n i n e t e e n
*
"Is there a world record for the longest ever game of Monopoly?" Casper asks. "If there is, I think we're about to destroy it. How long ago did we start?"
I glance at the clock above the mantelpiece. "At least a few hours ago. But we did take a full hour's break for lunch."
"Very necessary." He pats his stomach as he moves his piece, the boot, and lands on a chance card, narrowly missing my hotels on Euston Road and The Angel Islington. Not that they'd affect him much, when it's only through pure luck that I haven't been bankrupted by him yet. "This is a stamina game, Bee.
"Did you know, you never called me Bee before you heard my mum call me that," I point out, rolling the dice and holding my breath that it won't be a six, seven, nine or twelve. It's a hard eight, and I triumphantly collect a community chest card right between two of Casper's hotels, on Bond Street and Oxford Street.
Casper shrugs. "It's cute."
Cue butterflies. I shake them off and turn over a card, apprehension fading when it turns out to be a good one: a bank error means I'm owed two hundred monoples. According to Casper, the game's currency is actually called Monopoly Money or Monopoly Dollars, but it's always been monoples in the King family.
"I think we're due a snack break soon," he says. "Got to keep our energy levels up. I can't do serious business and real estate management on an empty belly. Ya boi needs to eat."
"Speaking of food, what do you want for supper? And don't say you're cooking, because you've cooked almost every night since you moved in."
"But I like cooking." He pretends to sulk. "It'd be my main hobby, if it wasn't so expensive and if I could eat as much as I want to cook. I enjoy experimenting."
"So ... what do you want me to make for supper?" I got doubles so I roll again, cutting Casper off with a cheer when I roll a seven and land on go. Four hundred monoples for my dwindling bank. I think Casper has about seventy percent of the money the game comes with at this point – I'm struggling, and so is the bank.
"I don't want you to make anything. I want to cook. I'm feeling like a stir fry. Something with a lot of veg, seeing as I've demolished about four hundred biscuits so far." Something crinkles when he moves and he lifts his thigh to find an empty packet of custard creams.
When we dragged ourselves to the supermarket after his shift yesterday, we were both hungry and the trolley was soon filled with a mountain of biscuits and crisps amidst punnets of fruit and a few actual ingredients. Alongside snacks and necessities, we managed to remember all the ingredients for a proper Sunday roast for tomorrow, something I never get to have when it's so much effort when living alone.
When we made it to the till after at least thirty minutes – a long time to spend trawling the aisles – I tried to pay, but Casper insisted it was the least he could do considering everything I've done for him. All I could think I'd done was to give him my spare room, which was empty anyway, and develop a crushing crush that has the power to ruin our friendship. Not the best gift, really.
"Stir fry sounds good," I say, sorting my money into piles. "Can't remember the last time I had one."
"I lived off it when I was a student." Casper takes the dice from me, making a show of shaking them hard and blowing on them in his cupped palms. "If I wasn't having beans on toast or spending all my loan on shit takeaways, stir fry was my go to."
"Sometimes I feel like I missed out by not going to uni," I say, "and then you say shit like that and I realise, nope, I made the right choice."
He chuckles. "Not a fan of beans on toast?"
"Nope. I appreciate good food too much."
"Student life is what propelled me into a newfound appreciation of good food," he says as he reaches across the coffee table for the iconic tartan box of Scottie dog shapes. "Though I'll always be a total slut for shortbread."
"Can you be a shortbread slut who doesn't take eight years to roll the dice?"
"All right, snarky bum." He tries to kick me but considering we're both sitting on the floor around the coffee table, at a right angle to each other, his foot barely has an impact. "Come on, lucky eight."
He's after Marylebone Station, the sole property that neither of us have landed on. I have Fenchurch Station and he has the other two, and we're at something of a stalemate until either of us buys it. He rolls a four, and his shoulders slump when he lands on Pall Mall.
"Yes! That'll be seven hundred and fifty, thank you very much."
"I think the reason this is supposed to be a big family game is that it's supposed to cause huge arguments because they distract from rent collection." He grumbles as he counts out the cash, like it'll make a different to him, and shunts it across the table.
"Manners, please, little tenant. You'll lose your deposit, acting like that."
"Are we still talking about the game?" He cocks an eyebrow at me. "Was I supposed to pay you a deposit?"
I shake my head, laughing quietly to myself, though nothing is ever really to myself when he's so close, barely a few feet between us. "Your company is deposit enough," I say. Casper's face lights up, his eyes twinkling like he's about to say something inappropriate.
"Kalamik 'aa-sal 'aa-la galbi," he says.
For all I know, that is inappropriate.
"Okay, I think I'm getting better at this," I say, though it's only been a few hours since I learnt he speaks Arabic. "That means ... I'll let you win at Monopoly and then we'll be even."
"Wow, quick learner." He passes me the dice. "Wait, we're not even already? So I do owe you. I thought so. I'll take you out for supper when the snow melts."
Never mind the snow, it's my heart that's melting right now. That sounds suspiciously like a date, I think, my hopeful mind latching onto every little thing he says. But that's just how Casper talks. That's how he is – he's a charmer; he has good chat. This is how we've bantered for years, I have to remind myself. It doesn't mean a thing.
"Sounds like a plan," I say. "Now tell me what you said. Kala ... something."
"Kalamik 'aa-sal 'aa-la galbi," he repeats, his words like a warm embrace, his voice softer when he speaks Arabic, as though he's sharing a secret. "Your words are honey on my heart."
I'm not a swooner, usually favouring logic and pragmatism over romance and mush, but dear lord I think I'm swooning right now. I've gone all gooey-eyed and jelly legged and I just want to forget the game and pull him into a hug and finally know what his lips feel like, what his kiss tastes like.
I've been quiet too long. I can feel my face tracking through the colours on a Dulux paint chart, steadily darkening from peach to pink to beetroot red.
"That's cute," I manage to stammer at last. "Kind of beautiful, actually."
"I think so," Casper says. "It's a beautiful language. Everyone raves about Spanish and French and Italian, but I think Arabic is the true language of love."
Is that a hint?
"Oh yeah?" I say, if only to get him to keep talking. I'm holding the dice, the game in my hands, but I don't want him to roll.
"Yeah! Like, there are more than ten different words for love, and they all mean different kinds of love. Or, like, different stages of being in love. I think that's pretty fucking cool," he says, growing animated as he talks. His eyes are sparkling the way they do when he's excited, and I'm hanging off every word.
"What's your favourite?"
"My favourite word for love?"
"Mmhmm."
He purses his lips and changes his position so his knees are pointing up, arms resting across them. "I have three, I think. So there's this word hawa, and that's the start of love, right? Like, when your heart and soul drift towards someone. I mostly like that one because of the origin – it comes from a word that means the rise and fall of a transient wind. That feels pretty accurate to me, the way your heart ebbs and flows at the start."
I can't tear my eyes from his face, drawn to his lips as he talks and smiles.
"I also love the most common word for love. Hubb. Very simple, but I dig the origin, 'cause it comes from the same root as the word for seed." He mimes the blossoming of a flower as he talks. "Love is a seed, I think – it gets planted, sometimes way before you even realise it's been planted, and you don't know if it's going to grow or not, or how fast."
My heart is beating so hard, I can hear the rush of blood in my hot ears. His words are like a poem, like some beautiful work of art – he is a work of art, one that I could stare at for hours. His face right now, bright and alive and so full of light, belongs in the National Portrait Gallery.
He slows down and lets out a sigh, looping his arms around his knees and clasping his hands together. "I think my favourite, though, is the final stage of love, huyum, because it means the utter loss of reason. Love transcends logic." He flutters one hand like a bird floating away and a soft slip of a smile graces his lips, his eyes focused on some far away place as we sink into a silence laden with everything he has just said.
Love transcends logic. That feels familiar. That's the battle between my head and my heart: logically, I should bury my attraction so that we can be housemates without distraction. But my heart is yelling otherwise, begging me to let down my guard and tell him the truth. That I can't bear it when he talks about love like that, even though I don't want him to stop, because it feels like he's reading my heart and I feel vulnerable.
"English isn't so eloquent, I don't think," Casper continues. "We don't have nearly so many words or so many meanings. We're so basic."
"Mmm."
"Anyway. Roll the dice. I don't think our Guinness World Record attempt will count if they find out our game only took so long because we spent half the time talking about Arabic words for love." He grins and nudges my hand. "Go on. Get on with it."
I let the dice tumble from my hand and I land on one of my own properties. Safe again. But I'm struggling to pay attention to the game now. I wonder why. It's quiet in here, no music or TV to distract us from each other or the board, and my fingers itch to put on a film, to have something else to focus on as we power on through the game.
"You good?" Casper asks. "You look like I've lost you."
"Monopoly's very draining," I say with a short laugh.
"We could call it quits and just admit that I'll win."
"Oh, fuck no." I sit up straight and neaten up my property cards. "I just got a second wind – I'm gonna raze your arse."
*
Two hours later, the game comes to an end after I've spend the past ninety minutes limping along but refusing to admit defeat. First I lost all my money to Casper's rent, managing to land on Park Lane and then roll a double one to land on Mayfair too. Then I had to sell my hotels and my houses; I mortgaged my properties; I paid rent in property rather than cash.
And then I land on Mayfair again, and there's no option but to concede defeat. I have to bow my head and allow him to win, sulking as he crows over his victory.
"Casper Boutayeb wins again, undefeated since two thousand and nine." He holds up his properties, every single one on the entire board, once he has unmortaged the ones I gave him, for no reason other than to prove he can. There are no houses or hotels left in the bank, hardly any money except for a clutch of singles.
"Good game," I say eventually, once he's stopped grinning like a mad man. Money and cards are spread all over the table, a chaotic mess that belongs entirely to him. "Winner cleans up, right?"
"No, no, ladies first."
"No can do; this loser needs to go and soak her wounds," I say with a shrug. "While you bathe in cash and hog the housing market, I'm going to go and wash this loss off my body."
Casper laughs. "Your wish is my command."
I wish I could know if he likes me even half as much as I like him. But that might put a dampener on the mood, and I've really enjoyed the past few hours, even if I'm getting a bit crampy from hardly moving for the past few hours except to pee and root out snacks from the kitchen.
"I won't be too long."
"Take all the time you need. I'll get started on supper once I've hidden the evidence of how I utterly smashed you."
"You do that," I say drily.
"Round after supper? Best of three?"
"In your dreams, Cas." Halfway up the stairs, I pause and give him what I hope is an innocent, butter-wouldn't-melt smile. "I may have forgotten to mention it but one of the stipulations of a day of Monopoly was that we'll watch Home Alone with supper. I hope you're excited!"
He doesn't grimace this time, or wrinkle up his nose. He just ... laughs. "Whatever you say, ya amar."
"Hold the phone. Where'd my grinch go?" I grip the banister and stare down at him; he's standing in the middle of the sitting room looking up at me, a wad of Monopoly money in his hand, and he shrugs.
"Guess he's taking a nap. Better take advantage of it."
"Oh, I will. You don't know what you've let yourself in for, Scrooge. Tonight's a double feature. Home Alone and Home Alone 2. Reigning champions of the genre."
"La 'astatie alaintizar," he mutters as I head up. I can only assume that means I've made a terrible decision, and I can't help but smile as I run my bath. I'm determined to change his mind.
*
Casper is god of the kitchen. The stuff he whips up is always delicious, today's supper the perfect mix of ingredients for a sweet, nutty stir fry with a kick of heat from the liberal ginger. I can't resist a taste from the pan before it makes it to our plates.
"Oi! Get your sticky fingers out of there," he says, chopping up cashew nuts to sprinkle over the dish as a garnish. "I thought you were supposed to be getting the film ready."
"It is ready. Kevin McCallister is just waiting for us to bear witness to his antics when his careless family flies off to Paris without him." I dip my teaspoon into his sizzling sauce again, blowing on a beansprout.
"Spoiler alert!"
"This film is thirty years old, Friendly Ghost. I think the statute of limitations on spoilers is, like, six months. And that's being generous."
He bumps my hip to push me away from the oven when I dip my spoon in again. "You're a dirty double dipper."
"You wouldn't share a spoon with me?" I say it as a joke, but he takes the spoon from me and steals my mouthful, crunching a slice of red pepper.
I know my crush is far gone when even that gets me hot under the collar, watching him lick the sauce off my spoon.
"I think it's ready," he says, putting his hand on my hip to ease me out of his way so he can take the noodles off the boil and drain them in the sink.
With the fire and the heater blasting all day, it's plenty hot enough that I'm not in my onesie after my bath, but a flannel pyjama set, and I feel the heat of his fingertips through the material when his hand grazes my waist. Maybe I should stand in his way more often, just to feel his touch.
There are two sofas in the sitting room, so when I sit on the one by the Christmas tree, I expect him to take the other. But he doesn't. He sits right next to me, pulling a cushion over his lap to rest his plate on. The proximity spikes my heart rate.
"What's the big deal with this film anyway?" he asks as I press play and the oh-so-familiar intro music starts.
"It's such a good film. The perfect balance of action and fun and heart and Christmas – it isn't your typical cheesy romance or Santa fantasy. It's in a league of its own," I say, my hand paused over my plate.
"It sounds like Die Hard for kids," Casper says, pulling a face when I look over at him.
"In that case, you should like it."
"Fair enough." He twirls noodles around his fork, piercing strips of chicken and peppers. "Am I allowed to talk while it's on?"
"Depends what you're saying."
"Can I ask questions and point out plot holes?"
"Yes. Film-related talk is permitted," I say, faux-serious. "You have to remember that this is from nineteen eighty-nine, so half the things you think are plot holes are probably just a product of their time."
He chuckles. "All righty then." He's quiet for all of a few minutes. "Question: if they're going to Paris in the morning, why aren't they better prepared? This has presumably been the plan for a while; this level of disorder is uncalled for."
Something tells me this film was a bad choice. There's never going to be a moment of silence.
He has a lot of questions. Even more comments. He mutters about the irresponsibility of the parents, leaving it to Heather to count the kids and not once checking for themselves; he rolls his at the police response – "Surely the lack of a response from Kevin is a sign that they should go in the house, not leave and assume he was never there?" – and he scoffs at the injuries Harry and Marv sustain.
"The kid's a genius, I'll admit," he says. "When I was eight, I was a weak little scaredy-cat. I'd have just gone round to a friend's house and waited it out. Or called the police."
"All his friends are on holiday," I point out, "and he clearly – and rightfully so – has trust issues with the Chicago PD. As far as Kevin's aware, Harry is a corrupt cop."
He goes quiet again. I've learnt that to be a sign that he agrees with me, or at least doesn't immediately have a counter-argument.
"These guys really should be dead," he says through a mouthful of post-stir fry biscuit, catching crumbs in his hand.
"I'll give you that. But there wouldn't be much of a film if Harry died the moment he cracked his head on the pavement. Just wait until the second film – I cringe every time Marv takes a brick to the face."
"And you're making me watch that one too?" he asks.
"Absolutely. Now shush, and enjoy the ride. There are a lot more antics to come."
He leans forward like he's getting ready to bolt, but he takes a couple more pieces of shortbread and leans back, crossing his ankles on the coffee table. When he shifts, we end up closer and his arm brushes mine, and he doesn't move away. I realise every muscle is tensed and it takes a lot of effort to force myself to relax.
Even more when, as the film starts to tie up and I'm primed for the emotional reunion between Kevin and his mum, Casper yawns and rests his head on my shoulder and mumbles, "It's kind of good, I guess."
And my heart just about implodes.
*
a bit late today - i'm a bit behind with writing! i hope you enjoy this!