‘Yes, you do.’ He slides my portion over to me. ‘It’s cute.’
How he made asandwich– arguably one of the most boring of foods– so unbelievably delicious, I do not know. It’s rich with mustard, salamis, olives, onions and more– layered, decadent and all for me.
‘I’d like to raise a toast,’ he says, leaning across the table to top up my glass.
I lift it halfway in the air in anticipation, eyebrow cocked as I await his next words.
‘To us,’ he continues with a small smile. ‘To the Summer Splash, to this weekend, and to last night.Especiallyto lastnight– I mean– that deserves its own toast. But if I start. . . well, I’ll be here all day. So, to us, I guess– to everything to do with us. God. . . You make me so bad with words.’
His eyes leave mine only to dart around frantically, dropping and lifting in time with his fragmented sentences. His nerves overcome him, spilling out and turning his words into small little murmurs. It’s so cute and tender, and deeply unlike him, and I can’t help but stare as I take every morsel of this new Aiden in.
‘You’ve never been bad atanything– trust me, I have waited for you to be bad at something.’ I laugh softly. ‘You’ve been great at everything since the day that we met, and every day after.’
His lips twist back into a smile, eyes returning to mine. The warmth in them sets my heart on fire.
‘You think I’m great ateverything?’ he asks smugly.
‘I’m not saying it again.’
He chuckles. I smile. My heart flutters.
‘You were wrong about me before, you know. I don’t just float through life expecting things to work out. I just don’t need to track it across seven notebooks.’
He softens the last part with a good-spirited eyebrow raise and a refill of my glass.
‘Oh, really, so what are your goals, aims, objectives, then?’ I ask, eyebrow raised in jest.
I expect him to shut it down, keep it a secret, but he doesn’t. Instead, he springs to life, babbling on eagerly.
‘I want to start my own business. Build something from the ground up, like Evie. I mean, obviously not like Evie’s. I have an idea, but. . .’ He tails off. ‘I just want to do something that leaves my family with a legacy and keeps my mum and sister sorted for the rest of their lives. I have the plan– pages of it, ready to go. I just need to make the jump.’
‘What is it?’
He launches into a well-constructed, clearly deeply thought-out plan for a non-profit carpool/shuttle-bus service for parents whose children need lifts to and from activities. He glows as he talks about it, radiating a passion so deep it burns a hole through the floor. I feel it shine on me too, as hot as rays from the sun.
‘It sounds like you’ve got it all worked out. Have you started working on it?’ I ask.
‘It’s not the right time,’ he says, stalling.
‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘For someone who insists I dive right in, you’re being awfully wade-y.’
His laugh starts light, but sinks quickly into a bitter chuckle, twisting his smile into something far more introspective.
He sighs. ‘Every time I get close to taking the leap, I think about all that money, and how I might need it if something happens to my mum again.’ His eyes drop straight to the table, only taking a break to steal quick glances at my still, timid face.
I think back to my house, our Teams call, and my mum’s question.
‘How’s your mum? How was her surgery?’
I didn’t ask back then because it wasn’t my place. We weren’t friends, were barely colleagues, and I had no right to know. But now, as we sit here, after the night we just had, something has shifted. It’s new ground– shaky ground– and I don’t know how even it is. But I’ve got to try. He’s given me an in– I’ve got to take it.
‘Again?’ I ask, hoping he understands that I can’t manage more.
He does. ‘My mum had a heart attack, which, erm, led to some pretty bad complications.’ He takes a gulp of his wine, hand shaking ever so slightly. It’s hard to tell whether the shake is from rage, sadness or both. ‘I got a call mid-seminar, booked a last-minute train ticket and was by her hospital bedside by lunch. It was rough. Really rough. “Say your goodbyes” rough.’
There’s a pinch in his throat through the last few words, so tight that he’s forced to break for air. I want to squeeze him, ease the pain away and promise that he’ll be OK, but it feels far too intrusive. Instead, I settle for a palm, stretched across the table. He grabs it instantly, exhaling deeply as he squeezes it tight, and I trace soothing shapes across his skin with the pad of my thumb.
‘I felt like my world was going to end that day. Nothing mattered. Not school, not friends, not even Luce.’
