Boyfriend Material(25)

“Like easy or ordinary.”

I stared at him. I think my mouth might actually have been hanging open.

“Lucien,” he went on, “I realise we’re not friends, and that, perhaps, we’re not naturally suited to one another. That, given the opportunity, you’d have chosen to be with anybody else rather than me. But”—he shifted uncomfortably—“we’ve agreed to be part of each other’s lives, and I can’t do this if you can’t be open with me.”

“My dad’s got cancer,” I blurted out.

Oliver looked at me the way I’d like to imagine I’d look at somebody who’d just told me their dad had cancer, but blatantly wouldn’t. “I’m so sorry. Of course you had to be with him. Why on earth didn’t you say that at the beginning?”

“Well, because I didn’t know. My mum just told me something important was happening, and I believed her because…I’ll always believe her. And I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d think it was weird.”

“Why would I think it’s weird that you love your mother?”

“I don’t know. I always worry it makes me sound like Norman Bates.”

His hand settled warmly on my knee, and while I probably should have, I didn’t see any reason to shake him off. “It’s very admirable of you. And I appreciate your honesty.”

“Thanks. I… Thanks.” Wow, Oliver being nice to me was way harder to deal with than Oliver being angry with me.

“Is it all right if I ask about your father? Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah, you can not ask about my father.”

He patted my knee in this gently sympathetic way that I could never have managed without it feeling like a come-on. “I understand. It’s a family matter and I shouldn’t intrude.”

I’m sure he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad. But he was doing a really good job of it regardless. “It’s not that. I just hate the fucker.”

“I see. I mean”—he blinked—“I don’t. He’s your father and he’s got cancer.”

“He still walked out on Mum and me. Come on, you must know this.”

“Know what?”

“Odile O’Donnell and Jon Fleming. Big passion, big breakup, small kid. Do you not read the papers? Hasn’t Bridge told you?”

“I was aware you were peripherally famous. I didn’t consider it relevant.”

We were quiet a moment. God knows what was going through his head. And I was just confused. I’d always resented people thinking they knew who I was from something they’d read or seen or heard on a podcast, but I’d also apparently got used to it. So used to it that having to actually tell a person about my life was a little bit scary.

“I can’t decide,” I said, finally, “if this is really sweet or really apathetic of you.”

“I’m pretending to date you. Not your parents.”

I shrugged. “Most people think my parents are the most interesting thing about me.”

“Perhaps that’s because you don’t let them know you.”

“The last person who knew me… Never mind.” No way was I going there. Not today. Not ever again. I let out a shaky breath. “Point is, my dad’s a dick who treated my mum like shit, and now he’s doing this big comeback where everyone’s acting like it’s okay, and it’s not okay, and it fucks me off.”

Oliver’s brow wrinkled. “I can see how that would be difficult. But if he truly might die, you should probably be sure you aren’t making any choices you can’t unmake.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that, if the worst happens, and afterwards you regret not giving him a chance, there’ll be nothing you can do about it.”

“What if that’s a risk I’m willing to take?”

“It’s your call.”

“Would you think less of me?” I coughed. “Well, even less of me.”

“I don’t think badly of you, Lucien.”

“Apart from being the sort of self-involved arsehole who’d stand up his date for fun.”

At this, he went a little pink. “I’m sorry. I was upset and said some unfair things. Though in my defence, I’m not sure how you expected me to factor in the possibility that your behaviour was a result of your having received a cryptic message from your reclusive rock icon mother and having then learned that your estranged father, whose recent return to the limelight you profoundly resent, has a life-threatening illness.”

“Pro tip: Apologise or make excuses. Don’t do both.”

“You’re right.” Oliver leaned toward me a little, his breath whispering across my cheek. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

It would have taken only the slightest of movements to kiss him. And I very nearly did because this whole conversation was taking me down a rabbit hole of feelings and memories and urgh—stuff I had trouble sharing with my actual friends. But he’d made it pretty clear he wasn’t up for that, so instead, I had to say, “I’m sorry I hurt you too.”

There was a long silence, with us both hovering awkwardly on the edge of each other’s personal space.

“Are we really bad at this?” I asked. “We’ve been fake dating for three days and we’ve already fake broken up once.”