Page 20

“Okay.” She looks at me. “I am still waiting for the ‘but’.”

“He is my type,” I admit quietly. “My real type. Like Emil was my type.”

“Aden,” she says. “I know Emil left you burnt. He was a problem, not because he was your type but because he was Emil. If you go into every potential relationship with the thought of the guy being like Emil, then how is that fair? So, let me guess. You said he might be your type: melancholic, sassy, direct, maybe a bit loud?”

I nod.

“A lot of people are like that. It’s not like all of them are like Emil. It just so happened that Emil was one of them, not the other way round.”

“I know,” I say. “Fuck, I know. Which is why I gave him my number.”

“Who is it?” she asks curiously. “Do I know them?”

“Yes, and no.” I sigh. “You will have a field day with this, once I tell you.”

“Now I am even more curious.”

“He is the model from Sterling’s paintings.”

Her mouth drops open while she stares at me, dumbfounded, then she bursts into laughter. “I can’t fucking believe it. How small is the world! This has to be fate, Aden!”

“Is it not weird?”

“Absolutely, it’s fucking weird, but it’s so you. The universe is giving you a sign, obviously.”

“You don’t believe in fate,” I chuckle.

“I do,” she says. “When it’s convenient. And now it is! You are not going to shoot him down now that he messaged you, are you?”

“I won’t, which is why I told you.” I scrunch my nose. “If I want to run, you need to stop me from going anywhere without giving it a real shot.”

She smiles. “Get to know him, Aden. You deserve someone at your side, someone you can love and someone who loves you.”

seven

*NOEL*

Ican’t fucking believe that I did it. I wrote Aden Randall the most unoriginal, pathetic message. What’s even more of a mindfuck is that he replied. It’s funny because he writes exactly the way he talks, exactly how I’d imagine him to. Polite, in full sentences and with perfect grammar. He doesn’t use any emojis or GIFs either, but he hearted my silly football GIF, so I guess that’s something.

“A friend’s going to drop by, Cal,” I tell my co-worker, while we prepare the glasses we will need later.

“Here?” Cal asks.

“Yeah.”

“Why would anyone come here?” he queries.

He isn’t wrong. I don’t even let Ster or Mateo come. They only dropped by once to see how I was doing, obviously hated it butdidn’t want to butt into my business too much. We set the rule that they are allowed to complain about where I work and live, but aren’t allowed to come and visit.

“Because I invited them.”

“And why would you do that?”

“I want him to see where I am working and what I am doing,” I say. “Maybe that’s pathetic, but the earlier he sees the better.”

Cal looks at me thoughtfully. He is a young guy, younger than me, and equally trying to pay off a debt. “It’sthatkind of visitor,” he mutters.

“What do you mean?”