Page 49 of Open Water

No, and I can’t say anything remotely suitable either. This is when you say I love you. This is when you hold the other person and reassure them that everything is just as it’s supposed to be. Well that’s what happens in films and shit.

He drags the duvet over us, and I can see what he is thinking. He’s hiding that body of his. And I am not having it.

“No secrets. No hiding. You see me, baby, you see every crazy fucked up part of me. And you make it right. Every fuckin’ time. So, let me see you, because there is nothing more gorgeous than you. Look at you, baby. You have a freaking six-pack!”

I’ve dragged the duvet off us and let my fingers follow the lines of his muscles. The hard pads clear against the skin that covers them. It’s only skin. And it’s him. Uniquely him.

“I don’t like looking at it.” He looks sad again and I wrap him up against me. Hold him as tight as I can.

“I’m kind of in love with you,” I whisper. “And we just kind of had sex.”

His laughter makes it all better.We did. Didn’t we?

“Boyfriend,” he whispers. Kisses my cheek. “Pumpkin.”

“My baby,” I whisper back. “Do you want to tell me about it? The accident?”

“No.” He takes a deep breath. “Yes, maybe. Not now. One day when I’m ready I’ll explain. It’s hard for me to talk about, and I don’t remember much of it. I’ve chosen not to.”

“That’s okay. It’s all okay.”

We talk about other things instead. About school and TV and his theatre group and books and normal things. We talk until he’s asleep on my chest. I still keep talking. I tell him how pretty he is, and how beautiful his skin looks in the soft light. I tell him how I love the way his legs curl into mine. I love that he sleeps on my shoulder, when I always thought it would be me needing to curl into him.

When I sleep, I don’t dream. It’s like my brain is exhausted. Like it’s finally able to switch off.

I sleep.

I sleep, and I don’t move until the sunlight sprays glitter across my chest and his lips kiss me awake.

* * *

TOM

MATTEO: Hi, It’s Matteo, just to let you know we’re at school. All is ok. Max says hi too.

TOM: Hi Kiddo, don’t forget to let me know what charger you need. Have a good day at school and hope to see you later.

MATTEO: It’s an HP Pavilion. Not sure of the model. Standard school issue thing. Thank you. Feel a bit crap letting you buy it.

TOM: It’s my pleasure. How’s my son?

MATTEO: He’s enthusiastically enjoying Chemistry. (aka your kid is fast asleep in class.) Incidentally it’s the only class we have together today, and I was looking forward to his company. The twat. See you later.

He hates the quiet. He used to treasure it, the times when Max would take a nap and just let him breathe for an hour, a rest away from the constant responsibilities and pressure.

Parenthood has slayed him, but he has loved it. Loved every little second.

Now the quiet is strangling him until the sigh of relief his body lets out when the familiar slam of the door hits, and the walls rumble quietly as his son enters the kitchen. He smells of rain and outdoors, moving in a whirlwind of distant beats from his headphones and something squealing on the phone stuck in his hand.

“Where’s Matteo?” Tom asks.

“I think you like him better than me,” Max mutters. But there is a smile on his face. A tiny smug grin.

“He’s a good kid. I like him. There’s a ten-pack of socks for him on your bed.”

“Don’t go in my room, Dad.”

“I didn’t. Promise. I just opened the door and chucked the pack towards your bed. It might be on the floor. I didn’t hang around long enough to check. Your space.”

---