Page 25 of Someone Like You

PHIL

W hen Phil was little, he had been obsessed with stories where unattractive or scary characters met someone who could see through their appearance and love them for who they were.

Odd fascination for a child who’d always been good-looking, so much so that everyone had just assumed he had some sort of saviour complex that made him identify with the hero who rescued the monster.

In truth, the more he grew up, the more he felt like he had the opposite problem: people liked him for how he looked and more often than not ended up disliking his personality.

He’d learned at a very young age to be the person that strangers expected to find beneath his looks: confident, charismatic, easy to be around and talk to.

What people couldn’t see was how hard it was for Phil to be that person.

It was like walking around with a one-hundred-pound weight around his neck: he was strong enough to do it, but after a few days the collapse was inevitable.

The longer he carried that weight, the longer it took to recover, and it was getting harder as he aged.

That was what had happened when he’d become a bestselling author practically overnight.

The jump from Mr Nobody to some kind of celebrity had knocked him off his chair at home, throwing him into a flurry of signing sessions, interviews, and public events, and Phil hadn’t been the same since.

Meeting Abby had been providential: she’d sustained him in the most stressful periods, held his hand when he’d struggled with the speed and the franticness of his new life, and had showered him with all the unconditional love Phil had never received from his parents.

An angel, that was what Abby was, and Phil would be forever blessed to have her.

Sometimes, however, it was hard to keep up with her.

Abby felt and lived things in ways Phil wasn’t capable of, even before the burnout and the medication.

They were like a bird and a fish: engineered differently, living in different worlds, swimming along the water surface to be together.

It didn’t feel like that with Ian.

Ian was like Phil, an underwater creature, a solitary spirit thriving in the dark peace of deep waters, happy in his own company, free to be himself without justifying it to anyone.

Phil envied him. Freedom was a luxury not many people had.

Phil wasn’t so hypocritical to consider himself a victim in society: he had wealth, a healthy body, a safe, cosy home to return to at the end of the day, a fiancée who loved him and accepted him for who he was.

He was lucky. He just had no idea it was possible to feel so physically and emotionally in tune with someone until he started flirting with a stranger he’d run into at the park.

Only that stranger wasn’t a stranger any more, and Phil’s initial confusion about the peculiar undertones of their friendship was fading, leaving him to deal with an uncomfortable certainty he had no hope to escape.

And yet, as they sat here, in Ian’s tiny kitchen, eating greasy takeaway straight out of the box, life felt wonderfully simple .

“I think these were the best spring rolls I’ve ever had,” he said, contentedly leaning back in his chair .

Ian arched an eyebrow at him. “You scoffed them down so fast I doubt you even tasted them.” He pushed his dish towards Phil. There was still a roll in it. “Take it. I’m full.”

Phil knew it was a lie. He knew how much Ian could eat and a portion of spring rolls was nothing but a snack to a mountain of a man like him.

He eyed the dish, then Ian. “You’re not full. You just want me to have it.”

The dimples appeared before the coarse sound of Ian’s throaty laughter. “Ach. No foolin’ you, is there?”

This was how they communicated: care disguised as jokes, fondness as good-natured mockery.

And because Phil knew what Ian was doing, he grabbed the roll and made a big show ofsinking his teeth into it, like he was just doing Ian a favour.

“Fuck you,” he mumbled as he chewed, then hid his touched half grin under a sip of Pepsi. “I’d kill for a beer right now.”

Ian turned back to open the fridge that was right behind him. One second later there was a can of beer sitting in front of Phil and another in Ian’s hand.

“Non-alcoholic,” said Ian. He grimaced after one swig. “Tastes like cold pish.”

There was an unmistakable ‘0.0’ indication on the front, right below the brand name.

“Why did you even buy it?”

Ian licked his lips and a couple of droplets off his beard, head tilting to one side. “For you. Why else would I buy this shite?”

“Son of a bitch.” A touched chuckle threatened to break Phil’s phoney tough facade.

It was just a beer. A stupid can of non-alcoholic beer that would’ve never found its way into Ian’s house if Phil hadn’t entered it first. He felt that throbbing ache in his chest again, the one he’d felt when Ian had held him through the panic attack and which had been growing out of control since.

In this very moment, ignoring everything that existed outside of this room, Phil felt happy .

As he sat here, staring at the can of beer like it was the greatest gift one could aspire to receive, bubbles of bliss were popping under his sternum, a funny tickling sensation he couldn’t seem to get accustomed to.

He bit his lip, barely daring to peer up at Ian.

“You know,” he said with a nonchalance that didn’t match the sudden tightness in his chest, “this would be so much easier for me if you quit being so annoyingly wholesome.”

“What would?” asked Ian cluelessly.

“Pretending.”

Phil wanted to take it back the moment the word rolled out of his mouth, but it was too late. He couldn’t have held it in for much longer, anyway.

Ian said nothing, studying him instead, unreadable, the colour of his irises brought out by the bright blue of the hoodie he wore.

Phil could smell his shower gel from where he was.

He’d carried it on his own skin. It had infused in his clothes, in his hair.

Washing it away had been like losing a comfort he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.

A sudden thirst convinced him to finally open the can.

He took a few swigs, relishing the bitter taste.

Perhaps it’d been too long since he’d had a real beer, but he couldn’t find any difference.

“Ah, that’s good.” He pointed a warning finger at Ian.

“Don’t care what you think. I love it. Gimme ten more. ”

For a moment Ian looked like he was about to turn back and actually pull out ten more cans from the fridge. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he had.

“At least I don’t have to worry about you getting drunk.”

“I wish I could get drunk,” said Phil sourly.

“I could blame it on the alcohol. I could spew out all the things I’m holding back, get this crushing weight off my chest, and just brush it off as drunken nonsense, conscience clear.

I could…” The can cracked in his hand. “I could kiss you and pretend I don’t remember. ”

He was startled by the deafening shriek of Ian’s chair getting shoved back as Ian sprang up to his feet, chest swelling with a sharp inhale — a reaction that was hard to interpret for Phil, who didn’t even know what his own feelings were doing.

He couldn’t feel his heartbeat any more.

A wet patina was blurring his sight. All he had was the silence and the mounting fear of having just ruined everything for good.

At this point, it was go big or go home.

“Do you feel it, too?” he asked, his voice failing him mid sentence. Gazing up at Ian felt like pressing a blade against his own pulse, but he gulped, and said it anyway. “Is it killing you, too?”

Ian’s darkening face hurt, but not nearly as much as him turning away with hands clenched into fists.

“We can’t have this conversation, Phil.”

Phil’s eyebrows knit up. It was like a door had just slammed shut, but with so much violence that it had bounced back, wide open.

He rose to his feet and walked up to the broad wall of Ian’s back. His palms were sweating.

“Ian,” he whispered, a timid supplication. “I know it’s not just me.”

He could see the tension creeping into Ian’s posture, could feel it in how slowly Ian turned around and raised his eyes on him. A bewildering blend of anger and sadness shone in them.

“This can’t happen, Handsome.”

As if Phil needed a reminder.

“I know.”.

“You have a fiancée — a lovely one.”

“I know .”

The sadness in Ian’s eyes became unbearable. “Then stop lookin’ at me like that.”

Phil almost wanted to laugh. “I wish I could.” He took a bold step forward. Ian didn’t budge, like an injured animal who didn’t have the strength to run, and surveyed Phil with a grief-stricken expression.

“Get out my face before I do something we’d both regret.”

Do it , cried an anguished voice inside Phil. Do it before I do. Let me blame you. I’ll tell myself I couldn’t stop you. The guilt won’t bite so hard.

Ian took a tentative step back, but Phil’s body felt too heavy for his legs. He clung to Ian’s hoodie, leaning into him for dear life. He just wanted to get lost in that soothing warmth again. Just that. Just for a moment.

“Please,” he begged. “Just… just give me a minute.”

Ian’s gentle touch prepared him for rejection.

He squeezed his eyes, dizzy and desperate, but then the most wondrous thing happened and within a blink he was getting engulfed into strong arms that took his breath away and the shaking in his limbs with it.

Phil’s muscles went slack, relief and a joy he couldn’t describe shooting through his veins, healing a million little wounds Phil had lived with for years, thinking they were just an inherent part of himself.

He shattered completely when Ian’s large hand came to cup his face in a caress so hauntingly tender that something warm spilled out of the corners of Phil’s eyes, dampening the fabric beneath.