Page 13 of Darling
Let me be quite clear, though there’s some envy at not being the person waltzing out of his shower, I do not begrudge him it. He could—and should—fuck whomever he pleases whenever he pleases. This was exactly the line I took with Felix because Lordknows I couldn’t keep up with him. Felix had needed a lot of attention and a lot of sex, both of which were challenging for a forty-year-old closeted member of the British government.
In my office, I pour myself a large brandy and gulp a generous mouthful before taking a seat in the uncomfortable office chair. I could do some work. I likely should, given what’s been happening at the Capitol this week. Infighting between the president and his vice president, and everyone else having to pretend it wasn’t happening, like the children of dysfunctional parents in the middle of a messy divorce. Tomorrow’s meeting with the State Department was bound to be another omnishambles. I’ve begun to think that presidential assassinations are, essentially, a greater good, and I’d put a bullet in his head myself if I thought I’d get away with it. It would certainly be one way to tender my resignation.
I’m pouring myself a second drink when my mobile rings. It’s a number my device does not have saved as a contact, and so I debate letting it go to voicemail, but the need for a distraction has me pressing the answer button.
“Darling,” I say.
“It’s Asher,” he says. I hadn’t saved his number after his text about his painting, simply because I didn’t trust myself.
Then, in a slightly urgent voice, “Please don’t hang up.”
Slowly, glass in hand, I walk back to my desk. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Okay, good. That’s good.” He sounds relieved. “So, about what you saw earlier when you came over, which was so cool by the way, you coming over. I’m really glad you did that.”
“I should have called first.”
“Or texted back, yeah,” he concurs. “’Cause I don’t really do phone calls, you know?”
I frown at this. “You’re doing a phone call right now.”
“Yeah, but like, against my will, and because I know it’s what your generation prefers.”
I chuckle at this.
“So, let the record show that I’m trying here.”
“Why?”
“Because you ran off and I thought you’d just ignore me again if I texted,” he explains.
I didn’t run, but it would be immature to correct him. “I meant, why are you trying?” It comes out sounding piteous. “You aren’t struggling for company, and I’ve been, well, a little vague and difficult. Surely this isn’t worth your time?”
He’s quiet a long moment, as though he’s thinking very hard about his response. “Can I be honest?”
“I’d like that.” I sip my brandy.
“I actually don’t even like company,” he says. “I mean, unless we’re talking about my own. People, generally, are not really my thing.” I can sense he isn’t finished with this train of thought, so I let him go on. “I spent so many years around people, too many people, and I mean like, all the time, every minute of every hour of every day, I was around people. People who told me what to believe and how to think and what to do. So now I really like being alone. I fucking love it, actually.” He pauses, then takes a deep breath. “But there’s something about you, I don’t know, you’re relaxing to be around. Calming. A lot of people are so busy trying to interact with you or impress upon you, expecting you to be something or other. They all want to take something out of you, you know? It can be a little overwhelming. But it feels like you enjoy just existing, too. Like maybe you like being alone with yourself and your thoughts the same way I do. So I’ve been thinking that we could be alone, together, sometime. Because, like, it still gets a little lonely sometimes. You know?”
I process this, a little stunned. How completely this boyseems to see me. The deep parts of me that I keep well hidden from public view. Almost as though our deepest, most secret parts are the same shape and colour, when on the surface we couldn’t be more different. Stella knew me—all of me—and when she died, I buried a lot of myself with her. She’d want me to live, I know she would, authentically and truthfully. And each day I don’t somehow feels like a betrayal to her. What would she think of someone like Asher? Charmed, most likely, just as she’d have been charmed by Felix. Surprisingly, it’s with the sound of Stella’s voice in my head that I speak my next words.
“What are you doing this evening?”
When I turn up at his house for the second time that day, he’s expecting me.
I’m carrying a bottle of red wine and a smile, and he’s dressed in the most alluring outfit I’ve seen him in yet: a white chiffon top with short, frilled sleeves and a high neck. Loose, oversized black cargo pants that are belted at his small waist. His ears glitter with diamond stud earrings. He looks divine. I stare.
“You want some?” he asks, indicating the bottle. “Or were you just doing that thing people do by bringing it?”
“You don’t take wine when you go to someone’s house? It’s just polite, surely?”
“Honestly, I feel like my company is enough of a gift.”
I chuckle at this. “I agree. Well, I’ll have a very small glass, thank you.” I’d driven the car over, marvelling again at the sense of freedom I’m able to enjoy here. He moves off to pour us both a glass of the Bordeaux I’d swiped from the rack in the study.
From the kitchen, he says, “I ordered sushi, I hope that’s okay for you?”
“I love sushi.”