Page 53 of The 21-Day Boyfriend
His words sound so real, his tone so familiar, that for a moment – just one moment – I start to believe them, too.
Eric flashes me a tight, sad smile, filled with a pain that has nothing to do with me. But tonight, I’ve decided to help him bear some of that pain.
I place my hand on his and squeeze. His smile grows wider, but no less tense.
None of this is right.
Me, here having dinner with him and his mother, taking a place that isn’t mine. Me pretending to be here just to do him a favour.
Him pretending to be sure of what we’re doing, of the fact that no one will get hurt after all the lies.
I don’t know whether it’s right to pretend that this thing stopped being fake the moment he kissed me; that it hadn’t start hurting the moment I realised I wanted that kiss; that this won’t cause so much damage to both of our lives once we’re forced to go back to our own reality.
And without each other.
THE ATMOSPHEREAT THE TABLE is nowhere near as relaxed as it was at dinner with his grandmother. I know it’s not all smooth sailing between Eric and his family, and I realised right away that he feels the need to seek approval from his parents after turning his back on the career they had mapped out for him. By now, I’m guessing that the end of his relationship with Colm was linked in some way with his choice to pursue a different path.
“The lamb is delicious,” Eric’s mother says. “Our Ernesto couldn’t have done better.”
I glance at Eric, hoping for an explanation.
“Their cook,” he says, taking a large gulp of wine.
“He’s been with us for over ten years, after leaving his country to make his fortune,” his mother explains to me.
“He’s Spanish,” Eric says, “and he came over because he fell in love with an Irish girl he’d met on holiday in the Canary Islands.” Eric’s tone has shifted.
“And how exactly are you so informed about the personal life of our cook?” Eric’s mother asks, a thread of unwanted sarcasm in her voice.
Eric studies her condescendingly but doesn’t answer. So she speaks, turning to me.
“He always spent a lot of time in the kitchen, with his nanny, Eloisa.”
I look back at Eric, whose fingers are playing nervously with his glass of wine.
“He always wanted to help her out.” His mother shakes her head slowly, making her disapproval clear. “They would spend their afternoons baking cakes.”
I smile at Eric, who returns the gesture.
“Were you already good back then?”
He shakes his head, embarrassed. “I just made a lot of messes.”
“I’m sure you’re just being modest. This,” I say, nodding to my plate, “is a gift.”
Eric’s gaze is full of gratitude, as well as something else I can’t quite identify. But it warms my heart like the embrace of the person you dream of in an endless night of darkness and solitude.
“What about you, Sean? Did you always want to be a teacher?” his mother asks.
I don’t mind her questions. I’d rather she concentrated on me than on Eric – that way he has some space to breathe and relax a little.
“I’ve always been passionate about literature. Especially the classics.”
“And your parents approved of your… Inclinations?” Her tone has changed. It’s stinging, suggestive.
“Are you referring to my love for books or to the fact that I’m gay?”
Eric almost chokes on his wine.
