Miles apart (Man × Man) ✔

4) s p o i l e d

Miles suppressed an urge to start pacing on the sidewalk in front of the café. He was sweating underneath his thick flannel shirt despite the chilly wind, and he felt sick to his stomach. He knew he was in the right place at the right time, but there was still no sign of Ash.

So Miles waited: five, ten, fifteen minutes. After nearly twenty minutes of waiting, Miles decided it was time to leave and accept that Ash had stood him up.

"Hey." Ash startled Miles by sneaking behind his back, just as he had turned to leave. "Sorry, I'm late."

"It's okay." Miles reassured him, although he was hoping to hear at least some sort of an explanation. As Ash didn't give him one, he decided to shrug it off.

Ash guided Miles on a corner table inside the café. They sat facing each other at the small wooden table and ordered iced coffees which were served in tall glasses with turquoise paper straws. 

Miles took a long deliberate sip from his drink and glanced at Ash, trying to shake the feeling that something had changed and that Ash didn't really want to be there with him. Maybe asking Miles out was just a drunken impulse and now that he was sober, he was regretting it?

"Sooo.." Miles dragged out the word, desperately trying to find something to talk about. All he could think of was the weather, work and, of course, all the real questions he was dying to have an answer to: why did you ask me to your home that night? Do you like me or not? Why did you ask me out when you clearly don't want to be here now?

Ash was leaning back on his chair, building as much space between them as possible. His dark eyes were pensive, if not even inimical, and he wasn't exactly hiding it. None of those things were much different from his usual behavior, yet Miles could feel Ash's interest fading. 

"Tell me about yourself." Ash asked then, shifting on his seat so that he could lean his elbows on the table. It was the first sign he showed that indicated he wanted to be there, that he was actually interested in what Miles would tell him.

And so Miles started rambling about his work as a graphic designer, how he hated fine dining and all kinds of sports except cycling and slouching around, that he was an only child and how he had lived the first five years of his life in Bordeaux. 

Ash got excited about the cycling part, telling Miles that as he didn't own a car, he cycled to work and back every day around the year. It was something Miles had fitted in the conversation on purpose remembering that yellow bike in his living room. Ash told him that he worked in a software company, that he was an only child as well and how much he hated small talk.

Whereas Ash didn't drone on, but got straight to the point in a blunt manner, Miles always found it impossible to stop talking once he got into the story mode. And now, seeing that some of his stories seemed to pique Ash's interest, Miles was desperately trying to find the right topics.

"So, why did you move from Bordeaux?" Ash asked, taking another sip from his coffee. He had tossed the straw and drank straight from the glass. Miles, whose paper straw was turning soggy, was thinking about doing the same.

"My dad heard that it's easier to fool the rich in America, so he left my mom and dragged me here with him to start a financial services company." Miles explained, fiddling a hairline crack running along the surface of his glass.

"So, did he? Fool the rich?" Ash arched an eyebrow, leaning back on his seat again.

"Oh, yes, he certainly did." Miles shook his head and without further thinking he added: "And it's still going strong. He drags me to all these boring galas and charity events, mostly to find more rich to fool. It's so dumb, drinking wine and chatting with old ladies, telling everyone how great men Harold Madden and Anthony Bardot are."

"It's so difficult to be rich, isn't it?" Ash looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, and yet again Miles felt like he had picked all the wrong words. They finished their coffees, while Miles alternated with topics that either pulled Ash closer or pushed him away.

Miles pulled out his credit card and paid for their drinks, giving the waiter a big smile. He didn't notice Ash leaving before the bell over the door rang and he had to rush after him. When Miles stared at Ash walking away, he realized this was probably going to be the last time Ash would ask him on a date. He had somehow messed everything up.

"Okay, what is it I'm doing that pisses you off?" Miles huffed, hastening his steps to keep pace with Ash's long strides. He had seen it often enough to know that yet again he was causing disappointment, that something he said or did was wrong. 

"Do you even notice how privileged you are?" Ash snapped. He stopped walking and glared at Miles, who knitted his eyebrows in confusion. 

"Because I paid for your coffee?" Miles asked. He hadn't meant to offend Ash, on the contrary he had paid for Ash's drink to be polite. 

"It must be nice to have enough money to buy your way anywhere." Ash's voice was bitter and so chilly it made Miles shiver. 

"I didn't think it would be such a big deal." Miles could feel color draining from his face, only to be replaced with the burning of his cheeks. He hated feeling like that: stupid, faulty, a kid in need of a scolding.

"If I had known you were just another spoiled rich kid, I would never have asked to see you again."

"I'm not spoiled." Miles muttered, clenching his fists. He dug his fingernails into his palm, using the familiar sting to keep his emotions at bay. 

"Oh, you just happen to hate all the galas your dads drag you to? You drive around in your Audi and swing a gold card to pay for coffee?" It was the first time Miles heard Ash laugh, but it wasn't a pleasant or joyous laughter. 

"Maybe you should find someone closer to your pay grade to hang out with, if my money bothers you this much." Miles hissed and stomped away.

He hated knowing Ash was right: he had all that money could buy, his dad had made sure of it. He was privileged. He had a fancy car and he never had to count whether or not he could eat out or not. He had all the money he could possibly ask for and more. And yet, somehow, it seemed to be all he had.