Page 9 of The Unlikely Pair

“It was a date,” I reply cautiously. “Food was eaten. Small talk was exchanged.”

“Sparks were flying?” Callum asks with hope in his voice.

“No. The candle on the table was one of those fake LED ones, so there was no flame at all,” I say.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “You know what he means.”

“No sparks, metaphorical or otherwise, flew. As an aside, I do wish you’d stop trying to set me up. You just need to accept I’m a lone wolf.”

Oliver smirks. “Did you just say you’re a lame wolf?”

“Lone,” I clarify. “As in singular.”

“I saw an interesting documentary on wolves. Did you know wolves outside the pack are vulnerable to food scarcity and attacks by other wolves?” Callum asks.

“I don’t think food scarcity and being attacked by wolves are major concerns of mine at the moment,” I reply.

“I think what he’s saying is that you shouldn’t go through life alone, Toby,” Oliver says. “You just need to find the right person.”

Some people assume that because I’m pansexual, it’s easier to find a significant other since I’m open to a relationship with people of any gender.

They assume wrong.

“Unfortunately, you two seem to be suffering from the disease that infects most couples eventually, in that you try to spread your coupledom to other people,” I say, gesturing between Oliver and Callum with a half-eaten scone. “Well, I don’t want it. Keep your couple germs to yourself, please.”

Oliver rolls his eyes again at my melodrama.

“Some people are just better off alone,” I add.

“Some people are,” Oliver agrees. I have a momentarily flash of triumph before he fixes his dark gaze on me.

“But I don’t think you are one of those people.”

I leave Clarence House later than I intended. After the dissection of my love life, our conversation moved on to discussing Oliver and Callum’s surrogacy journey.

Watching Oliver interact with Callum always fascinates me. I’m still getting used to this version of Oliver, where happiness seems to be his default setting.

But thinking about that brings me back to Oliver’s comment about how I’m not destined to be alone.

I’ve tried relationships. I really have. I spent my twenties and thirties in a series of perfectly functional, pleasant relationships with perfectly functional, pleasant people.

But nothing ever stuck. And now, at the age of thirty-nine, I can’t help feeling cynical about the idea that I’m capable of that type of passionate, all-consuming love that other people seem to achieve.

The navigation screen in my car warns me that the traffic is getting snarled ahead, and I glance at the clock. I’m cutting it fine to visit my mother before I head to my flight.

But I can’t not go. Especially not today.

And so I make the familiar turn towards the cemetery.

The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I walk through the rows of headstones.

I place the bouquet of yellow tulips at the base of her headstone, then take my usual position at the end of her grave.

“I hope you appreciate the effort it took me to get tulips at this time of year,” I say.

I can almost hear her laughter.

When I was a child, my mother would swing me into her arms and press her cheek against mine so her laughter would vibrate through me.