The first time we met, we ended up kissing at the end of the night, and he got my number. The second time, we didn’t kiss, but that was mainly because I got too drunk and had to take myself home early. The third time, we had a drink, just us two, which I thought was a date, but that word seemed to freak him out.
He said he missed having a group to hang out with, that he only sees people one-on-one nowadays. I told him I knew people he’d really get on with and invited him to the pub with us. I was talking and got interrupted, so I made this squealing noise I make when I can’t get my point across, which I understand is deeply annoying, but I didn’t think we were quite on a level for him to make fun of me the way he did, because—as I said—I didn’t think we were friends. Still, he got on with my mates, told them about his dad’s obsession with beetroot juice and his theory that the best films are the ones where there’s lots of bwam! noises. In fact, he got on with them so well that one of them took his number and invited him to a house party he couldn’t make it to.
Afterwards, he came back to mine and we had sex, twice, but then he said he couldn’t stay because he forgot his work laptop and he needed it tomorrow. It was when I was helping him find his sneakers that I realized the situation wasn’t making me feel that good anymore. Not because he was leaving—was pleased I’d get a proper night’s sleep—and not because he wanted to be just friends, but because of how much I was putting in, and how little I was getting in return. I’d introduced him to people I really, really care about, people I’m quite possessive over. It felt like letting him into the inner sanctum of my heart, this man who didn’t want to stay over, who wouldn’t plan anything in advance with me, who isn’t that interested in finding out who I am.
The problem isn’t that it was a casual thing, because there are other casual situations that I enjoy. Like that guy I mentioned before who has the fancy car with the touch screen. He picks me up from nights out with the heating turned up high and takes me back to his, where we sit by the big marble kitchen island drinking Coronas until one of us makes the first move. He has baby wipes and a comfy bed and black-out blinds, and he sends me home in one of the Carhartt T-shirts he doesn’t wear anymore and joggers that are still soft on the inside, so that I get a whole new pajama set every time we hang out. The difference is that our relationship feels more equally weighted. I don’t give much, I don’t try to sort out his problems. I just turn up, have a laugh, have sex, and then in the morning he drives me home way too fast.
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