born, moved to the US. I was two. I don’t remember him, or . . . just the odd shape and sort of . . .’ He waves a hand. ‘The odd feeling. Mam almost never talks about him – all I know is he was a plumber from Dublin.’
I widen my eyes. I can’t imagine not knowing any more than that about my father, but Leon says it like it’s nothing. He clocks my expression and shrugs.
‘It’s just never been a thing for me. Finding out more about him. It bothered Richie in his teens, but don’t know where he got with it – we don’t talk about it.’
It feels like there’s more to be said there, but I don’t want to push him and ruin the evening. I reach across and lay my hand on his wrist for a moment; he shoots me another surprised, curious look. The waiter drifts closer, perhaps sensing that our aimless conversation is unlikely to move anywhere else if he doesn’t do something to nudge things along. He starts clearing the last bits and pieces from our table; I belatedly take my hand from Leon’s wrist.
‘We should go to bed, shouldn’t we?’ I say.
‘Probably,’ Leon says. ‘Is Babs still about?’ he asks the waiter.
He shakes his head. ‘She went home.’
‘Ah. Did she say which room was mine? She said Tiffy and I could stay over.’
The waiter looks at me, then Leon, then me again.
‘Err,’ he says. ‘I think . . . she assumed . . . you were . . .’
It takes Leon a while to clock the issue. When he realises, he groans and facepalms.
‘It’s all right,’ I say, getting the giggles again, ‘we’re used to sharing a bed.’
‘Right,’ says the waiter, looking between us again, more puzzled than ever. ‘Well. That’s good then?’
‘Not at the same time,’ Leon tells him. ‘We share a bed at different times.’
‘Right,’ the waiter repeats. ‘Well, err, shall I . . .? Do you need me to do something?’
Leon waves a hand good-naturedly. ‘No, you go home,’ he says. ‘I’ll just sleep on the floor.’
‘It’s a big bed,’ I tell him. ‘It’s fine – we can just share.’
I let out a yelp – I’d been way too ambitious with trying to put weight on my sprained ankle as I get up from the table. Leon is at my side in an instant. He has very fast reactions for a man who has consumed quite a lot of whisky.
‘I’m OK,’ I tell him, but I let him put his arm around me to help support me as I hop-walk. After a certain amount of that, when we get to the stairs, he says, ‘Feck it,’ and picks me up again to carry me.
I shriek in surprise and then burst out laughing. I don’t tell him to put me down – I don’t want him to. Again I see the polished bannister and quirky pictures in their curly gilt frames sliding by as he jogs me up the stairs; again he opens the door to my room – our room – with his elbow and carries me through the doorway, kicking the door shut again behind him.
He lays me on the bed. The room is almost dark, the light from the streetlamp outside the window casting soft yellow triangles across the duvet and running gold through Leon’s hair. His big, brown eyes stare down at me, his face only inches from mine as he gently takes his arm from underneath me to settle my head on the pillows.
He doesn’t move. We stare at one another, our gazes locked, just a breath or two between us. The moment hangs taut, charged with possibility. A little flicker of panic sparks somewhere in the back of my mind – what if I can’t do this without freaking out? – but I’m aching for him to kiss me, and the panic flickers out again, blissfully forgotten. I can feel Leon’s breath on my lips, see his eyelashes in the half-light.
Then he closes his eyes and pulls back, turning his head aside with a quick sigh as if he was holding his breath.
Oof. I pull back too, suddenly uncertain, and that taut silence between us breaks. Did I . . . misread that whole gazes-locked, staring-at-each-other, lips-almost-touching thing?
My skin’s hot, my pulse fluttering. He glances back at me; there’s still heat in his eyes and a little frown between his eyebrows. I’m sure he was thinking about kissing me. Maybe I did something