’s bed is an unexpected, though not unwelcome, turn of events. I wonder if he shares the sentiment.

‘Did you have a good time last night?’ His eyesare still closed, a smirk spreading across his face. God, it’s a beautiful face. I’d love to cut his head off and carry it around with me in a portable cryogenic tank.

It’s a well-worn trope in romantic comedies. The hungover morning-after. The scanning under the bedsheets to confirm the presence of underwear in an attempt to reassure the panicked female protagonist that nothing untoward has taken place. Well, I’m not giving Jack the satisfaction. The room smells like a brewery and though Jack appears to have lost his shirt, his belt and trousers remain intact, so it’s unlikely anything happened. If it did, great stuff! I’m only sorry I can’t remember it.

‘Best night of my life,’ I say, sticking out my chin defiantly.

Jack’s smirk widens to a smile and he opens his eyes to look at me. My mother had a thing about eyes. On the news, when someone was charged for committing some heinous crime, she said you could tell by looking at them that they had it in them. It wasn’t a specific colour or shape of eye that identified the assailant as the kind of person capable of murder, rape, money laundering, a presidential assassination or putting a virtually empty carton of orange juice back in the fridge – it was a quality, an aura. She was convinced that law enforcement authorities were missing a trick by not having people with her unique talents on the payroll. If the reverse of Mum’s theory applied, and the eyes were a reflection of all the decent things a person was capable of, I’d say Jack Hamilton had the look of someone who’d insist you take the seat with the better view at a restaurant.

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