Page 81 of Naughty November
“Let me show you the flat.”
“I’d like that.”
It doesn’t take long to tour his home. The main living area might be roomy, but it’s still small and cosy, which reminds me of Devin at every turn. The quilt his gran hand-made out of his baby clothes covers the bed in the spare room. A Mickey Mouse mug I bought him as a holiday souvenir stands upside down on the drying rack in the kitchen. Pictures hang on rails around each of the rooms. The ones of his family spark happy memories. Others feature artwork from films, books, and video games.
I gesture at a metal picture of two giant robots with a dramatic sunset behind them. “I worked on that game.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Your flat is really nice. Why are you looking for someone to share it with?”
Devin grimaces. “I can’t afford the rent and bills on my own. I looked for something smaller but didn’t find anything I liked.”
“I can relate. I’m sure most of the flats I’ve looked at wouldn’t even meet size standards for a prison cell. I mean, I’m used to small. I lived in Tokyo for six months. They take tiny living to a whole new level. But I had no choice there. I’d rather live somewhere with a bit more room.” I’m talking at one hundred miles per hour. I shouldn’t be nervous around Devin, but I am.
“You can move in here.”
I should be doing cartwheels. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He frowns. “Why?”
“We have no idea if we could live together.”
“The same would be true of anyone.”
“True… but… are you asking me because we have history?”
“Is that a bad reason?”
He gnaws his lower lip. “I guess not.”
“I thought that you’d want to.”
I do.
He squeezes my knee. “We could catch up. Get to know each other again. It’ll be fun.”
“Devin—”
He stares at me.
“We’re not kids anymore.”
“I know. We weren’t in Amsterdam, either. We did plenty that wasn’t kid-friendly.”
My cheeks become warm. “I remember.” My voice is a little breathy.
“I’ve missed you.” He moves closer.
“I’ve missed you, too, and that’s kind of the problem.”
“I’m confused.”
“I thought I was over you, and then we ran into each other in that bar, and I realised I wasn’t. Then, another three years passed, and Ithought I was over you again. But I’m not. I’m not sure I could stand to be so close to you.” I’m about to self-combust as it is.
“Because you want me?”
“Yes.” My response comes out as more of a whimper than a word.