Page 25 of Silver Lining (London Love #6)

“We move this stuff downstairs and make it an office. Use the garage for entry. Plenty of space for both of you down there. Patio doors open.”

“If I have Phinneas here, I need to be able to hear him.”

“Hmm,” Jean scribbled. “There are modern contraptions for things like that.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“This living room is good. It actually is, and the kitchen is big enough. But yes, I see your point.” Dylan relaxed back on the sofa, picking up his tea.

It suddenly felt like he was a completely different person. One filled with a new strength. Backbone.

We made plans. We talked. We laughed. And then Jean went to bed, leaving us on the sofa. Dylan yawned.

“Do you want me to go?” I wouldn’t blame him if he did. This had been weird. Uncomfortable. Terrifying. All the scary adjectives bounced around my skull like bullets.

“Stewart,” he said calmly .

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted, sitting up straighter. “I have a lot of things I have to come to terms with.”

“Like what?” He shuffled closer.

“I’ve never had a relationship. With anyone. I don’t know how to behave, what is normal. And what I did… Was it too much? Was I overbearing?”

“I thought as much. You’ve never spoken of anyone. But no. Not overbearing. In a way, it was what I needed. A wake-up call. Knowing that…I matter.”

“My son is the most important person in my life.”

“My children are my number one priority.”

We both smiled. Truths. Honesty. Mutual understandings.

“You know,” he said, “you asked me a lot of questions. Personal ones that you felt you needed answers to. But I never asked you any back.”

“What do you want to know?” A sudden pang of fear in my stomach. I didn’t understand half of it myself.

“Why did you drink?”

God. He had to get straight in there, didn’t he ?

I swallowed.

“You don’t anymore, but there must have been a reason.”

“There isn’t always a reason,” I started, my cheeks flaming. “At least, not at first. I went to the pub. Sat around. Made friends with the other regulars. It became…a habit.”

“I can understand that.”

“I was young. Then suddenly, I wasn’t that young. And all the things that other men did—they had girlfriends, got married, had families—you know?”

“Yes.”

I had to swallow again. Everyone had issues. Huge ones. Life-changing trauma that caused their paths to implode. I wasn’t like that. My traumas were pathetic, trivial matters. Things I should have got over years ago.

“When you’re young, things become big. Small things blow up in your face, and then you can’t seem to overcome them.

And I think that’s what it became for me.

Instead of dealing with who I was and my strengths and my limitations, I drank.

It was just easier. Numbed out everything.

Drinking can become a good, palpable excuse for anything and everything.

I couldn’t go out because I was hungover.

I couldn’t come to events because I had other events.

I’d promised to meet people down the pub.

Had a match to watch. Things like that. And when I wasn’t down the pub drinking, I worked. ”

“It happens. I’ve seen it happen to colleagues. Well-educated people in law who can’t get through the week without a constant flow of drinks. Drugs. People cope in different ways.”

“I coped. I was a very well-functioning alcoholic, actually. Never late, never drunk on the job. Very responsible. Not a single DUI, ever. I wasn’t a twat.”

That made him laugh.

“But you were no saint either?”

Now I laughed.

“I have only slept with one woman in my entire life.”

That made him sit back, his mouth gulping air.

“The one you mentioned?”

“One,” I repeated. “Yes. Like I told you. Reuben’s mother.

She was a prostitute. It’s taken me many years to be able to even acknowledge that out loud.

She was the first one I went to. And the last. And in between those visits, I drained my bank account and lost all my confidence.

Because I was not worth anything to her, and she was everything to me.

I was just a child. A stupid, immature child. ”

“Stewart.”

“And I couldn’t talk to girls. Not normal girls.

I couldn’t find one I even wanted to talk to.

I couldn’t find anyone I was attracted to, and it became so normal for me to not be attracted.

To not have someone. To not flirt. To just be me, and I hated it.

I saw how everyone else behaved and how everyone else found it so easy.

They flirted and smiled, and then they were making out, and I was just standing there with an iron rod up my backside.

It was easier just to order another pint. ”

I slumped back on his leather sofa, an empty teacup in my hand. I was clutching it, nursing it like I had a drink. And I felt small. A fool. A ridiculous specimen of a man who, at the age of fifty-eight, couldn’t even admit that he was… probably…

“So maybe you’ve never actually been completely straight,” he said, like he’d understood every confused thought in my brain. “Maybe you were just…”

“In the closet?” If my cheeks could flame any more, I’d be on fire.

“We had sex. You and me. Last night. ”

Yes. Like I’d forgotten.

“I don’t think you’re straight.”

I spluttered out an embarrassed laugh as he shuffled around, talking with his hands. That was new. I liked it.

“I don’t think I am either. But that’s really not important here. You drank because it was easier. Because it masked all those other things you were struggling to deal with. And then you found your son.”

“I did. And I still drank. It took a few years to get my head around the fact that I couldn’t sit there and down pints and watch as my son ruined his life—whilst I ruined mine.”

“Good.”

“Yes. It was good to realise that.”

“And now we are sat here with empty cups and my PA sleeping upstairs because I can’t even manage the weekend without her, and what am I supposed to do with you?”

He said it in kindness. It made me smile.

“Maybe you can…give me a hug? ”

“Oh, Stewart,” he said, and then he crawled into my arms. He still smelled terrible, but he smiled gently against my neck and let me hold him. Let me slowly settle down, my heart beating against his.

“Can I stay?” I begged. I hadn’t meant to, but it seemed I couldn’t control my words anymore. My wants. My needs.

“I was hoping you would. The sheets downstairs are still clean.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Sorry about today. I just got wound up, didn’t know if I was still wanted, you know, with your family back and all that.”

“You’re wanted,” I said. God, he was. Wanted and needed, far more than I could put into words.

“You are too.”

His voice. I loved his voice. The way he felt against me.

Safe. I was safe. And funnily enough, I thought that maybe I was exactly where I was meant to be.