The Man Who Lived Again

18

'I don't, if that makes any difference.' I say as I lower my head back to his chest. 'Regret it, I mean.'

'You might feel differently tomorrow.'

'I won't.'

When he doesn't respond, I worry I might've been a little short with him.

'It could be a good thing for you,' I say in an attempt to rectify any snappiness. 'Get you back in the game.'

'The game?'

'Yeah, the game. You know, get you out of your however many months of the self-inflicted dry spell you've had, give you a nudge to get back on the dating horse, terrorise the women of Clapham, etcetera.'

'I say this with love, Euphemia,' he replies without a flicker of emotion in his voice. 'But please stop talking.'

'I'm just saying you should put yourself out there,' I reason. 'I bet you have no trouble on the London dating scene.'

'I wouldn't know.'

'It won't have changed that much from when you were in first year.'

'I didn't date in first year.'

I frown. 'Seriously? You must have at least had, like, a one-night stand with someone.'

'No.'

I pause as I read between the lines. He has to be fucking with me.

'If you've literally not–You're telling me you've not been with anyone since...' I rack my brain. 'Since, God, your Zack phase? So for, like, two and a half years?'

A pause.

'I presumed you knew. Is it that surprising?'

'It's–I mean, I suppose not, thinking about it, but it's–I mean, I wouldn't have guessed that from last night, is what I'm saying. I thought–Huh. I mean, I guess it's like riding a bike, right? Maybe? Not really something you'd forget.'

'You know,' he murmurs, 'the more you talk, the more I understand how you got yourself into this situation in the first place.'

I sit up to smack his chest. 'You're making me wish you had fucked off this morning.'

With a hmph, I jump to my feet and, out of spite, don't tell him where I'm going as I head towards his bedroom door. Not that he seems to care; when I fail to resist a glance in his direction before leaving, he's back on his notebook hype. He's smirking, though; a clear sign that his lack of questioning is very much intentional, and very much because he knows it'll annoy me.

It's not particularly early–about nine-thirty–but the silence filling the house suggests Preston and I are the only ones awake. The private world we've carved out for ourselves suddenly feels neverending, as if this is our new reality; a fate I should probably reject more than I do. As I enter the second floor bathroom, its tiles feel like ice under my feet and I yelp at the shock of it.

I may have made a little more sound than I realised because as I leave the bathroom, I'm met with the grinning face of my best friend.

'Mia!' he exclaims.

'Aiden!' I reply with matching enthusiasm.

'Perfect timing. Holy mackerel, do I need to talk to you about this guy last night,' he begins, and in predicting what I know will ensue, I stop him before he can go off on one.

'Hold that thought. I forgot how freezing this house is without heating, so let me grab some bottoms and we can debrief in your room–Well, the room you squatted in overnight.' I pause as I take in the empty hallway. 'Have you been waiting outside the bathroom door this whole time?'