Page 7 of Someone Like You

He’d been warned that Seroxat often caused a decrease in libido and arousal, but it hadn’t made much of a difference to him: he’d already been there before the meds and the burnout.

Perks of untreated depression, and now, apparently, treated depression.

If he’d barely cared about sex before, now the thought of it almost annoyed him.

Sometimes he feared he’d never be able to feel sexual desire again and it crushed him, not so much for his own manly pride, but because Abby deserved a future husband who could take care of her and fulfil her needs, but the more days went by, the more he believed he couldn’t be that man for her. Not any more.

“Your loss,” said Abby waving him off, no trace of disappointment in her sweet, girly voice. “Breakfast might still be warm if you hurry up.”

“Thank you.” He smiled with a heavy heart and trudged downstairs.

He wasn’t hungry, but ate everything he found waiting for him because the very least he could do was show some gratitude for Abby’s hard work.

Back upstairs, he found his running clothes, still warm from the dryer, splayed out on the bed, waiting for him.

He sighed. He didn’t feel like running, but he knew that if he skipped one day he’d likely relapse into his apathetic lethargy and he couldn’t ruin what little progress he’d achieved, nor Abby’s expectations.

He could tell from the very first mile that his body wasn’t really into it.

The sound of his own feet dragging against the ground irritated him to the point he decided to walk, and even that wasn’t great.

The weather was a tad better than the week before, overcast but no rain, and some shy blades of sunlight even made an appearance here and there through the clouds.

It was a perfect day for running, if only Phil hadn’t felt so sick inside.

A light cramp in his calf gave him an excuse to slump down on the rim of the fountain.

The very moment he touched the stone he doubted he’d be able to get up any time soon.

He bent down to grab the tip of his foot and stretch the cramp out.

There had been a small but significant improvement in his mobility since he’d started stretching regularly.

Just two months ago he wouldn’t have been able to do any of that without embarrassing himself.

He rubbed the tense muscle and after a couple of minutes the cramp dissolved, meaning his excuse to pointlessly sit here also dissolved.

“Waitin’ for me, Handsome?”

That voice…

That damn voice whose deep, warm timbre spread goosebumps of vexation all over his arms. He turned back, finding Ian standing behind him in a black t-shirt that was surely too snug to be comfortable and a half smirk plastered on his face.

Phil sprang to his feet, all demotivation wiped by a sudden burst of energy that ignited his body and mind alike.

“You’re late,” he quipped, so readily that Ian let out a muffled laugh through his nose. His smirk, however, didn’t waver.

“We had an appointment? Must’ve slipped my mind.”

He was clever, Phil had to give him props for that.

Quick wits, wry humour. Remembering his promise to Abby, he wondered if meeting Ian again was a sign.

There was no harm in trying: if it didn’t work out, he could walk out of this with his head up high and his conscience clean. He had to do this. For Abby.

“Do you have a minute?”

Ian scowled. “What’s up?”

Phil sighed, passing a hand over his mouth as he sought the right words.

“I kinda lied to my fiancée about our encounter last week. ”

Ian’s perplexity grew. “What exactly about that required lying?”

Phil needed to sit down again. Confessing his personal troubles to a stranger wasn’t on today’s agenda.

“She’s been nagging me about making friends since we got here.” He pressed his lips together and another sigh escaped through his nose. “I may have told her we’ve become running buddies for her peace of mind.”

“There are worse lies to tell,” Ian commented, looming above him. Phil didn’t dare to look at him.

“I’ve never lied to her before. I feel… dirty.”

“Then don’t lie.”

“I can’t! Her job requires frequent trips to London and she doesn’t…” Phil trailed off, burying his face into his hands. He had to give Ian something if he wanted him to understand. “I’m on antidepressants.”

“Ah.” Ian’s head tilted knowingly. “Got you there.”

“I think she doesn’t trust me to be alone with myself.” Phil eyed Ian guiltily and received an unexpected sympathetic nod in return.

“She needs to know someone’s got your back.”

Phil blinked. That was a much better phrasing than ‘She wants someone to keep an eye on me’ . He could tolerate that — someone having his back. He’d never been one to rely on others, but, then again, he’d never fallen this low before.

A foot poked his shin. “So?”

Phil glanced up: Ian was staring at him with a cocked eyebrow.

“So what?”

“Let’s do this runnin’ club thing.”

No fucking way , Phil wanted to reply, but his conscience refrained him.

It probably wouldn’t last, as Ian was positively a much better athlete than Phil was, but they could give it a shot, if only to spare Phil the burden of lying to Abby.

Worst case scenario: it’d actually work out and perhaps he’d finally get back in shape. Win win.

He locked eyes with Ian and a shiver coursed down his spine. The man had a hand stretched out to him, a hint of dimples at the edge of his beard. Much to his own amazement, Phil took it .

“Just running,” he stressed. “No talking.”

Ian’s dimples deepened. “Your lungs can’t handle both?”

“You know what? Never mind.” Phil tried to pull his hand away, but Ian chuckled and yanked him to his feet instead.

“Off that flat arse, old man. I’ve still got three miles to go.”

“ My ass isn’t —” Phil bit his tongue. He wasn’t going to fall for this guy’s antics. He could be the bigger man. Figuratively. “Whatever. Let’s just go.”

“You sure you can keep up?”

“Fuck you.”

“At least buy me a drink first.”

Phil scoffed to mask a laugh. He kind of liked this guy’s humour. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“What will a coffee get me?” he quipped back, and this time it was Ian’s turn to scoff.

Phil chalked up a point for himself.

* * *

Entering La Dolce Vita again was like walking back into a dream etched in Phil’s senses rather than his memory: the smell of wood and dust typical of old libraries mixed with the aroma of fresh coffee brew, the soft light, the clinking of the ceramic cups Sandra was stacking on the rack above the espresso machine…

The sense of familiarity it gave him was a mild shock.

“Welcome back!” Sandra cooed as soon as she saw Phil. She abandoned her cups to rush to the counter.

“Same as last time?” Ian asked Phil.

“Yes, please.”

Sandra placed an elbow on the counter and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Am I to expect you boys every Saturday?”

“Maybe more,” said Ian. “If Phil can get his arse out of bed a bit earlier during the week.” He gave Phil a solid pat on the back.

“Name the time and I’ll be there,” Phil grumbled as Ian nudged him to move forward.

It was a busy morning and the cosy table by the window was taken, much to Phil’s disappointment, and the only spot available was a tiny table in a secluded corner with an equally tiny semicircular sofa that forced them to sit elbow by elbow.

Ian was struggling to accommodate his legs. “Bit tight, eh?”

“It would be perfectly comfortable if there weren’t so much of you.”

“Someone’s jealous.”

“I’m too concerned about keeping myself together on the inside to give a fuck about what I look like on the outside.”

Phil instantly regretted his burst of honesty. It wasn’t like him to overshare, especially with a stranger. Not that he talked to many strangers in general. He turned to Ian, mortified by the amount of self pity that had seeped into his words, but Ian didn’t seem uneasy.

“Keep working on the inside,” he said. “The outside’s doin’ alright.”

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Both. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Jesus.” A weird sensation coiled around Phil’s sternum and spread to his throat, tingling in his ears.

He tried — he really tried not to give in to it, but there was no controlling it: it bubbled up from his chest and broke out without his permission, a genuine, hearty laugh that cleaned up something inside him on its way out, like water washing away a clot of grime.

It was like a noose had just loosened its grip around his neck.

He could still feel the mark it had left in his flesh, but that was nothing compared to the amazement of breathing again.

Ian’s face was a mixture of mirth and disbelief. “It wasn’t even that funny.”

“It wasn’t,” Phil had to concur. “God, I hadn’t laughed like this since—” His mouth shut. He couldn’t remember since when. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d let out a laugh that hadn’t been a polite ruse.

Ian waited for him to finish the sentence; when it became obvious it wasn’t going to happen, he asked: “Perks of the pills?? ”

People usually walked on eggshells when Phil’s depression came up.

They were embarrassed and dismissive, eager to avert the conversation to less uncomfortable topics.

Even Phil’s oldest friends hadn’t really known how to behave around him after his official diagnosis, as if just talking about his ‘condition’, as they called it, could somehow make it worse or trigger some negative reaction.

Getting asked about it so straightforwardly was refreshing.

It made Phil feel less like a broken toy and more like an actual person.