Page 7 of Skin and Bones

I often forgot that I was senior management too, that it was actually my job to keep things like this at bay. I should probably call Hugo and Reuben in for a small chat about suitable behaviours in front of paying guests, but that kind of thing wasn’t for me. Not when it meant paperwork and writing legibly and tapping proper words into computers. I was more than happy to have developmental meetings with my trainee chefs, guiding them towards excellence in the culinary arts. I was more reluctant to tell people off, especially when it wasn’t warranted.

I turned on my heels and headed back where I belonged, soon after wishing I hadn’t. Plating up tiny slivers of poached salmon over a creamy reduction—no seasoning, just as ordered—made me want to cry. I must still have been in a world of my own, as the next thing, a plate slipped from my hand and went spinning across the floor.

I hated the Hoffmans. Truly.

My shift ended early, just like it had started, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I set off for Mark’s flat. We hung out at work whenever we could, but our shifts didn’t always match, and I had this bloody itch. Mark called it Markitis, like he was some kind of tropical disease. Finn apparently suffered badly with it too, and more times than not, I would find an off-duty Mabel lounging around in their ample kitchen as well.

Today, though, the flat was quiet as I let myself in because, of course, I had my own key. Mark was my best friend, and he had a key to my place too. The number of times he’d crashed in my bed after a night out, and I’d crashed at his an equal number of times, and then sometimes there had been situations. We needed keys. That fact had been established from the first week of culinary college when I’d chopped half my thumb off and needed stitches, and Mark hadn’t been able to sleep, too worried I was bleeding out in my bed. For the record, I hadn’t, but Mark had still spooned behind me with his phone in his hand just in case he woke up and found me dead.

We had a friendship like no other, and I couldn’t explain it. I was that guy, who had a best friend I liked to sleep with. Note the word SLEEP. No sexual undertone. Like, ever. He’d snuggle in my arms. I’d curl around him like a needy tomcat with claw issues. Mark’s description, not mine. The times we’d woken up in compromising positions with random involuntary boners were too many to remember. They made us laugh and made others laugh too. They didn’t make Finn laugh, but I could kind of appreciate why he wasn’t impressed with coming home after a long shift and having to sleep on the sofa because I was snuggled up with his boyfriend in bed. We’d talked about it. It was just our thing, okay?

But there were other things, like the fact that Mark hadn’t been to work in three days and that most of my food storage containers were in a big bag on Mark and Finn’s kitchen floor.

That was another part of our friendship I didn’t tend to share with other people. Finn couldn’t even boil an egg, and someone had to look out for Mark when he couldn’t do it for himself.

I found him in bed, exactly where I thought he’d be at five in the afternoon, a slight stench of body odour drifting through the air as I sat on the edge of the mattress.

“Here we go again,” Mark mumbled from under the covers.

“Yep, and wewillmake it out on the other side.” I kept my voice low, calm.

He didn’t need to say more. We’d been here on a regular basis for years, and even though Mark had long periods of good times, the lows would always take him in the end. Weeks of not getting out of bed, struggling to function, having to be showered and fed like a baby until he would slowly start to piece himself together again and re-join the land of the living.

I’d been the one who’d cared for him. Years of the two of us living like this, entangled in sheets that needed washing, his tears staining my skin, just like they were now as he crawled into my embrace.

“We’ll be okay, mate,” I promised softly.

“I hate when you call memate,” he muttered in a voice that was far too broken for my liking. I let him find his peace against my chest.

This was why I was single. No one would ever put up with the things that were important in my life. My work, my apartment, my kitchen, my broken brain, and Mark.

“Finn’s on night duty. He’s not back until tomorrow.”

I knew that, just as Finn knew my shifts. In fact, he’d texted me and asked if I was coming over as I was typing out my message to him telling him I was on my way.

“I’m going to do some cooking, and then I’ll stay,” I murmured into Mark’s hair.

“Thank you, but I don’t feel like eating.”

“I’m going to make you macaroni cheese in those small tubs. Three spoonfuls, max.”

“I liked the risotto,” he said, trying to sidetrack me, but at least he was talking. Sometimes he wouldn’t talk at all, as if words were too heavy for him to handle.

“I can make you risotto. With burrata. You fancy burrata?”

His body shook with something that I hoped were giggles. Or perhaps a cough. Mark hated burrata and would kill me if I even dared to toss that monstrosity on the menu. Another quirk of his that would always make me laugh.

Mark wasn’t laughing, though. His breathing had settled into a slow steady rhythm against my chest.

“You know I would never let you do this on your own. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

I meant that. Every word.

“You need to find someone who’ll love you. Someone who will appreciate the amazing human that you are.”

“I’m not amazing.”

I loved Mark to pieces, but I hated it when he pushed. I didn’t need anyone. I was happy. Really happy. I had a home, a job I loved. My life was manageable, and when it wasn’t, I had people who made it manageable.

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