Page 10 of Someone Like You

Ian didn’t know , nor could he imagine what it must be like. All he knew was that it sounded awful.

“How long is the treatment supposed to last?”

“Until I feel better. So maybe forever.” Phil exhaled a colourless laugh. “What’s the point of being alive if the only thing keeping me going is a stupid pill?”

“A stupid Phil ,” Ian corrected. “It was a good one,” he protested when the object of the pun pierced him with a scowl that may or may not be tainted by a trace of mirth.

“You could’ve gone down the easy route,” he insisted.

“Instead you chose to fight. You , not the pills. The pills do their job because every morning you wake up and choose them over giving up. Quit being such a cunt to yourself. ”

Phil laughed — heartily, this time. “Getting my ass handed to me by a surly Scot wasn’t on my bucket list.”

“Get used to it.” Ian made a pause, then remembered what had sparked the debate in the first place. “Give it a bash — the laptop thing. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Nothing, I guess. I’m just really good at finding excuses not to try new things.”

“What happened to getting out of your comfort zone?”

“Smartass,” Phil huffed before cowardly hiding behind his coffee.

“So, this dinner...” Ian slumped back in his armchair and crossed his arms. “Do I need to dress up? Bring anything?”

“Dress however you like and bring…” Phil made a vague gesture. “I don’t know… Dessert?”

“Hm.” Ian would have to ask Sandra to bake him a cake. He wasn’t a great cook.

“Any allergies I should be aware of?”

“Just idiots,” Ian deadpanned.

Phil pursed his lips, nodding sympathetically. “Autoimmune diseases are the worst.”

Ian had a hard time fighting back a snicker. This guy never missed a beat.

They both managed to keep a straight face, but the laughter was right there, in the smug look they shared. A look that was longer and way more intense than necessary.

Ian had the unpleasant feeling that something was slipping out of his hands one inch at a time — something he should be holding on to but couldn’t.

He didn’t want to give it a name, didn’t even want to think about it, but he felt it, the pull of Phil’s gravity drawing him in, towards this man who walked with his personal hell in his pockets and still managed to effortlessly keep up with shameless teasing and quick-witted jests.

“You’re a clever bastard, Phil, I’ll give you that.”.

“Takes one to know one.” Phil held out his cup mid-air; Ian half-heartedly clinked his own against it .

Phil had this glint in his eyes, a light that hadn’t been there the first time they had met. It made him look younger. Stronger .

It made the flare in Ian’s chest warmer.

* * *

He didn’t know how he was supposed to dress for an informal dinner.

Most of his wardrobe was occupied by cheap workwear and workout clothes.

He found a blue pullover that seemed decent and threw it on the bed with his newest pair of jeans and a leather jacket which he hoped didn’t make him come across as aggressive.

He was nervous and couldn’t understand why. Everything was in check: he was as polished as he could get, had the tiramisu Sandra had kindly made for him, and a nice composition of flowers for Abigail.

The West End address he punched into his phone led him to an elegant residential area Ian couldn’t have afforded if he worked around the clock.

He was lucky enough to find a parking spot right in front of number 9 of Fairlie Park Drive at 7 PM sharp.

The place had a brand new Georgian door painted dark green and plump hydrangea bushes filling the flowerbeds at the sides of it; the glossy brass plaque on the wall read: ‘A. Carswell, P. J. Hanson’ .

Ian rang. Seconds later, the door nearly burst open.

“Ian! It’s so lovely to finally meet you! I’m Abby!”

A step back was required for Ian to be able to look the woman in the eye as she shook his hand with a staggeringly powerful grip. She was exactly how Phil had described her: petite, beautiful, and blooming with life.

“Wow.” Bright dark eyes examined Ian head to toe. “Phil wasn’t kidding when he said you’re a unit .”

Ian had never been this close to blushing. He blamed it on Abigail’s candid honesty taking him aback. A unit . Very pleased with himself, he wondered if those had been Phil’s textual words.

He handed Abigail the flowers. She was so small that for a second she disappeared completely behind them .

“Oh, they’re beautiful!” She beamed up at him. “You didn’t have to! Come on in!”

A small hand beckoned Ian inside, to a mouth-watering smell that swept away any remaining doubt about this invitation. Good food was always an unregrettable choice.

“I was starting to think you didn’t exist!” said Abigail as she briskly led the way to the kitchen. Phil was by the sink; he turned around when he heard them walk in, the white t-shirt stretching across the wide shoulders. A lopsided smirk stretched his lips.

“Where are my flowers?”

“My bad. I’ll remember next time.” Ian placed the bag with the dessert on the island. “This one needs to go in the fridge.”

Abigail pulled a vase from a cabinet and padded out of the room. “Phil, offer him a drink while I find a place for these gorgeous flowers!”

Phil popped the tiramisu into the fridge. He looked good in his casual clothes and his hair neatly slicked back, but not better than he did with a hoodie and messy hair. After folding the plastic bag with millimetric precision, he cast Ian a gleeful look.

“You clean up nice.”

“I know.”

“Son of a bitch,” Phil tittered under his breath.

“You, too,” Ian noted. “Clean up nice.”

It was a shameless understatement.

Phil’s beard, which had been unkempt since they’d met, was finely trimmed, short enough to reveal the pale skin beneath and a sharp jawline. His hair was shorter, too, with an undercut that suited his fine features. If he was attractive before, now he looked straight-up dashing.

Ian gulped, but his mouth was dry. The kitchen was hot and way too small for his taste. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it on the back of the closest chair, pushing the pullover’s sleeves up to his elbows. It didn’t do much.

“Yeah, it’s a little too hot in here.” Phil went to open the window above the sink. “Want something fresh? Wine? Beer? ”

“Water.”

Phil looked gobsmacked, but still got Ian the water he’d asked for. He even threw a couple of ice cubes and a slice of lemon in it.

“Show-off.”

“Peasant.”

Ian took the glass from Phil’s hand but forgot about it the moment he met Phil’s gaze.

The softness in it caused his brain to short-circuit.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. A raw want punched him, filling him with an unsettling mix of euphoria and sadness.

He had to set the glass down, afraid he might crush it for how tightly he was holding it, but kept his hand around it, because he didn’t trust himself to leave his hands unoccupied.

Phil was too close, and his closeness too tempting .

“What a sight for sore eyes!”

Ian and Phil jumped. Abigail was on the doorway, wearing a giant smile, and suddenly they weren’t close any more, but three feet apart and staring at the ground.

Fortunately, Abigail’s contagious liveliness wiped away the lingering tension in less than a second.

The oven bleeped and she rushed to it to take out a fragrant casserole of lasagne that could have fed a family of six.

“I hope you’re hungry, Ian, because there’s a no leftovers policy in this house.” Abigail exchanged a glance with Phil.

“If I wasn’t hungry before, I sure as hell am now.”

They moved to a small dining room where the table was already set.

A sample of the flowers Ian had brought sat in a crystal vase at the centre of it, along with a couple of bottles of wine, a bottle of Pepsi, and a jug of water.

Save for restaurants, Ian had never sat at a table with real linen, let alone with floral decoration.

“We don’t eat like this, normally,” Phil conveyed, reading right through him. “Someone’s middle name is Overkill .”

Abigail laid down the casserole and stood back with her hands on her hips to admire the general presentation. “It’s just nice to be a wee bit fancy sometimes. We don’t have guests every day.”

Her tone was breezy, but it put a heavy hunch in Phil’s back as he sat himself down .

The dinner was as pleasant as the food was good, and the company was even better. Abigail was a formidable woman, sunny and bristling with energy, and unapologetically proud of her successful career in the world of finance.

“I was only twenty-five when I was transferred to Chicago. It’s good to be home.

” She stretched out a hand at her side to lay it on top of Phil’s.

The pea-sized diamond shining on her finger put a bitter taste in Ian’s mouth.

“My only issue is the trips out of town, but knowing Phil can hang out with you if he feels lonely is such a relief!”

“Phil doesn’t feel lonely ,” Phil gritted through his teeth, but half of the comment got swallowed by a phone going off somewhere in the flat.

“You know what I meant,” said Abigail, pressing a kiss to his cheek before shuffling out of the room.

Ian cleared his throat. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

Phil sighed, facing the other way. Half of his food, which had been a meagre portion to begin with, was still on the plate, untouched.

“So we’ll be hanging out while she’s away?” Ian pressed on sardonically. “Remind me again what our plans are? I must’ve forgotten.”

Phil shot him a sideway glare. “It’s just a little white lie to let her get on with her life.”

“I don’t like lies.”

“Yeah, neither do I,” Phil snapped, then his voice dropped to a contrite murmur. “I just don’t want her to fret every time she has to leave because she thinks I’ll be rotting in bed or worse.”

“Is that a legitimate concern?”