Heads bend together, gossipy whispers bounce around the bar.
“I never realised how sexy the Welsh accent is until now,” Tom says to me as I fill up another two pints for him and Bryn.
“Your husband is Welsh,” I remind him.
“My point still stands,” he replies. “Mathias is a lovely Argentinian name, no?”
Tomas Bianchi pronounces Mathias’s name as though it doesn’t have an H. Matt-ee-ass. He’s Argentinian, moved here around the same time Kirsty and Isplit up. He now lives in rural Wiltshire with his husband, a trans Welshman named Bryn Morgan, and their two kids, Rafael and Isabel. There’s a cat or two thrown into the mix somewhere, but I always forget that thing’s name. Tom and Bryn run the eponymous homeware shop in Hookborough, Morgan & Bianchi’s. They are quiz night regulars.
“I think his grandparents are Spanish,” I tell Tom as I hand over the pints. “But don’t quote me on that.”
“Ooh, Argentinian Spanish, or Colombian Spanish, or . . .? I knew that beautiful skin tone wasn’t coming from any Brit.”
“Spanish Spanish. Like, European Spanish,” I confirm, and Tom’s shoulders drop a little with his apparent disappointment.
“No problem. I’ll still find a way to make us besties.”
“Good luck with that, mate,” I say, even though an uneasy sensation stirs in my stomach. It’s like I’ve had one too many goes on the spinning teacups ride. I can’t place the feeling. It’s not jealousy. Tomas can’t exactly become besties with Mathias if Mathias moves away next week—
Ah.
That’s what it is.
The thought of Mathias leaving before any of us have had a chance to get to know him.
“Question five—oh, this is an easy one. It’s only around the corner from here,” Mathias says to the room. It’s the first time he’s read the questions, and I can tell he’s enjoying answering them in his head along with everyone else.
“You’re not supposed to help us,” Viv calls out despite being the person yelling,“Give us a clue”after every question asked.
“Make up your bloody mind. Do you want clues or not?” Mathias says, and everyone laughs. They’re putty in his hands. I’m no different.
“Hey, no distracting the emcee,” I say for what must be the millionth time tonight.
Mathias turns to me, shoots me a wink—which feels like being stabbed in the throat—and side-eyes Viv as though expecting more backchat from her.Shezipsher mouth shut. Beside her, Will Shakespeare stretches out his front paws and melts even further into the cold flagstone floor.
“Okay, question five. In which UK city was the movieHot Fuzzfilmed?”
“Oh, I know this one,” a few people whisper, and heads bend over the tables once again.
Mathias leaves his stool at the corner of the room and strolls over to the bar.
Again, it must be said, that man looks damn near unlawful in that getup.
“What’ll it be this time?” I ask, placing my hand on the beer tap I predict he’ll choose next.
“I’m just checking the ETA of my potatoes.”
Fuck, why is that the most adorable sentence ever uttered?
“They’ll be ready in time for the picture and anagram round, so you can have a break.” I’d only recently checked in with the teenaged weekend chef.
Mathias nods, satisfied. Since everything tonight is “on the house,” he also ordered an eight-ounce sirloin, a pot of “burnt ends,” and a side of cauliflower-cheese to go with his potatoes three ways. I’m mildly concerned he might get gout, but he’s young, and a fucking pro athlete; he can handle that much richness for one night. I think back to all the things I used to eat when I was playing at pro levels. I would have given him a run for his money.
“In that case, I’ll try Ruckin’ ’Ell,” he says, glancing at the tap with an illustration of four crimson-skinned demons in a scrum.
“Don’t fancy Loosehead’s Load?” I tease.
“Not if it’s anything like Hooker’s Dribble.”
