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‘The fact sharks are just dolphins with bad PR.’
‘What about those two?’
He follows my line of sight to another table and thinks for a moment before replying, ‘How much pressure you feel when you’re filling up a bottle at a water fountain while someone’s behind you.’
‘And you only fill it up halfway because you can’t handle the tension?’ I mirror his position, pressing my cheek into my fist.
‘Exactly. What nightmares are made of.’ He sips his martini and I look at him with a tilt of my head.
‘I can’t imagine you being someone who reacts to stuff like that.’
His shoulders lift. ‘Sometimes. Filling up a water bottle, bringing food to a party, any situation where someone’s relying on me, I guess. I don’t like how it feels.’
I turn this over in my mind for a few moments. ‘It’s not quite the same for me. I just get embarrassed by it. It feels like people are watching me and willing me to mess up. And I’ll probably deserve it, because I’ve already used the water fountain and had a perfectly good drink today and it’s greedy to want more.’
I’m not sure we’re still talking about filling up water bottles.
‘My therapist would love this conversation,’ Finn says, echoing my thoughts. He eyes me carefully. ‘My mum sent me to one when I lived with her but I haven’t found one that’s a good fit since then. It’s been a while.’
‘What’s the verdict? What do they say about you?’ If this is too personal a question, he doesn’t flinch.
He tips more of his drink into his mouth before replying. ‘Chronic abandonment issues from various people and parts of my life that have led to a desire to control my situation by running away before I can get properly close to anyone and risk them abandoning me first.’
He takes a breath at the end of his impossibly long sentenceand, entirely unhelpfully, I offer, ‘It’s character building.’
A surprised laugh spills out of him, and its effervescence pops up and down my bare skin. ‘It is. It’s also led me to develop some more favourable traits, so it’s not all bad. I’m alright.’
‘If you’re hoping for me to open up too, you’ll have to wait a lot longer.’
I expect him to laugh again but he looks at me shrewdly and says, ‘I’ll be here when you want to.’
Despite everything, I want to believe him.
Aware he finished his drink a little while ago, I knock back the last of my Aperol before grabbing his empty glass to bring back to the bar. ‘Round two?’
We take it in turns to get a round, no longer sticking to our martinis and Aperol Spritzes and instead mixing drinks in a very uni-student way. As usual, the alcohol’s dissolved my filter, but Finn’s loosened up too, so we go through question after question like we’re in the quick-fire round of a quiz show.
‘Fuck, marry, kill: Mario, Bowser, Toad,’ I ask as he arrives at the table with two pints of cider, one of which I immediately lay claim to. ‘There is a correct answer, by the way.’
Without a moment’s hesitation, he replies, ‘Fuck Bowser, marry Mario, kill Toad.’
When he drops into his chair, our knees touch under the table. I don’t pull away, and neither does he. ‘You’re killing Toad?’
He looks at me like I’m being dense and leans closer to say, ‘Sorry, you think he’d be good in bed?’
Even in the dim light, I still catch the way his eyes flash.I ponder his response while I dig around the slush in a long-sincefinished jug of Pimm’s, spearing a piece of cucumber with a straw. ‘Fine. What’s your favourite chore?’
Still close, his voice is low when he says, ‘Vacuuming. Is there any other option?’ I’m not sure why him talking about hoovering has slowed my heartbeat to a sluggish thump, but I assume it’s something to do with the alcohol and the air that’s so muggy I can almost hold it in my hand. Finn twists his body away and attempts to take a photo of the skyline, so I take the moment of distraction to look at him.
He’s so…kinetic.Always moving. That lone curl dropping distractedly across his forehead, a hand pushing his glasses up his nose or tapping the table, the way the corners of his mouth constantly twitch like there’s always a smile on the verge of escape. His unsteady hands mess up the shot, so he grunts in frustration and gives up, eyes snagging mine for a beat. When he moves back into position, his legs end up bracketing mine. Which is helpful, actually, because for an entirely unrelated reason I’m feeling the urge to squeeze my thighs together anyway. He licks his lips before asking, ‘Leastfavourite chore?’
I clear my throat and drag my eyes away from his face. I try not to pay too much attention to people’s mouths. Don’t want them getting the wrong idea. ‘Putting the duvet back in the cover after I’ve washed it.’
He nods sagely, like he’s logging the information for future use, and for a while longer we continue this silent competition where he pretends he’s not sending sparks up the length of my body any time his thighs press against mine, and I pretend I’m unaware he’s doing so. In a bid to bring us back to normality, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. ‘The more I get to know you, the more you seem like the kind of man who should be blonde.’
He studies me, eyebrows hitching higher. ‘Thank you?’
‘I don’t know if it’s a compliment.’
