Husband Material (London Calling #2)(118)

“What worries me is that it might be neither of us.”

I glared at him across the table. “Only you could find that worrying.”

“On the contrary”—he was still doing that slightly detached rational thing he did when things were a bit too intense for him—“if one of us is being an arsehole, then everything is simple. That person just needs to stop being an arsehole, and we’ll be fine. But if neither of is being an arsehole, then that implies that we might have —and forgive the strong language—fundamental incompatibilities.”

In any other context, I’d have found the fact he called the phrase fundamental incompatibilities strong language kind of endearing.

This—our special, emotionally resonate date I’d been late for and hungover at—was not any other context.

So I was fucking terrified.





"WHAT KIND OF FUNDAMENTAL INCOMPATIBILITIES?" I definitely did not screech. “Because it feels like you’re blowing the balloon arch up out of all proportion. Which is, I suppose, at least appropriate for a balloon-based structure.”

“It is not,” said Oliver tightly, “the fucking balloon—” He broke off abruptly as the waiter set down our pea-and-broad-bean rotolos.

“Thank you very much.” Then unbroke equally abruptly. “Arch.”

“I know, I know. It’s what…” I made the air-quotiest air quotes that ever air-quoted. “‘The balloon arch represents.’ Which doesn’t have to be anything, Oliver. It’s fucking balloons.”

Oliver took a deep breath. I had a sinking feeling this was going to be logical and wordy. Which was sad because I usually found Oliver being logical and wordy very hot. “I realise you would prefer this to be simple, Lucien. But it isn’t. Over the past year, you’ve said some things to me that have required me to do a certain amount of self-reflection, and I need to know the conclusions I’ve reached are acceptable to you, especially if we’re going to spend our lives together.”

I briefly put my throbbing head in my hands. “Is this relationship drama or a deposition?”

“I’m not totally convinced you know what a deposition is.”

Fair.

“But,” he went on, “I’m trying to make this as clear as I can.

Because I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings or for either of us to make any mistakes.”

“You’re not a mistake,” I told him, less affectionately than the words suggested. “But I’m starting to wonder if you think I am.”

“That’s not in question. I just want to talk to you about…about how I’m feeling, I suppose.”

I sat up and stabbed resentfully at my rotolo. “How you’re feeling about rainbow balloon arches?”

“In essence, yes.” He gave an anxious little sigh. “Because, in a way, you’re correct. I will never truly know if the reason if I am discomforted by the trappings of mainstream LGBTQ culture is because I was raised in an environment where they were viewed negatively. Or because I simply don’t feel included by them. Or, indeed, because I have legitimate concerns about their origins and increasing commercialisation. And, honestly, I don’t think there’s any way to disentangle those things.”

This was turning into very much the opposite of the romantic meal I’d envisioned. “Okay? That’s good for you, I guess?”

“I just want you to…understand.”

He was looking at me kind of the way he had when he first told me he worked in criminal defence. And it made me feel…weird.

Mostly good weird. Like, even after three years with Oliver, it still did strange things to my head and my heart that someone could care that much about what I thought. I put my fork down. Because, suddenly, I really did want to y’know… “Understand what?” I asked.

“That I’ll never be…that I’ll never express my identity in the way you express your identity. And while”—his mouth turned up wryly —“that doesn’t come from a wholly uncomplicated place, it isn’t a flaw in who I am. It’ s just who I am.”

I thought I did understand that. But then again I’d clearly given Oliver the impression I didn’t, and Oliver was way smarter than me.

“I–I do get that,” I tried. “It’s just sometimes hard to get my brain around.”

“That’s the problem. I’m not sure I want to be something that’s hard to get your brain around.”

This felt like it was teetering on the edge of a serious place. A potentially relationship-ending, marriage-breaking serious place. So I gambled. “Okay, but I think that ship has already sailed.”

“How reassuring.” He was giving me an arch look, but he seemed to be listening.

“Not like that. I just… You know you think about things differently from me. About life, about the law. Hell”—I speared a piece of rotolo and waved it at him—“even about food. I don’t want to be in a relationship with somebody I always agree with.”

“I’m not sure that being vegan is the same as processing my identity in a way you can’t access.”

“Isn’t it, though?” I asked, hoping my double or nothing was going to come down double, not nothing. “It’s not like being gay— being the kind of gay where you don’t wear rainbows or go on marches—”