I frowned. “Who has?”
“All three. So I’m what you might call surplus to requirements. They didn’t say that, obviously, but they made it clear they’re looking for a place with just the one bedroom.”
I contemplated the throuple. “I thought Simone and Chloe were gay?”
“They are. They were. I don’t know. You’d have to ask them about it. I tried talking to Willem, but he went bright red and clammed up.”
“I’m sorry,” I said with utmost sincerity. “You’ll find somewhere better. I can help you. And if you have to move out before you’ve found somewhere…” I patted the sofa next to me. “There’s always this thing. I can currently vouch for how comfortable it is.”
Henri smiled. “You’re a good friend, Laurent.”
He looked like some of the weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Henri’s neuroticism no doubt conjuring up an image of a life of homelessness on the streets of Paris. Either that or being forced to move back to Marseille, where his parents still lived.
He sat up straighter. “Don’t Finn and Cillian have a spare room?”
“No!”
“They don’t? I could have sworn they did.”
“They have a spare room. My no was for what you were about to say next. You can’t stay there.”
“I think that’s their decision, not yours.”
“I’m putting it far more gently than they will. Cillian knows you have a thing for his boyfriend. Do you really think he wants you there staring at Finn in the shower?” Funny how that had popped into my head.
“He might. They might be interested in becoming a throuple. I wouldn’t kick Cillian out of bed.”
“They’re not.” I slid sideways on the sofa, pulling my legs onto it and covering my head with a cushion. “I’m going to sleep now. Shut the door on your way out.”
“You could ask them.”
“No! I couldn’t.”
If Henri continued arguing, I didn’t hear it, sleep having pulled me under.
A few hours of rest had me feeling ninety percent human. Good enough that I’d spent the rest of the day out running errands. Finn hadn’t messaged again, so there was that to be grateful for. Hopefully, he and Cillian were having such a great time that he’d simply forget my perceived evasiveness and not question me on it. Despite the long nap, I had an early night. Something I was grateful for when the hammering on the door came in the middle of the night.
I jerked upright, snagging my phone off the side of the bed to stare blearily at its illuminated display. Four a.m. What the fuck! Who made house calls at this time? Swinging my legs off the bed, I took a moment to shake off the layers of sleep still clinging to me before lurching unsteadily to my feet.
Cormac King, my brain suggested as I made my way to the door. Yeah, right? Even if he’d somehow found out my address, he’d hardly have any reason to turn up on my doorstep at this hour. It was way too early for breakfast, and way too late for anything else.
The pounding came again before I reached the door. The police?
“Laurent, open up.”
I stalled at the sound of the familiar voice, my fingers freezing on the bolt I’d been about to slide back. I would have takenjust about anyone else in the world apart from my father on my doorstep. He might know my address, but he also knew he wasn’t welcome here. Especially drunk. Which, even from the three words he’d spoken, I could tell he was, the slight slur unmistakable.
Despite the bad blood between us, my instinct was to let him in. But if I did, I knew how it would go. We’d argue. We’d both say stuff we didn’t mean to hurt the other. It wouldn’t be pleasant. And it never got us anywhere, apart from adding more and more keratinized layers to the callus that already existed between us.
But if I didn’t let him in, where would he go? What if something happened to him and my last memory was of turning him away? Our relationship might be awful, but at least we had one. It enabled a tiny kernel of hope to exist at the back of my mind that maybe one day we might get back what we once had. Something relatively normal where we talked about things other than alcohol, money, and how the other’s perceived shortcomings made our lives more difficult.
I leaned my head against the cool wood of the door and tried to think rationally. Nothing rational existed between me and my father, though. Pain gave everything sharp edges and a surface as abrasive as sandpaper. And the effort to pretend that I really didn’t give a damn, that he and his escapades were nothing more than mere inconveniences, weighed me down more and more as time passed. I loved my father, but I’d long since stopped liking him.
“Laurent? I know you’re there. Please let me in.”
It was the plaintive note that undid me. Had he taken his usual tack and demanded, or used emotional blackmail, I could have remained steadfast in my vow not to open the door. But pleading was another matter.
I wrenched the door open so fast that had my father not grabbed hold of the wall to steady himself, he would have tumbled inside. “Do you know what time it is?” I demanded, not bothering to keep the sharpness out of my voice.
