“Sounds like you’ve met your match.”
“Says you.”
Connor laughed. “I was never a match for Nat, and that hasn’t changed. Come on, let’s get indoors. I’ve got a curry on.”
Dinner was a quiet affair. Connor was a cracking cook and made valiant attempts to keep the conversation flowing, but Nat and Jamie had little in common, and there wasn’t much that Marc and Nat could talk about with an audience. Jamie’s fascination with Connor’s journalism was obvious, though, and after dinner, when Connor took him upstairs to show him his latest work, Marc and Nat decamped to the pub.
“Your friend doesn’t say much,” Nat said.
“So?” Marc took a deep swallow of the first alcohol he’d touched in months. “You’re not exactly big on small talk yourself.”
“Are you fucking him?”
Marc set his glass down with undue care. “What makes you say that?”
“You wouldn’t bring anyone else here. Why him?”
“You don’t like him?”
“Of course I like him. He’s quiet and he doesn’t give me shit. What’s not to like? But he’s a world away from you, and I don’t get how you became as close as you clearly are.”
Marc sat back in his seat, buying some time as he tried to articulate his relationship with Jamie. “He’s good for me... At least, I think he is. I feel more alive when he’s around, even if he is giving me gyp.”
“Do that often, does he?”
Nat’s suspicion was hard to miss, and Marc knew that it was highly likely that he’d spotted the track marks on Jamie’s arms, analysed his personality and behaviour, and added it all together to reach a number that couldn’t be further from the truth. Back in the day, Nat had been the regiment’s best profiler, but Jamie’s soul ran far deeper than his scars. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I reckon I do.” Marc swallowed another mouthful of beer. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t really give a shit. I lo—like him, and he takes good care of me, when I let him.”
The characteristic hardness in Nat’s pale eyes faded slightly. “He takes care of you, eh? That I’d like to see, ’cause I’ve been trying that for years.”
“Yeah, well. You can’t cook, so you’re no good to me.”
“Dick.”
“Uh-huh.”
It was Nat’s turn to take a drink, a long, slow one, and to clearly measure his words. “He’s pretty young.”
“Twenty-five.”
“And he’s been through a lot.”
It wasn’t a question, but Marc nodded anyway. Despite Nat’s probing questions, it felt good to talk about Jamie. For so long, it had been the two of them against the world. Even Mrs. Valentino hadn’t mentioned Marc’s near-constant houseguest. And Nat would come around. He was no fool, and he knew Marc better than anyone.Almost anyone.“He’s everything you probably think he is, but that doesn’t define him. You know it doesn’t work like that.”
“Does he live with you?”
“No. He lives in a flat in town, but he’s at the house a lot, sorting Mum’s shit out for me. I pay him, but he works much longer hours than we agreed.”And then some.Marc couldn’t remember the last time Jamie had worked a nine-to-five. “He cooks for me too, and keeps the place clean—too clean, if I’m honest, but that’s another story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Not really, I’m only here for the night. Besides, you think I came to this shithole so you could rip my life apart? Piss off, mate.”
Nat grinned. “I’m not ripping it apart, I’m curious... like you were when I met Connor. Don’t tell me you didn’t thinkthatwas a bad idea, and look at us now.”
“I thought hooking up in a war zone was a bad idea, not building a life with a bloke who loves the bones off you.” A wave of envy hit Marc. His true feelings for Jamie were too terrifying to contemplate, and he couldn’t imagine that they would ever find the contented cadence that had kept Nat and Connor together for so many years.