Page 30 of The Missing Ingredient

“Are you okay?” asked Marcus.

“Look, I wanted—” said Tom, before answering Marcus. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem okay.”

Another huge sigh shuddered through Tom before he responded. “I’m sick of people scrambling around trying to pair me off. I know they’re trying to be kind, trying to help me move on. But I really am fine as I am. Everything’s going well and I have everything I need. I really do. It dawned on me while I was sitting there watching that bloody awful film. I have all the women I need in my life, my mother and those little angels sleeping upstairs. And if I want grown-up conversation or advice, I have you and Dad.”

“Hold on, Tom. You were the one who asked for time out to go and date. What are you saying now? You’ve given up?”

“Nobody’s ever going to replace Raine, Marcus.”

“No, of course not. Nobody is ever meant to. People just want you to be happy again, maybe not in the same way, but at least have someone to share things with.”

“And that’s what I’m trying to say—” began Tom, but then they heard a soft voice calling “Daddy” from upstairs.

“Shit,” said Tom. “I’m sorry. My fault.”

“It’s fine. You want me to go up?”

“No, let me. Give me a chance to say good night.”

Ten minutes later Marcus heard Tom’s soft footfalls on the stairs.

“You want a beer?” said Marcus, twisting around and yanking open the fridge door as Tom hit the bottom step. “Got a couple of cold ones in here.”

“Actually, another reason I came back is because—” said Tom, hesitating momentarily before going on. “Because I wanted a chat with you.”

“Oh, shit,” Marcus hissed, two bottles of Asahi in one hand, and quietly closed the fridge door shut, his face falling. “What have I done now?”

Tom appeared genuinely mystified. “Sorry?” he said, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Whenever you want to chat with me, it usually means you’re either going to tell me to fuck off or back off.”

“No, I—” said Tom, his eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, before he deflated with a sigh and gently shook his head. “Is that what you think? Hell, have I really been that much of a dick? After everything you’ve done for us, for me?”

“You’re not a dick, Tom. But you can be bloody stubborn at times. Beer?”

Tom ambled over and took the proffered beer bottle, twisted the lid, and took a long draft. Afterward, visibly relaxing, he perched on the barstool. Marcus went and joined him, leaving a sizable distance between them.

“What Imeantwas, I don’t get to hang out with you anymore. And I know that’s what I asked for, but in all honesty, I miss it, I miss our little chats.”

“Yes, well, whose fault is that?”

“I know, I know. I already claimed the dick card, remember?”

Marcus relaxed too, then leaned forward to clink the neck of his bottle with Tom’s. “Well, if it’s any consolation, Tom, I miss our grown-up time together too.”

And it suddenly dawned on Marcus how much he really had missed just chatting to Tom. If only he could master his infatuation. Maybe now would be a good time to win some points in the friends stakes, tell Tom about Damian Stone, tell him what they had found out. But while the thoughts swirled around in his head, Tom had started talking.

“I really do like that shirt on you, Marcus. Is it cotton?”

“Egyptian cotton,” said Marcus absently.

“Looks comfortable. Mind if I…?” Tom held a hand out as if waiting for permission to touch the material.

“Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Tom reached across the distance and pinched the material beneath Marcus’s collar between his thumb and forefinger.

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