After Felix - Lily Morton Page 0,91
I realise how young and hurt I’d been back then. It’s easy to see now that Ivo is not the enemy or the villain. He’s just a beautiful, intelligent man who shared some incredibly intense experiences with Max. None of what happened was his fault. I’ve villainised him over the years because he had what I so desperately wanted, and it seemed to mean nothing to him.
Max’s phone rings and he looks down and curses. “Connor’s been trying to get through all afternoon.”
Ivo grins. “Poor Connor. He’s always been so bewildered by your social life.” He jerks, and it’s very obvious that Henry just kicked him.
I shake my head. “If you’re trying to cover up the fact that Max has shagged more people than Peter Stringfellow, I wouldn’t bother.”
“Not for a long while though,” Henry says quickly and very loyally. “And even at his worst, Max never had a mullet.”
“What a glowing character assessment,” Max says sourly.
“Not my business.” I look over at Max. “You should take his call.”
“I’ll speak to him later,” he says, darting an uneasy glance around the table.
“They’re not going to bite me, Max. I’ll be fine alone with your friends for a few minutes.”
He narrows his eyes at me and then stands, palming his phone. “Please try not to put Felix off me any more than possible,” he says earnestly to Henry and Ivo. “Don’t share any more of your little stories, Ivo. They do not help.”
Ivo makes a zipping motion over his mouth, and Henry laughs.
When Max leaves, a small silence falls, and then Henry pushes away from the table.
“Where are you going?” I ask, slightly panicked at being left with Ivo.
“Just to the loo. I’ll be back in a second.” He glares at Ivo. “Please try not to help, Ivo. It never goes well.”
“I find that quite offensive,” Ivo says indignantly.
“You’ll find it quite lonely in the spare bedroom too, if you upset Felix,” Henry says serenely and wanders off.
Ivo and I regard each other silently for a few moments. I feel intimidated by him. He’s handsome and older than me, and it’s a fact that he’s seen more of the world and lived a more exciting life than mine. But I remind myself that I bring my own talents to the table. Even though snarkiness and extreme sarcasm don’t seem to be things that are in demand career-wise.
“You’re wrong,” he says suddenly.
I raise my eyebrows, unsure if I said the last bit out loud. “Why?” I ask cautiously.
“Max is your business, and he’s all yours.”
“That was a long time ago, and it ended badly. I don’t think my confidence can take a second go.”
“Because he was in love with me?”
I gape at him. “You’re very… forthright.”
He smiles. “You can say rude. It’s fine.” He leans forward. “Max was never in love with me.”
“Well, he gave a very good impression of it,” I say faintly.
He shakes his head. “He’s a loyal friend and confused that with love. He’s always been looking for someone to love and who will love him back for everything he is. He’s amazing,” he says with a devoted doggedness that is oddly touching. “Anyone who has him at their back will be lucky, because he’s kind and funny and once you’re in with him, you never leave his affections.” He toys with his glass of wine, his long fingers tracing invisible patterns. “He’s loyal to me because of the shit we went through. No one will ever know what we shared as hostages, and that's a very good thing,” he says fervently. “But we could never have been together. We didn’t suit. We were okay for a roll around in bed, and we had some amazingly fun times, but it amounted to nothing for both of us. Both of us,” he says, looking into my eyes. “It just took longer for Max to realise. I was always in love with Henry, and Max just needed to find his own person.” He shrugs. “It took him a while, and of course he had to fuck his person off first until his person wanted to murder him. Wouldn’t be Max, otherwise.”
I smile, my head spinning. Ivo’s words ring with absolute truth and mesh with things that Zeb has said in the past.
“He was never the same after you left,” Ivo says. “He lost his spark.”
“And yet he seemed to discover it by excavating the tonsils of most of London’s men,” I say wryly.
“Only after he found out you were in a