Chapter 8: A Single Dot
I have a sleepless night lying on my back on the hotel bed with a local radio station on. I understand nothing of the host's speech, but I think it's one of those late night advice shows, a lot of 'Liebe' being thrown around, and I understand that much: ich liebe ihn nicht.
That's not my problem – mine is of the other variety. And so I lie awake, feeling myself sober up as I gradually fill up the ashtray. I haven't drawn the curtains, and the sun sneaks up on me, first weakly, then brighter and brighter, and soon I haven't slept all night.
I haven't gotten undressed, so I only need to roll out of bed when there's a knock on my door. I left the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hanging on the doorknob, just to give the world the right message. It's only half past seven and bus call isn't until ten, so my mind comes up with varied options as to who it is: a sobered and nauseous Sisky, maybe, or an angry Dallon wanting to check that I'm in my room and not in someone else's. Or maybe Brendon with another suggestive invitation to go to his room, and my hands feel slightly sweaty at the thought of him, and there is no excuse for that.
It is Brendon, and I'm taken aback by it. He stands in the corridor, looking tired and not that good at all – sleepless night, contestant number two. At least he's changed, the tight jeans now gone and replaced by flared maroon pants. He looks at me like he instantly realises that I haven't been to bed at any point, his eyes quickly taking me in.
"Hey," I say, my voice scratchy from having smoked too much.
"Hey." His voice is hesitant. He looks worried. Concerned. The flirtatious air from last night is long gone. "Sorry if I woke you up but –"
"I wasn't asleep. I, well. Couldn't really sleep."
"Me neither, really," he says sheepishly. "I just wondered if you wanted to get some breakfast or- or something, I don't know." He says it too quickly. Twists his hands awkwardly. Shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and he doesn't meet my gaze, but he's never been the kind to be shy.
"Breakfast?" I repeat, having a hard time believing that this brings him to my door before decent hours.
"Yeah, I know," he says, grimacing like his excuses are too thin even for him. "Okay, what I... what I really wanted to say is that I'm sorry about last night. I think I had too much to drink and I- I didn't mean to come onto you, I just –"
"You didn't."
"Ryan," he says very matter-of-factly, looking embarrassed. "Trust me. I came onto you." And he says it like he knows what he wanted and what he was thinking, and heat flares up in my guts before I quickly suppress it.
"It's fine," I say, really not needing us to get into it. The mere thought of us talking about the 'what if' fills me with terror – that is not a good idea. "I had a few too many myself, I get it."
"I shouldn't have. It's just, um." He rubs his head, smiling awkwardly. "You, me and hotel rooms. Like memory, you know?"
"Yeah, exactly." I've never been as quick to agree. "We have old habits and... Yeah, I get it. It's fine," I repeat for the umpteenth time. "We're still learning to be friends, we're both, uh, single and available, and you were upset about Dallon and –"
"It wasn't about him," he says, an almost frown appearing on his face.
"No, I – I just. I get it, man, and I'm past it, and." Then I just nod plenty like that's that.
I'm lying through my teeth, but we're addressing the tension between us for the first time, and I know it's been between us since – since Paris, Glasgow, Oslo, since I showed up at his door. But actually verbally acknowledging it makes my heart beat fast. It doesn't seem like a good idea to admit that I'm still attracted to him, that on some level we probably want to fuck each other – we know that it'd be good sex.
