Page 8 of Someone Like You

“My shrink calls it SNRI-induced apathy,” he answered just as straightforwardly.

He pursed his lips, raising a cynical glance on Ian.

“I call it ‘these drugs took the suicidal thoughts out of my head, but also the taste out of my life’ .” Ian pinned an unreadable stare on him. “Sorry, too much information.”

“Did that laugh give you a bit of taste back?”

Phil couldn’t help the smile that spread far higher than his facial muscles were used to as he heard himself reply, both baffled and amazed: “It did.”

His gaze met Ian’s. Phil detected some kind of elation in the way those blue eyes weighed on him. Gentle. Kind. Understanding .

Phil’s stomach swooped. He felt warm — warm everywhere. Even inside. Especially inside.

“Here we are, guys. Sorry for the delay.”

A young woman broke into the bubble of silence that had formed around Phil and Ian. She deposited two coffees, two glasses of water, and a sugar bowl on the table, plus a small plate with some biscuits on it. “On the house,” she told them, her smile broadening as it lingered on Ian.

“Thanks, Anna.”

Phil waited for her to leave, then pulled a cup to himself. “She likes you,” he commented casually while pouring half a sachet of sugar into his coffee. He studied Ian’s reaction, or lack of thereof. All he got was a side eye.

“She’s twenty-five .”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m thirty-seven . ”

“So what? My girlfriend’s ten years younger than me.”

Ian shook his head. “I have nothing in common with a twenty-five-year-old.” He took his water, downed it in a gulp. “We’d bore the shit out of each other.”

“Or maybe she’d get you out of your comfort zone.”

“Don’t think so, mate.” Ian put the glass down and picked up his espresso. “There’s a reason it’s called a comfort zone: leaving it makes you uncomfortable . Dunno about you, but I’m too smart to make myself uncomfortable intentionally.”

Phil stirred his sugar, focusing on the grainy texture grinding under the spoon.

The cogs in his brain were fighting to elaborate on what Ian had said.

He could see the sense in it, he agreed with the reasoning, but he remembered his life before Abby: just himself and his books, his apartment. No social life. No friends.

A sad, lonely life.

His brow furrowed. With hindsight, he couldn’t remember ever seeing his life as sad and lonely before he started dating Abby.

“So, Phil…” Ian took a biscuit. “What brought you to Scotland?”

Phil had his cup halfway to his lips when he noticed the second glass of water, still full next to Ian’s. He drank that first.

“I had a nasty burnout last spring,” he said. “I was strongly advised to take it easy for a while, go somewhere quiet where I could ‘reconnect with myself’ and shit like that.”

“And Glasgow is somewhere quiet ?”

“Compared to Chicago? Backwater country village.” Phil tasted the espresso: still too strong, but he managed not to grimace this time. “Abby was born here, has a nice apartment in Partick…. It was the most sensible place to go.”

Ian chewed pensively on his biscuit. A crumb got stuck in the beard on his chin; Phil couldn’t stop thinking about brushing it away. “Has it helped?” Ian enquired. “Movin’ here.”

The crumb fell, releasing Phil from his stupor. He had to concentrate to remember the question.

“Abby’s happy. ”

“Not what I asked.”

No, it wasn’t, was it?

“I’m… doing okay, I guess.”

“You miss your old life?”

‘No’ was the answer Phil’s mind automatically supplied.

His old life of big public events, parties, barbecues, weekend trips…

He didn’t miss the hectic rhythm of any of that.

The truly good thing about moving to Glasgow was the sweet, unconditional peace it had granted him.

Abby had some old friends she was catching up with and making new ones at work, at the gym…

She could make friends anywhere in no time, even at the grocery store.

Her bubbly spirit didn’t know rest and none of her habits had changed from Chicago to here, because Abby had an innate superpower Phil had never had, would never have, and deeply envied: resilience.

“It was a frantic way of living,” he said earnestly — way more than he’d ever been, even to himself. Saying it out loud felt like dropping a massive boulder he’d been carrying on his back for years without a reason. “I’m a writer, you know? A quite successful one. I don’t mean to brag—”

“Didn’t think you were.”

Phil’s cheeks relaxed into a small smile.

“I love writing, but in the last couple of years I’ve realised I don’t love being a writer.

Not sure it makes sense.” He cast Ian a wary look.

Ian stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, sprawling out as far as his legs allowed him.

Their thighs touched. The tips of his fingers skimmed Phil’s back and a shiver ran down Phil’s spine.

“Writing is a passion,” he said. “Being a writer is a job.”

That was exactly it, spelled out more clearly than Phil himself had ever managed to. Beaten at his own game.

“The job was all about showing up and smiling for an audience. Lots of ass licking, too. I’m not cut out for that.

I rolled with the punches because I thought I’d grow into it.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.” He clicked his tongue, annoyed by his own weakness.

“Does it sound ungrateful if I say it feels good to have pulled the plug on it?”

“No. ”

Phil laughed. Ian wasn’t a man of many words, and yet a single syllable spoken by that rough voice was enough to quench the guilt plaguing Phil’s conscience.

“I’m still struggling to find my footing,” he went on, much less despondently. “I don’t know how to go back to who I used to be… before .”

“You got money problems?”

“No. My books sell well, I have a steady income from renting out my apartment in Chicago, and even if I didn’t, Abby wouldn’t hesitate to make a kept man out of me. Why’d you ask?”

“You can afford to heal on your own terms. Maybe instead of tryin’ to go back, you should focus on movin’ on.” Ian pushed the plate of biscuits in front of Phil. “Just an idea.”

Phil wasn’t a sweet-tooth nor a food enthusiast, especially since starting the medication, but the biscuits had an inviting buttery smell, so he leaned onto the table with folded arms and picked one up, rolling it around between his fingers.

“Wow, that was… really deep.” He turned a touched look to Ian, and for a moment everything went quiet and still.

Then Phil popped the biscuit into his mouth, smirking sardonically as Ian’s massive chest started shaking with a soundless laugh.

“Shut up and finish the coffee before it gets cold.”

* * *

It was way past midday when Phil got home. He expected Abby to be angry, or at least worried, as he’d only noticed the notifications of her two voice notes on his smartwatch when he reached their front door.

The spicy smell he found upon entering suggested Abby had ordered Indian takeout for lunch — one of Phil’s favourites.

“I’m back!” he announced. He followed the cluttering noises coming from the kitchen. “Abbs? Sorry, I lost track of time…”

Abby was emptying the dishwasher with AirPods in her ears, swaying her hips to the rhythm of something that sounded like a Lady Gaga hit Phil couldn’t name. She wasn’t startled when he touched her arm, nor did she admonish him for being so late.

“You look satisfied!” she exclaimed instead, taking in his ruffled hair and sweaty clothes.

“It was good,” he said sheepishly. He hadn’t expected Ian to take him by his word and actually challenge him to show up for an early run twice a week in addition to what apparently now was their Saturday run .

So now Phil had a 5 AM alarm set for Mondays and Thursdays, the first real appointment he’d committed to since arriving in Scotland, and he wasn’t even sure how it had happened.

Abby was, of course, ecstatic to hear that.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new playmate?” she asked when they sat down to eat.

Phil was starving. The quick shower had brought out a soreness in his muscles, but at the same time he felt energised, as though the exertion had recharged him rather than tired him out.

“Ian isn’t very social,” he said, wolfing down three forkfuls of rice in a row. He didn’t know why that remark put a smile across his mouth.

“Of course it’s another lone wolf!” Abby poured herself some red wine, then switched to the water jug to pour some into Phil’s glass. “You could invite him over for dinner. Just the three of us.”

Phil couldn’t object that he’d only spoken to the man twice, because he’d let Abby believe they’d been running together on a daily basis for over a week — which still didn’t sound nearly enough to have someone over for dinner, to Phil — but Abby had entirely different friendship standards.

“I’ll try,” he promised. The bright side of this was that, if Abby met Ian, there was hope she’d stop nagging Phil about his asociality.

“What does he like?”

“Uh… Italian?”

“Oh, brilliant! I can ask zia Bruna if she can make us lasagne! Make sure he has no intolerances.”

“I will. ”

Phil was dumbfounded by how smoothly he was answering questions he wasn’t even listening to. The situation was escalating way too fast. At this rate by the time he and Abby got married he’d be standing at the altar with Ian as his best man.

The most staggering thing was that, all in all, he didn’t completely hate the idea.