Page 24 of A Wistful Symphony

“I knew I could count on you.” An optimistic smile takes over Astro’s heavily pierced face. “You’re a good guy, Eric.”

“Yeah, and that’s my curse.” I sigh as we approach the front of the cottage.

A few weeks have passed, and our sunset encounters have fallen into a pleasurable routine.

You pick me up at school and we talk about various subjects—mostly music, since it’s our special interest—as you walk me home.

Always through the scenic route. I even considered not taking my bike to school altogether to make our walks easier, but a hint of pride never let me.

It’s easier to pretend I’m always surprised to see you.

Aside from our walks, we’ve shared a few dates: The Royal Oak again, the cafe near school, and the local park, where we found a spot secluded enough to risk some shameless snogging.

Always neutral ground. More times than not, I’ve thought about inviting you to my home.

The words never left my mouth, though. This thing between us is new and overwhelming, and I don’t think I can put my family into the equation just yet.

You never question it anyway, which I’m most thankful for.

One afternoon, however, you surprise me with an inquiry. “Would you like to come to my place this Saturday?”

“Huh?” I feign poor hearing to cover my hesitation.

“It’s just a tiny one-bedroom, and it’s probably a mess. No worries, I’ll get it tidy,” you hasten to add, curling your fingers in front of your stomach. “But it’s quiet, and we could, you know, have dinner and some alone time. But if you don’t want to, it’s—”

“I’d love to,” I say, cutting you off.

Your grin grows wide. “I’m terrible at cooking, but I can order some takeaway. Italian, right? You said you liked it on our first date.”

I chuckle at your nervousness and smile. “Sounds lovely.”

The freaking out part hits later that evening.

You invited me to have dinner at your flat.

Just the two of us. Alone. I’m not so oblivious as to not know what that means.

It’s not the possibility of sex that scares me—alright, that too—but how being this intimate with you will make me feel.

Sometimes I can’t control my reactions to intrusive thoughts, and, unlike your poor previous experience, I want this to go well.

Hell, I want it to be perfect. You deserve it.

On Saturday afternoon, I take the longest shower of my life, put on the most premeditated casual outfit and tell Mum not to wait up.

The statement makes her soft eyes widen, and though I sense the mother in her wants to protest, so far she’s been nothing but supportive of our relationship of sorts.

She smiles at last and warns me to call if I decide to spend the night.

At the door, Nan Olympia smuggles a bottle of wine into my hand and winks, saying she wouldn’t let her grandson show up for the first time at his boyfriend’s home empty-handed. I titter and say thanks.

Your place is far from the cottage. The countryside treelines and meadows are rarer on this side of town, giving room to rows of modest shops, small buildings and a caravan park.

I haven’t been around these parts much, but it’s blatant how different this street looks compared to your old address.

A daunting transition, if ever there was one.

I arrive at the three-story complex ten minutes ahead of schedule.

Plain grey triplet buildings surround a poorly maintained grassy area.

Two old men sit on a bench chatting and smoking, and a group of kids run around kicking a ball as a shabby lady yells at them to come in for dinner.

I let out a long exhale and walk up the stairs.

Right after the bell buzzes, a cadence of rushed steps pounds towards the door.

“Hey, you’re a little early,” you pant. “Come in. Takeaway should be here any minute. Sorry about the place. There’s not much to see.”

“Don’t worry. My place is far from luxurious.”

“Still.” You throw me a timid shrug. “I didn’t have time to make it comfy yet.”

On the other side of the door, everything is unsettlingly bare.

The walls are cream-coloured, both in the sitting room and kitchen, visible behind a single counter.

There’s a patterned sofa, a wooden coffee table, a bookshelf with a few lone titles, a two-seat dining table, and that’s it.

No decor, no picture frames, no plants, nothing that would remotely make me think of you.

You didn’t have the time. Sure.

Your voice wakes me from my thoughts. “What’s that in your hand?”

“Oh, it’s just wine. From my grandma’s collection.”

“That’s nice. Does it harmonise with pasta?”

“I have no fucking clue.”

We both chuckle.

“Okay, let’s hope for the best.” You take the bottle from my hand and put it away. “Have a seat. What do you want to do? Sorry, I don’t own a TV or games.” You rest by my side on the sofa and grimace. “Jeez, I’m such a terrible host.”

“Calm down, Andrew, it’s alright. I’m sure we can find plenty of ways to entertain ourselves.”

One corner of your mouth curls and you draw closer, our movement as natural as a dance, until our lips touch. I dive gentle fingers into your golden waves, and the palm you rest on my chest slides to my hip as our kiss grows eager.

Your weight urges me to lie down, and I offer no resistance. The warmth of your body over mine makes my flesh tingle in places I would not like to so soon, but it’s no use. Especially when your curious fingers find the heated skin under my T-shirt.

A strong buzz startles us.

“I mentioned ordering takeaway, didn’t I?” you whisper near my lips.

“Yes, I believe you did.”

You hide your face in the crook of my neck and we both laugh.

“Okay, let me get this real quick.”

I comb a hand through my dishevelled hair and hastily try to undo the wrinkles you left on my T-shirt to prevent the perfection thoughts from sinking in. You come back with a large package that makes me rather curious and rest it on the table next to the wine.

“Food is here.” You flash an excited grin that suddenly fades. “Sorry, do you want to eat? Are you even hungry?”

“Famished.” I lie with a bit of disappointment. You must know food is the last thing on my mind right now.

Setting the table is fairly easy since you own a single pair of plates and cutlery. I hide a delighted grin when you place our seats at the corners of the table, so we’re closer to each other. There are no wine glasses, only regular ones, but I don’t mind. It won’t make it any less special.

“Shoot, I don’t have a corkscrew,” you say.

“No problem. Nan taught me a trick.” I take a lighter from my jacket pocket and hold the flame against the neck of the bottle until the heat forces the cork out enough to be pulled. “ Voilà ,” I announce with a victorious smirk.

“Such a resourceful guy.” You titter while pouring the wine without spilling a drop. After unwrapping the steaming foil lids, you reveal three sets of dishes. “There’s ravioli with pesto sauce, spaghetti carbonara and pappardelle bolognese. What would you prefer?”

I hold in a laugh. “Christ, Andrew, are we having dinner or are you trying to fatten me up for slaughter?”

“What? Is it weird that I want to pamper my boyfriend?”

The last word wraps itself like a warm blanket around my chest, and the largest of smiles blossoms on my lips.

“Boyfriend?” I repeat, not sure if I caught it right.

Your cheeks blush in the most adorable rosy shade. “After all this time, I thought it was implied.”

“That’s one of those things that needs to be spelled out, you know?”

“Noted.” You glance down and tuck a coy lock of hair behind your ear. “Uh, which one?”

“A bit of all three, I guess.”

You serve me and take a portion of spaghetti for yourself. There’s no way I could eat everything, but I try my best. You spent your meagre savings on such a hearty meal and I refuse to be ungrateful to my boyfriend.

Boyfriend. The word stretches like caramel taffy in my thoughts.

“How do you like it?” you ask.

“It’s delicious. But the ravioli, especially, is excellent.”

“Good to know.” Your proud smile grows wider.

“Seriously, there was this restaurant back in London that made the best ravioli ever, and I never found one quite like it after we moved.” I take another bite. “This is it.”

“So you’re indeed a Londoner.” You rest your chin on one palm. “Your accent is a bit mixed, so I wasn’t sure. Why did you leave?”

“Nothing special.” I avoid your gaze, since this is still a hard topic for me. “My parents divorced, and it was too expensive for Mum to support us on her own, so we moved in with Nan.”

“Do you still keep in touch with your dad?”

“Not really, no.”

“Why is that?”

I sigh in frustration. “It’s not a date-worthy story, Andrew. I don’t want to kill the mood.”

“Okay.” You look down, rolling your spaghetti longer than necessary. “Is it just your mum, sister and grandma at your place?”

“At first. Then Aunt Petra became a widow and moved in with Zoe, so now there’s six of us cramped in a tiny cottage.”

Your eyes widen, and you chuckle. “Must be fun to have a large family.”

“Not really.” I grimace. “It’s loud and messy, and I can’t get a second of peace.” Realising how it may sound to someone who just lost his family, I bite my tongue. “Has its upsides, for sure. It must be different from what you’re used to.”

“Yes and no.” You rub your cheek with the back of your fingers.

“I’m an only child, but my cousins used to stay at the house every Christmas.

It was a mess.” A silent laugh escapes your nose.

“They weren’t too fond of me. I was picked on for being quiet and weird and all.

Dad said I should turn the other cheek, but it only made things worse.

Especially when they found out I’m autistic. ”

The merry expression leaves your face, and you remain still.

“You don’t have to tell me about this,” I say.