Page 137 of Not That Impossible

“Tell him hi back,” I said over my shoulder, and turned the hob on. I set the pan on the heat.

I’d finally met Ray properly in the coffee shop last week. It had been one of the most awkward moments of my life, and that is saying something. We’d both ended up standing at the counter waiting for Charlie to make our drinks, studiously avoiding each other’s eyes.

Ray was fidgeting, checking his Apple Watch every ten seconds. I was bouncing restlessly on the balls of my feet, trying not to bolt. It was Charlie who had broken the silence for us.

He marched up to the counter where we were standing shoulder to shoulder, a queue of two, and he set two cups down on one tray.

“Oh,” Ray said. “I ordered mine to go?”

“Me too,” I said.

“I don’t care,” Charlie said. “Look. There’s a free table in the corner. Why don’t you both go and drink your coffees over there?”

I slid a sideways glance at Ray. He looked up at me.

“In case either of you thought that was a suggestion,” Charlie said, “it wasn’t. Jasper. I am tired of watching you slink in here like a bad puppy and run away every time Ray comes in.”

“I donot—” I started.

“Ray, you’re a great customer, but Jasper consumes three times the amount of a normal human being, and if he stops coming in, it’ll harm my bottom line.”

“I never said hecouldn’t—” Ray began.

“Great. It’s settled. Table’s over there.” Charlie walked off.

I looked at Ray. Ray looked at me.

“Stay there,” I said. “I’ve got this.”

I sidled to the corner of the counter, keeping my eye on Charlie at the other end. I was reaching for the to-go cups when Charlie said without turning around, “Jasper, if I see you on the wrong side of the counter again…”

I lunged back to the customer side, grabbed the tray, and said to Ray, “Come on.”

After that, it was surprisingly easy. I apologised for the serial-killer-accusation thing. We had a long what-the-fuck conversation about the whole situation, once Ray had made me swear everything was off the record. I promised that my journalism days were over—unless he ever found another body, in which case all bets were off—and by the time Adam came in to meet Ray and did a double-take at the sight of us cosied up in the corner, we were on our second coffees, and Ray had sprung for a plate of brownies.

I briskly pushed the eggs around in the pan with a spatula. I sensed Adam come up behind me before he leaned himself against the counter. He stood with his hands in his pockets, ankles crossed negligently. A lock of his bright hair fell in his face as he looked at me.

“We did it,” he said. ”Hard to believe. But we finally did it.” He sighed with satisfaction.

I cocked a brow and turned off the hob, setting the pan to one side. “Did what?”

“Got our men.”

I turned and mirrored his pose. “Huh.”

A couple of months ago, we were a pair of losers sitting in the pub in the post-Christmas glum of early February. Now Adam had Ray. I had Liam.

“Took us long enough,” Adam said, and a beautiful smile broke over his face, lighting up his hazel eyes.

“Hell of a fight to get here,” I said. “Worth it, though.”

“Yeah.” Adam’s smile settled to bone-deep happiness. I was pretty sure my face looked the same. Until he added, “Although what you see in Liam isstilla mystery I will never be able to solve.”

“Hey. I love that man,” I said. “And so do you. Although in a very different way.”

“Ugh. Yeah, but don’t ever—”

“Oh, I heard,” Liam said from where he was standing in the doorway.