Page 160 of Proof By Contradiction
I pull out. Bin the condom. Bathroom, the flannel. He lets me clean him because we’re past arguing about it.
Back in bed. Duvet up. He pulls me in. His arm across my chest, heavy, way it goes when he’s already half gone.
‘Tomorrow,’ he mumbles. ‘I owe you.’
‘Noted.’
His breathing slows.
Flat quiet. Radiator clicks. Outside, the tram, the last one. Manchester does Manchester. Tomorrow is the lasagna and my parents and the doorbell at one o’clock, and tonight is this, and tonight is most nights, and that’s the point.
Key in my wallet on the bedside table. Brass. Worn. Home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The lasagna is a war crime. Just the shade of brown that says ten minutes too long, and the smell of cheese with opinions. Laurence stands in front of the oven with a tea towel over his shoulder and the expression of someone whose academic career survived a misconduct investigation but whose dinner has not survived the combination of nerves and a faulty timer.
‘It’s fine,’ I say.
‘The edges are everything.’
‘Crispy. People pay extra for crispy.’
We both know: the lasagna is a lie. We both look at it anyway.
‘Your father threatened to report me to the police even before seeing this,’ he says, and the sentence arrives without warning, as Laurence’s worst thoughts always arrive—mid-task, disguised as observation.
‘And my mum asked me to meet you.’ I lean against the counter. ‘People change.’
‘Your father hasn’t changed. He’s coming to lunch. There’s a difference.’
He’s not wrong. But the lasagna’s already in the serving dish and the table’s set—four places, five if Ron stays, which Ronwill because Ron always stays—and Laurence has changed his shirt three times. Blue, white. Blue again. Then a grey I’ve never seen before, pulled from the back of the wardrobe like a man retrieving a weapon.
‘That shirt’s new.’
‘It’s not new. I bought it for a conference in 2019 and never wore it.’
‘You bought a shirt years ago and saved it for the occasion of meeting my parents over burnt lasagna.’
‘The lasagna isn’t burnt. It’s perfect.’
‘Crispy.’
Laughter surfaces and dies; the muscles try, but the nerves intercept. He straightens a fork that’s already straight. The tremor’s there. Faint, the Haldrey tells.
I cross the kitchen and take him. The one straightening the fork. He closes his fingers around mine, and the pressure is tight. Tighter than he’d admit.
‘Laurence.’
‘Mm.’
‘They’re going to see what I see.’ I don’t elaborate. Don’t need to.
The buzzer goes. He drops my hand like an instinct. The professional reflex, the don’t-touch-me-when-people-might-see, the muscle memory of a year of hiding. Then he catches himself. Looks at his empty hand.
‘Old habit,’ he says.
‘I know.’
