by Lily Velden
Why don’t you then? You’re welcome to use my humble abode as your base. Hell, you could even twist my arm to join you in Amsterdam or Paris, or maybe even take in some sun in Italy, Spain or Greece.
Noah Daniels: 6.05pm
Really? All jokes aside, would you mind?
Robert Callinan: 6.05pm
Mind? Of course not, you silly twat! Truth be told it’d help me get off my lazy arse and see some of the things in my own backyard! After all it’s summer vacation for us both. No essays!!! No lectures to prepare!!! WooHoo! Let’s do it, Daniels!
Noah Daniels: 6.06pm
Okay then! I’ll see about changing my ticket. Shall I pick you up from Heathrow? What time will your flight be in?
Robert Callinan: 6.07pm
Not sure, to be honest. Will check and get back to you.
I SAT back in my chair, and it hit me. I was actually going to meet Robert. The impossible was suddenly not only possible but a fact. He wouldn’t just be a name in my Skype address book. Nor merely some out-of-reach image in a home movie. He’d be flesh and blood.
Real.
Living, breathing, able to be seen, touched, and smelled. Real.
Would he…? Could we…? My unspoken hopes assaulted my mind and my gut, leaving one reeling and the other churning.
10
WITH A soft groan, I rubbed my sweaty palms down my jeans. I closed my eyes, inhaling slowly and deeply in the futile hope it would still the erratic thudding of my heart, or at the very least slow down the flow of perspiration in my armpits. It shamed me how my body either would not, or could not, let me lie about my emotions. When had it ever answered my plea to calm the flush in my cheeks or still the trembling of my hands? Never. Perhaps I was insane. Wasn’t one description of insanity repeating the same actions yet expecting a different result? If so, then I was clearly certifiable.
I was oblivious to the people making up the crowd in the arrivals terminal. I had no interest in crowd watching—Robert was going to walk through the doors at any moment, and I was as anxious as a virgin bride on her wedding night. Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. I feverishly scanned the faces of those coming through the sliding doors, seeking out the face that had haunted me since the moment I’d first laid eyes upon it.
And then there he was.
Relief, like air to a drowning man, flooded me as I drank the sight of him in. I smiled at his expression. He was talking on his phone and looking impatient. It made him look rather austere. As I took a step toward him, I watched as he ended the call and then dropped the phone into the pocket of his trench coat.
He scanned the faces of the crowd. I braced myself, knowing it would be but a moment before his gaze landed on me, and I would have to concentrate on keeping my features friendly but neutral so as not give away my overwhelming feelings of pleasure at seeing him in the flesh at last. Or my guilt at having watched him in his most intimate moments without his knowledge or consent.
Our gazes locked, and the smile that lit up his face made me purse my lips together to suppress the gasp that tried to work its way up and out of my throat. All austerity was banished from his features with that smile. It made him look boyish and, if anything, more handsome than his photo or home movies had revealed. For a moment, I felt a stab of pain at the way I’d betrayed his trust—something I’d probably never be able to confess to him. Biting my lip, I pushed the thought out of my head and took another step forward. He strode purposefully toward me, narrowing the gap between us much more quickly than I did with my guilt-ridden stride.
I knew I shouldn’t do it, but somehow I couldn’t make myself stop staring. I absorbed everything about him, like a camera taking rapid-fire photos. Click. His lithe, graceful stride, more of a lope than a walk. Click. His tousled hair that I longed to run my fingers through. Click. His expressive brown eyes. Click. His broad shoulders and long legs. And click, his elegant, long-fingered hands, which were currently wrapped around the handle of a luggage cart.
With only six feet separating us, I stopped, trying to formulate a coherent greeting in my mind. Why had I not given a thought to what I should say? Should I shake his hand? Give him a man hug? Follow his lead. Follow his lead.
Robert halted in front of me, his gaze on my face, his expression serious. My breath quickened at his proximity. There was a look in his eyes as he stared into mine that I couldn’t read, and I didn’t know what to do. He neither extended his hand nor reached to give me a hug. The blood drained from my face, and I opened my mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say or even if I would be able to speak at all. Shutting it again, I worried my bottom lip with my teeth. His gaze lowered to look at my mouth, his eyes darkening fractionally before a smile so warm and friendly spread across his face, I was left breathless with my heart beating a loud and rapid tattoo. Could he hear it?
He reached out and grasped my hand in a firm handshake, and for a moment I was lost in the sensation of the warmth of his flesh against the coolness of mine. I couldn’t think of anything other than he was touching me at last, his bare skin against mine. I closed my eyes as he drew me to him in a hug, worried he would see the need in me. For one brief, glorious second, I felt a whisper of silk on my cheek as his hair skimmed over its surface. Gasping in an embarrassed breath, I realized I must have forgotten to breathe. He chuckled quietly, but it didn’t sound as if he was laughing at me—it was more a happy sound.
“I must admit, I’m feeling kind of breathless. I’m just so glad to meet you in person at last. I feel like I know you so well already,” he murmured against my cheek, and his voice sounded as good to my ears as his flesh looked to my eyes.
“Me too.”
I was blind to the people around us; they might as well not have existed. The emotions flooding my body were new to me: the strange yearning in the pit of my belly, which flowed all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes; the hyperawareness of everything about him, his smell, his warmth, his touch. Alien and frightening, and yet I wanted more of them. More of him. Our man hug wasn’t enough. I longed to get closer. There was only him and me and this moment. I never wanted it to end, and if it was a dream, then I prayed I’d never wake.
As he pulled away, I suppressed a sigh at the loss of his nearness. I opened my eyes to see him smiling at me and I knew.
I’d just fallen in love with Robert Callinan.
BEING MORE familiar with London, Robert drove. I didn’t mind. Driving Robert’s Austin-Healey 3000 Mark III always made me nervous. It was a collector’s item. Besides, my epiphany had wreaked havoc with my ability to concentrate anyway.
As subtly as possible, I sniffed the air. He wore the most delicious aftershave, but try as I might, I couldn’t identify it. It wasn’t one I was familiar with.
I watched him as he navigated us through the traffic. He was a capable driver. The fact didn’t surprise me.
“Man, it’s good to be driving on the correct side of the road again.” He turned to glance in my direction and smiled. “And I’m glad to see my old jalopy survived your temporary ownership without so much as a scratch!”
I laughed. “Did mine?”
“No.”
“What?”
He smiled at my look of horror. “No, but don’t worry, I had it repaired. It was just a scrape.”
“What happened? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”
“Nothing dramatic. I just misjudged when doing a reverse park. More embarrassing than anything else. Trust me, you can’t tell. Your car is as good as new.”
“It’s only a car.” I shrugged. “I’m just glad it wasn’t serious.”
We continued to make small talk, and it seemed surreal. There was such a world of difference between what I voiced versus what I thought, a huge chasm between the calm I hoped I portrayed and the turbulent feelings crowding my body.
His voice mesmerized me. He had a sexy cadence to his rounded vowels, a confidence that was very appealing. Though, considering his whole demeanor exuded the same comfort
able-in-his-own-skin, sexy self-assuredness, it stood to reason his voice would too.
I waged an internal battle between wanting to close my eyes, letting his voice wash over me, and staring at him.
Staring won.
His face was mobile and expressive: his lips quirked and lifted at the corners, and his brows rose and fell over his brown eyes, telling me as much as did his actual words. He’d turn to wink or grin at me as we talked, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smiles. His animated speech was the visual and audio equivalent of our Skype conversations, with its prolific use of exclamation marks and emoticons. Until Robert, I’d always preferred the vibrancy of blue or green eyes to the softness of brown, but there was a depth and warmth to his that drew me in. Looking into them was the visual parallel of dipping my fingers into warm gooey syrup.
“Let’s detour via my local,” he suddenly dropped into our conversation. “I’m hanging for a pint of good old English lager.”
I laughed. “Sure.”
THE LATE-AFTERNOON sun glinted off the green tiles of the Lamb’s exterior. It was obvious that over the years damaged tiles had been replaced, but the respective owners had found the greens impossible to match perfectly. The different shades of the tiles gave the appearance of a patchwork quilt and, teamed with the gleam of the polished timber surrounds, exuded a fresh, welcoming air as we approached the entrance. Jaunty daffodils, surrounded by a profusion of greenery and small white daisies, adorned the façade, reminding all who passed by that summer was here at last. Robert’s “local” certainly had charm. It was built in the 1700s but had been improved upon in Victorian times, and despite the depiction of a lamb on the frosted panes of glass of its windows, it was actually named after the man who constructed a water-carrying conduit beneath the streets of the city.
Robert held the door open for me, and as I brushed by him, another faint waft of his aftershave curled up my nose, and I inhaled appreciatively. I paused just inside the pub, scanning the room. There were only a handful of patrons, mostly old-timers, scattered around in small groups, talking quietly. In another hour or two, the place would be crowded and noisy with people stopping by on their way home from work for a pint or two, but for now it was quiet and peaceful.
The green color scheme of the exterior continued inside with deeply buttoned green-leather bench seats lining the walls. In front of each bench sat a small round table paired with a couple of low, padded stools, also upholstered in green leather. The central serving bar itself was a sight to behold with its abundance of polished timber, gleaming taps, and glittering assortment of bottles and glasses. It was U-shape in design, with posts at each corner that reached the high, timber-paneled ceilings, their white ornate plaster corbels contrasting against the darkness of the wood. On two sides, at approximately head height, it had a bank of the oddest little frosted-glass windows that pivoted. Sometimes they were open and sometimes shut, and every time I stopped by for a drink, I always ended up wondering about them. Even with the windows closed, the bar staff could serve the patrons, so why have the windows if they weren’t to shut off an area of the bar? Did they serve a purpose? If so, what?
I didn’t get time to ponder my questions for long because as soon as Robert moved past me and into plain view of Josie, one of the regular bar staff, she squealed loudly.
“Robert, you slack wanker! About time you came home.”
“Hey, Josie. It’s good to see you too!”
At their brief exchange, all the patrons turned their heads, and a few lifted their hands in acknowledgment. Robert either waved or nodded in return as he made his way closer to the bar.
“My usual, please, Josie. That is, if you can still remember,” teased Robert, grinning.
“You’d have to be gone longer than six months for me to forget, Robert, my dear. I have the memory of an elephant, and if my ex is to be believed, the arse of one too!” As she answered she pulled him a beer with practiced ease, not even looking at the tap.
“That’s why he’s the ex, isn’t it? The man obviously needed glasses.”
“Still the charmer!” She chuckled, then looked at me. “How about you, Noah? Your usual?”
“Yes, please, Josie.”
“Cider?” Robert asked, turning to me. “You’re full of surprises, Noah.”
“An apple a day.” I shrugged. “I figure I’ll get my daily dose via a glass.”
Robert dropped his head back, exposing his throat as he laughed. “Good thinking. You’re my kind of man, Noah.”
My pulse kicked up a notch at his words, despite knowing he meant them innocently. He had no idea how much I wanted to be his kind of man.
Drinks in hand, we made our way to a free table. I parked my butt on the bench, and Robert surprised me by seating himself beside me rather than taking one of the stools. To avoid getting a kink in my neck, I shifted slightly, angling myself on the seat. Robert did the same. Our change of position caused his knee to press lightly against mine. I held my breath, making no move to break the connection, waiting to see if he would. When he didn’t, the stubborn little seed of hope his mere presence had inspired sprouted an offshoot.
“ROBBIE!” MRS. Higginbotham practically squealed as she galloped down the stairs with surprising agility for someone of her rather round frame.
“Higgy!”
I couldn’t help smiling as he picked her up and her already-pink cheeks got even rosier. She smacked his shoulder, but it was obvious she loved the attention.
“I’ve missed you, you rogue.” She patted his cheek, emotion coloring her voice.
“I’ve missed you too, Higgy. So did Noah behave himself?”
“Like a sweet little choirboy. He didn’t bring home so much as one date.” She glanced at me and winked before turning back to Robert. “Unlike you and your revolving-door policy, you old tart!”
“Higgy! You’re embarrassing me.”
I bit my lip, attempting to suppress my smile at their banter. If only she knew the extent of his “revolving-door policy”….
Mrs. Higginbotham snorted. “You’re not fooling anyone, Robbie. You and embarrassment haven’t shared the same room since you were sixteen.”
Robert threw back his head and laughed. “Okay, I admit defeat. I never could see the point in getting myself in a twist over what someone else thought about what I did or did not do, say, or for that matter, wear.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” deadpanned Mrs. Higginbotham. “You gave your gran a heart attack on a daily basis, but she adored you anyway.”
“As I did her,” replied Robert, sobering immediately.
“I know you did, sweetie, I know. She knew too. She was a great lady. Not an embarrassed bone in her body either.”
Silence fell between us at the unexpectedly serious turn in the conversation.
“Well, boys, how about we take this chat inside. You two take your luggage in, and I’ll go fetch the casserole I made for the pair of you.”
Robert softened his military-style salute with a wink and a smile.
Between us, we carried his suitcase and carry-on bags inside, and while he showered and unpacked a few things, I put the kettle on, assuming Mrs. Higginbotham would want to join us for a cup of tea when she returned with her casserole. I smiled as I prepared the teapot and sliced the lemon she favored. I still preferred coffee, but I had to admit, I’d become rather partial to the semiregular sharing of afternoon tea with her.
Just as the kettle boiled, Robert loped into the kitchen. The sight of him made me swallow the lump in my throat, my new knowledge making me far too aware of him. He looked effortlessly sexy in his loose faded jeans and white round-necked tee. His feet were bare, and my knees were weak. His hair was tousled, and my emotions a scattered mess. Robert straddled one of the dining chairs and folded his arms over its back, looking the picture of relaxed, while I turned my back on him and worked at getting myself together.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Higginbotham only stopped by long enough to pu
t her casserole in the oven. She smothered Robert in another one of her hugs and organized for us all to have dinner the following night. She claimed she had to dash as she had her cousin coming to visit. If her grimace was any indication, she didn’t view it as an event to look forward to. Robert’s chuckle and wish of good luck confirmed my thoughts.
Despite her speedy exit, Robert and I decided to have a cup of tea anyway before we sat down to dinner.
“So you’ve obviously known Mrs. Higginbotham a long time,” I began, before pausing to take a sip of my tea. I hoped Robert would step in and satisfy my curiosity.
Robert hesitated, his smile disappearing, and I instantly regretted my observation.
“I might as well tell you. Truth be told, I’m amazed Higgy hasn’t already.” He tossed down what remained of his tea as if it were a shot of bourbon, then looked me straight in the eye. “In a nutshell, this was my grandmother’s house. I came to live with her when I was fourteen because my father kicked me out for being gay.”
“Oh my God, no!”
“I’m afraid, it’s oh my God, yes.”
“He never got over it?” I asked in shock.
Knowing how deeply I felt about Mitch’s boys, Ricky and Jared—and I was their uncle rather than their father—I couldn’t comprehend how any dad could kick his own son out. He’d have watched Robert’s mother’s belly swell with the proof of their love. He’d have held the infant, Robert, in his arms, witnessed him taking his first steps… watched him grow. Seen him head off for his first day of school. Maybe kicked a ball with him. Helped with homework. How? How, after all that and so much more, could he turn his back on his own flesh and blood? It was incomprehensible to me. My heart ached for the fear and rejection Robert must have felt as a fourteen-year-old boy. And I had to admit, I also couldn’t help wondering what my father would have done had he lived long enough for me to tell him. Would he have turned his back on me the way Robert’s had him? Would my mother have stood by and let him?