Page 54 of Darling

An hour later, he still hasn’t returned. He hadn’t taken his wallet or any of his things, but I don’t see his car keys anywhere in the room. Is he planning to sleep in his car? Where else would he go? I suppose he could know people in the city; he used to live in New York.

Christ, why hadn’t I gone after him? I don’t know this city at all, so it’s not like I’d even know where to start looking for him if I went now. Just as I’m wondering, insanely, if I could have Seema and the CIA find him, there’s a knock on the door to the suite. I rush to open it, finding him there with a brown paper bag with ‘Trader Joes’ printed on the side.

He flashes me a look which is half-apologetic, half-embarrassed. “Forgot the keycard.” Inside the room, he sets his keys down and takes a seat on the small couch. “Sorry, I just needed a minute… and some snacks.” The bag makes a thump as he sets it down on the table. He neededa lotof snacks by the looks of it. I hover nearby as he begins pulling things out of the bag and setting them on the coffee table. He reads what appears to be the nutritional information on each item before placing it down.

“Asher, can we talk.”

“Sure,” he says cheerily. “If you want.”

I take a seat in one of the armchairs opposite, watching as he continues organising his snacks after assessing each one individually. He looks to be sorting them into sweet and savoury piles with all the focus of a ballot counter at an election.

“Look at me, darling.”

Some tremor moves over him, eyelids flutteringimperceptibly, before he lifts his head.

I give him a tender smile, and his expression softens beautifully. Christ, I want to go to him, wrap my arms around him, promise him things I can’t give him. Things I find that I want, desperately, to give to him. He inspires in me these kinds of things, things no one but Stella ever did: protection, contentment, unity. I push them from my mind because it’s more important right now that I fix what I messed up earlier.

“I’m sorry,” I begin.

“For what? You haven’t led me on. You’ve been real fucking clear since minute one about what this is and what it isn’t. Everything else is on me.” It has the conviction of a mantra, as though perhaps he’s been repeating it over and over to himself for the last hour.

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” I say. “For how I said it. It was fuelled by grief. Something, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m sick to the back teeth of. But the point is, I know why I’m here, and why you’re here—you’ve been very clear with me, too—and I tried to make you feel ashamed of that because, well, I suppose that’s how I feel.”

His eyes round with hurt again. “You’reashamedof being here with me?”

“No. No, not that. I’m ashamed of… myself, of the way I manage things, or don’t manage things.”

“Because you’re in the closet?”

I rub a hand over my face, skin prickling. “Yes, I suppose it’s that. But it’s more than that. It’s… as though every other part of my life is the closet, as though I’m hidingthere, and that this, here, with you, is the real me.” I stare into his eyes. Wide and blue as an unexplored ocean. “Would you believe me if I told you that when I’m with you, it feels—I feel—more like myself than I do anywhere else?”

He bites back a smile, as though he’s trying to stop his happiness from spilling out. “Really?”

“Very much.”

It spills out, and his mouth turns up into a wide smile. “Okay,” he says. I take hold of his hand and begin to smooth my fingers over each of his.

“I think you’re so very special, Asher. Remarkable, actually. Not desperate, and certainly not easy, and I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like that.”

“You haven’t,” he says quickly. “Never.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” I lift his hand to my lips and press a kiss over his talented fingers. The redolent scent of chocolate floods my nose. “So you snack when you’re emotional—good to know.”

“Is it?” His voice is taut, a little breathless.

I tug on his hand, urging him up off the couch and toward me. “Mmhm. Come here.”

He allows himself to be pulled gently onto my lap, where he settles neatly, arms looping behind my head. He stares down into my eyes, almost shy as a smile peeks out from his mouth.

“Sorry I stormed out,” he says quietly.

I shake my head. “There’s no need to apologise. You wanted to defuse the situation, and you did.”

“I also wanted snacks.”

I peek around him at the mountain of them. “Yes, a truckload of them.”

“My decision-making isn’t at its best when I’m emotional.”