Page 14 of Someone Like You

Ian would have certainly preferred an espresso, but Phil was banned from using Abby’s moka , because the first time he’d been near one Abby’s aunt Bruna had caught him washing it with soap and apparently for Italians that was a capital sin that fell just below murder and pineapple on pizza.

Phil had his own American coffee machine: for once Ian would have to stoop to drinking ‘muddy water’ .

He filled up a mug and pushed it to Ian, who was clearly refraining from grimacing the same way Phil had grimaced at his first espresso in La Dolce Vita .

“You sure you don’t want some sugar or milk?”

“Positive.”

“Guess you don’t get to look like that eating sugar, huh?”

Ian must have detected the hue of bitterness in Phil’s words, because he said: “You add more protein into your diet and you’re a step closer to lookin’ like this.”

Protein was the last of Phil’s problems. It was the vacuum in his soul that had devoured all the willpower that had kept him in flawless shape since his twenties.

He was doing the bare minimum, just because low-intensity workouts were part of his recovery therapy, but his figure was very far from its former glory .

He filled up a mug for himself, avoiding the sugar. “It’s too late to salvage this wreck.”

Ian took a long swig of his coffee, kept it in his mouth for a moment, watching Phil with slightly narrowed eyes, then swallowed.

“Quite attractive for a wreck.”

Phil scoffed, but quickly realised Ian wasn’t just teasing as usual.

“You mean it,” he marvelled.

“’Course I mean it, ya dick.” Ian’s stern stare left very little room for doubt.

“You find me attractive.”

“I’m sure a lot of folk do. It’s not exactly hard to believe.”

It was , at least according to Phil’s rationality. His dry mouth, on the other hand, begged to differ. He was flattered. This and the look from before were just stroking his starved ego.

The pancakes preparation provided a welcome distraction. Phil sensed Ian’s stare as he cut down some mango to throw into his Greek yoghurt bowl; a couple of the pancakes nearly burned, but, aside from that, for being his first cooked meal in forever, the result wasn’t bad.

“See? Protein,” he said, pointing at the bowl. He offered some to Ian, who gladly accepted. Phil was absolutely indifferent to the white smudge the yoghurt left on Ian’s moustache, so much so he didn’t avoid looking at him until he wiped his mouth.

Ian occupied an awful lot of room. The kitchen, a spacious one for British standards, had shrunk to the size of a cubicle the moment he’d entered it and, though there was the whole width of the counter dividing them, Phil felt very much like they were pressed together like they’d been that time at the café, only not side to side, but in front of one another, without a safe nothing to stare into.

Because if Phil looked up from his plate, there was a six-foot-five colossus occupying the entirety of his view.

It was like he couldn’t breathe properly, as though Ian’s bulk wasn’t just taking up all the space, but also all the air.

And yet it felt oddly… familiar. Just sitting together in silence, companionably, comfortably , like old friends.

Except they’d known each other for just a few weeks and Phil had never been so at ease with people he’d known for years, if not decades.

With Ian, he felt like he didn’t need to adapt his natural behaviour to fit in.

Ian got him and, above anything else, Ian respected him — his true self, not the charming persona Phil had fabricated to deal with the world.

It was surreal — the second surreal event of the day. And it wasn’t even 8 AM.

Phil made a lame attempt to strike up a conversation by asking Ian what he was up to for the day, but Ian’s brief, flat answers didn’t leave much room for small talk, which Phil had never been fond of anyway.

He was simply trained to fill silences, because experience had taught him that people preferred meaningless jabbering to a silence they didn’t know what to do with.

Phil happened to enjoy silence. It was refreshing to be with someone who shared his aversion for prattle

“There’s Celtic versus Real Madrid tonight,” Ian began at some point. The plates and the mugs were empty, 9 AM was ticking closer. “I’m going down the pub to watch it. Fancy joining?”

The only sports Phil occasionally followed were basketball and rugby, and sometimes wrestling, and he wasn’t big on any of those.

“I have zero interest in soccer,” he admitted, “but why not? Abby’s a very passionate Celtic fan, I’d have probably watched the match with her if she’d been home.”

“Knew that woman was special.”

“She is. Just a bit apprehensive.”

Just saying that made him feel childish and ungrateful.

Apprehension was the lesser evil when people found out you were depressed, after all.

The worst was when they believed everything going on with you was bullshit.

Phil’s own father had chosen none other than Christmas lunch to inform Phil that having a son who required psychological therapy was an embarrassment.

The exact words had been: ‘What kind of pansy needs a shrink to deal with his own shit? Grow some balls and walk it off like a real man!’ At which Abby had set her cutlery down, wiped her mouth, and amiably told Mr Philip Hanson Senior that he could stick his bigotry up his arse.

Then she’d dragged Phil out of his parents’ house for the last time in his life, and neither of them had looked back since.

He told the story to Ian, so that he could understand just how truly special Abby was.

“She’s a literal angel. There’s just no way to convince her that solitude doesn’t bother me. The contrary, in fact.”

Ian swirled around the puddle of coffee remaining at the bottom of his mug.

“I assume it’s a bit unsettling for her.

” His deep, grazing voice trickled down Phil’s spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“You had a buzzing social life with her, and now you don’t leave the house…

I reckon what she sees is a man who’s lost something…

” A knowing gaze pierced Phil. “Not one who’s trying to get something back. ”

Phil’s jaw fell slack. He, a seasoned novelist, had never been able to spell that out so concisely and efficiently.

Ever since meeting Abby, his life had taken off and he hadn’t realised how draining it had been to try and keep up with it until he’d hit rock bottom.

To Abby, the point of recovery was to get back to how it was before the burnout; Phil had different aspirations: after recovering, he was hoping to return to how it was before the cause of the burnout, before that chapter of his life that most people would’ve called glamorous .

Ian was right.

Ian had been right since the day he’d told Phil he should move on rather than try to go back.

* * *

That night, Ian showed up at Phil’s doorstep at 7 in a sinfully tight t-shirt in green and white stripes that made his chest look even larger than usual.

Phil cocked an eyebrow at it. “Couldn’t find a comfier size?”

“It was a comfier size,” Ian countered. “Twenty years ago.”

It was hard to envision Ian as a seventeen-year-old boy, shorter and smaller, maybe a bit lanky — nothing like the handsome devil he was now.

Had he ever looked naive or had he always had that cocky aura?

What did those dimples look like without a beard?

It was less than half a mile from the flat to the pub and, while they walked there, Phil’s imagination kept straying back to a younger Ian and what he must’ve been like.

“There’s pictures,” said Ian out of nowhere as they turned the corner onto Crow Road. “For the right price.”

So Ian was a mind reader now. Phil was tempted to play dumb, but Ian was too smart to buy it, so he asked instead: “What did you look like when you bought that shirt?”

“Tiny. One-eighty soaking wet, if I was lucky. Long blond hair. Still dashingly handsome, obviously.”

“Surely not as modest as you are now. Wait, did you just say blond ?”

“Aye.” Ian’s hair was so dark it was close to black. It was hard to imagine it blond . “Not sure what happened.” He paused, then asked: “What were you like?”

“Twenty years ago or as a teenager?” There was a significant difference. An eight-year gap didn’t seem much now, but Phil was already an adult when Ian wasn’t even of age.

“As a teen.”

“Ah.” Phil scratched the back of his neck. “I guess you could describe me as a scrawny Eminem wannabe. Quite pathetic, to be honest.”

Ian stuffed his hands in his jacket’s pockets with a lenient shrug. “Weren’t we all at that age?”

“I’ll believe you ever looked pathetic when I see those photos.”

“ Lookin’ pathetic and feelin’ pathetic isn’t the same.”

Unarguably true. It made Phil feel better to be reminded that looks didn’t always reflect how one felt inside.

“There it is.” Ian pointed at an old-fashioned pub at the end of the street. Big golden letters on a dark green wooden background spelled The Smiddy . Before pushing the door, Ian turned to Phil: “You sure about this?”

“I’ve been to a pub before, you know? ”

“I’ve had a wisdom tooth removed before, doesn’t mean I liked it.”

Phil felt a smile bubble up from deep in his chest. This was why he was here: to chase this feeling, the peculiar thrill he felt whenever this guy outwitted him and made that smug face Phil was trying so hard not to grin at now.

He gave Ian a shove. “Shut that pie hole and buy me a drink.”

It was already crowded inside, a muffled chatter saturating the air.

Every table was taken, every stool at the counter occupied; many patrons already had one or more empty glasses in front of them.

Ian greeted several people on the way to the counter; the barman waved at him, gesturing him to approach.

“Thought ye weren’t goin’ to show, Galloway! Everyone else is at the match.”