Page 38 of The Moon Also Rises
“Did you meet my husband, Bobby, yet?” Melanie asks and we both nod at Bobby as he gives us each a wink.
“This is Jake, Bobs. You know, Lionel’s boss in Crete. The one who looked after him all those years,” Melanie tells her husband as my cheeks blush red. I suppose it’s partly true. Until it wasn’t. “And this is his boyfriend, Rami.”
“Pleasure to meet you both. You make a very handsome couple,” Bobby says and there’s more heat in my cheeks, but this time for a very different reason.
“Rami’s obviously punching above his weight, but thank you, Bobby,” I joke, and Rami’s gentle chuckles are a relief.
“Ha! They do keep us on our toes, don’t they!” I hear a booming voice call out. Lionel’s father may look like his son but his voice is ten times lower and louder. “Nothing like having a younger partner, hey Jake?”
It’s impossible to stop my jaw dropping.
“Oh, shush. Jake is younger than Rami!” Melanie declares, swiping at her husband’s chest.
I don’t know why it hits me so hard. I don’t know why it rains so heavily on my parade. I don’t know why my stomach sinks like I’ve just received bad news. Maybe I am simply too tired to tell myself it doesn’t matter, but I suddenly need to be somewhere else. I smile weakly, mutter something about getting some fresh air, and step out of Rami’s embrace. I walk away to an empty table on the periphery of the dance floor and put my hands down and lean over it.
“Jake, he didn’t…” Rami is only two steps behind me.
“I don’t care.” I hold up my hand to stop him talking. “I mean of course I care. I feel as bruised as a fucking peach in a tumble dryer. But the point is, I know Ishouldn’tcare.”
Rami steps closer to me, almost as close as when we were dancing.
“I have to go start my DJ set in five minutes, but I don’t want to leave you like this,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I should probably go to bed anyway. It’s been a long day.”
When Rami’s eyes blink in rapid succession and his lips fall open, I see disappointment. “Of course,” he says.
“No, wait, I want to watch you.” It really is the least I can do after everything he’s done for me today. I think momentarily about the bath, the hankie, the hand squeezes. Recalling all of it suddenly makes me want to cry, which is utterly ridiculous.
“Jake, you don’t have to.”
“I want to,” I say, and unexpectedly, I do.
“Okay, well, I just need to run up to the room and grab my laptop. You need anything from there?”
“My trainers, please,” I say, dropping my gaze to my shoes. “These are killing me.”
“Yes, boss,” Rami says, and he turns and walks away.
After finding my jacket, I sink into the nearest chair and give myself permission to indulge my morose mood, which is easy to do as I survey the couples who are lost in each other on the dancefloor. My eyes linger on Luigi and Lionel. After a while, I realise what I feel is not jealousy of either of them specifically, but rather envy for what they have. It’s not like I’d reached a point where I’d given up on love, but for a long time now I’ve been so used to accepting it’s never going to happen, I don’t even consider it a possibility. This is why the comments about my age – and the whole drama about having a fortieth birthday party – hit me so hard.
A long time ago, I’d always assumed it would happen by the time I was forty, if it was going to happen at all. It doesn’t help at all that faking a relationship today – having a hand to hold, a body to slow dance with, a man to make snarky comments about people’s outfits with – it’s all given me a taste of honey. It’s given me a hint at what I’m missing and likely going to miss for the rest of my life. It’s reminded me that even if I have adjusted to the idea that it’s never going to happen – because I must, it’s basic self-preservation – part of me still doesn’t want that as my future. Part of me still wants what I will almost certainly never have. And that hurts.
“Are you okay?” Rami is back in front of me. A little breathless and holding his laptop, he drops my trainers to the floor by my feet.
I wave my hands at him before bending to pick up my shoes. “I’m fine. Just sulking about being called old again.”
Rami’s brow furrows but he doesn’t say anything.
“Go, Mr DJ.” I encourage him as I start to swap shoes. “And please don’t be a total disaster. I’m too fragile to be shown up. I’ve been embarrassed enough today.”
He smiles at this. “I’ll do my best. Any requests?”
“You choose something for me,” I say with a smile that slips as quickly as it arrives because I really am so tired.
A few minutes later Rami’s set has begun. For his first song, he chooses an extended version of Sylvester’sYou Make Me Feel Mighty Realand as the song gradually builds, the dancers multiply. He’s certainly judged the crowd perfectly as I see members of both families dancing with the countless Tom Ford lookalikes and models. Watching them is fun, but after a while my eyes are pulled back to Rami and I see him focus intently on what he’s doing. I assume he’s getting to grips with whatever equipment he has in the small booth that stands off to the side of the stage but I’m impressed how comfortable he looks. He pops headphones on and nods his head with the beat. The frown across his forehead is one of concentration and I start to trust that maybe he knows what he’s doing.
The man can dance. The man can DJ. The man is a master of small talk with fellow wedding guests. The man knows when to hold my hand. And he’s slowly, slowly learning the art of sarcasm. Maybe I have misjudged Rami Kazimi.
