24. JACK

One night toward the end of that very happy week with Paul, I had to meet some potential clients at a trendy bar-restaurant in Clerkenwell. Before I left the office, I suggested to Paul that he come there to meet me afterward and that we could have a late dinner there if he was still hungry.

The clients were in no rush to finish the evening, and around 9:00, I got a text from Paul.

I can be there in about 30 mins if you are still there.

I replied:

Great – I will wait for you here.

Send me the location.

I sent it.

Here I am.

Come get me ;)

He texted back a tongue-sticking-out-winking emoji.

I sat there with a glass of wine, waiting for him. When he arrived, it was good just seeing him, those warm feelings you have at the start of something new and exciting.

It had started to rain – yet again – and he came in with his fair hair tousled and huge dark spots all over his jacket, his cheeks pink. He looked adorable.

He came over, and impulsively, I got up and kissed him, a peck on the lips, there in the middle of the restaurant. I didn’t know who was more surprised, him or me, but I wanted to do it. I wanted people to see me kissing him. I saw how happy he looked.

We were in London. What did it matter who saw us?

We ordered quickly from a menu that featured Spanish tapas with an Asian twist: patatas bravas flavored with ginger and chili, pulpo a la gallega, with the octopus the same but the potato replaced with yam and lots of scallions. We also ordered more traditional Spanish ham and a glass of wine for Paul to drink.

The food came and was delicious. We ordered a second glass of wine each.

“Can I tell you something?” I asked when our plates were cleared and we were left alone, the two of us.

“Sure, Jack. You can tell me whatever you want.”

I took a deep breath and held it for a moment.

“I want to say how much I’m enjoying this, you know?” I said it on an out breath, so my words came out weirdly vulnerable.

Paul’s gaze softened, and his eyes grew even happier.

“Good,” he replied. “I feel the same.”

I laughed.

“I was feeling kind of nervous saying it. I don’t know. I wanted to say something, and I’m not always good at talking about feelings and stuff.”

He looked at me more nervously.

“Feelings?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, feelings.”

He smiled.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked then.

“Sure.”

“I’ve never really felt such an instant connection before,” he confessed. “I don’t mean to be weird or intense. I just want to say it. For the first time, it feels right, you know. It’s like you know exactly what I need, even before I do.” He laughed. “God, listen to me. I sound like a bunny boiler.”

I didn’t want him to withdraw what he felt, so I spoke quickly, without time to second-guess myself.

“I feel the same way,” I said. “Immediately, it’s like everything was just in place. Sexually, I mean. But not just sexually, too.”

He smiled gently.

“Yeah…I know.” He paused. “I know we can’t talk of the future yet; we have to go back to the States. We live in separate cities, but for now, in our little apartment, we can enjoy it for whatever it is.”

I knew it was true. It was a fact. But there was such a sadness to him saying it: the sound of a clock ticking, the end coming. Did I want it to end? What if I did not?

“So, picture this,” I said, trying to sound light. “We would live together in that apartment in Fitzrovia.”

He laughed.

“Fancy.”

“Or we’d have a quaint little apartment in some other part of town, filled with books and your art. You’d cook meals for me while I go to work here in the London office.”

He was enjoying the half-joke, half-fantasy of it.

“What would I do all day?”

“You would be a painter. Or at least you would start your training to become one.”

“Here?”

“They have great art schools here, some of the greatest in the world.”

He chuckled and arched his eyebrow.

“Okay, cool, that sounds easy!”

“We’d spend our weekends exploring the city, trying new restaurants, going for long walks up on Hampstead Heath or in Richmond Park.”

“Do you even know where those places are?”

I laughed.

“No. But we could still do it all.”

But something changed then. Something called reality entered the chat.

“Can we stop talking like this?” he asked.

“Oh, okay. Can I ask why?”

He sighed.

“Because we’re admitting that this is all a fantasy. We’re talking openly about it being a fantasy. It’s starting to upset me. I am not a bunny boiler, really, but it’s starting to upset me.”

He became quiet. I leaned forward and touched his hand on the table.

“Tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. He looked up at me and smiled sadly. His big blue eyes were glassy with tears he did not shed. “This wine is very good,” he said.

“Paul,” I said.

“Honestly,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

I was a man who spent too much of his life not admitting his feelings. Game knows game: I could see him doing the same then.

“No, tell me,” I insisted.

His eyes held mine for a moment, then fell down to the glasses on the table.

“I think I have realized that I am gay, Jack,” he said softly. “But I have realized that maybe you are not. I think this is a different thing to you.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“How can we be together, Paul? Is that even what you want?”

I shrugged.

“I don’t know what I want. But I know right now I want you.”

I thought that might irritate him, but a little smile flickered over his face. He reached forward and touched my hand. His eyes met mine.

“Can we go home?” he asked.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded.

“Let’s go home and make love.”

***

It was too far to walk to Fitzrovia, at least at that time of night, so we took a cab from the street and drove back home in comfort and silence.

He fell slightly against me in the back seat, and though we had our seatbelts on, I was able to wrap my arm around his back across the seat. Because of the headrests, it was a little uncomfortable, but he did not move away from it.

That night, we got home and got ready for bed together, for the first time undressing in front of each other, brushing teeth at the same time. We made love electrically and both fell into a deep sleep, him deep in my embrace.

I was happy, but I wondered about what he had said in the restaurant. If he was gay and I was not, how could we be together? Was he what I really wanted, deep down, and when all this was over?

***

I woke during the night; I wasn’t sure why. The bed was so comfortable, and I was happy with him lying in my arms. But in the small hours, alone with our thoughts, uncertainty can creep over you.

In the darkness, a wave of just such uncertainty hit me. Paul’s body beside mine – his skin against mine – felt both reassuring and unsettling.

Paul had nestled against me on the bed, but then he turned slightly, and his body, deep in sleep, moved away from me slightly. I had been freed in some small way. I could lie alone and stare up into the dark.

Eventually, I did that thing they say you should never do when you cannot sleep: I looked at my phone, which I had left charging by my bedside.

NEW MESSAGE

FROM

EMMA

Sitting up slightly, I hesitated, my fingers trembling on the screen. Don’t read it now,every fiber of my being protested.

Read it tomorrow.

Or just delete it. But don’t read it now.

And, of course, I opened the message.

Jack, I miss you

I’m starting to doubt whether we should go through with the divorce

Is it too late there?

Oh, I think it must be the middle of the night

OK, call me tomorrow, maybe

I stared at the screen in disbelief.