Page 29 of In the Same Boat

He seems lighter somehow. I swear he shuts the passenger door with more care than usual.

He has had enough to drink that I’m driving, but not enough to seem drunk. I wonder if he’s had enough to be honest with me, or if he’ll still keep his guard up. He’s open enough about wanting to find someone, but he talks like we’re mates, a couple of lads; he doesn’t get into the details of how he feels. Really feels. Because he hasn’t really had anyone special in his life since my mum died. That’s why I’m so surprised to see him jumping in feet first with Chrissy.

I start the engine and set off while he looks back towards the house through the passenger window, as though there is still a chance of catching one last glimpse of the woman he has known for a day, but already seems to have fallen for.

‘It went well,’ he says simply.

I glance at him.

‘Well?’

‘Well,’ he replies.

‘That’s all you’re going to say?’ I ask with a laugh. ‘You have me pick you up from a hook-up, and all you’re going to say is “well”?’

‘I had a nice time.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I gathered that from the look on your face.’

He turns to look at me.

‘What look?’

‘The one that says you’re about five minutes from giving me a lecture on how life is great, the birds are singing a little louder, the sky is a little more blue – that I should be more open to meeting people, blah blah blah.’

He laughs, like that is exactly where this is going.

The roads are quieter than they were when I arrived, now that the post-work rush has died down.

‘Want to stop somewhere and grab some dinner?’ I ask.

‘I thought you needed to be somewhere?’

‘Nah, I think Sammie needed some space after work,’ I reply. ‘She clearly wasn’t expecting to come home to a houseful.’

‘You couldn’t have charmed her for a bit longer?’

I laugh – assuming he’s joking.

‘Maybe I’m not as charming as you think,’ I reply.

‘Then you don’t take after your dad,’ he says confidently. ‘But okay, yeah, let’s grab something. Fancy a pizza?’

‘Always,’ I say, thinking about which way to head.

It’s summer – but English summer. I’m loving the lighter nights, the pops of sunshine, sleeping with the window open (although admittedly I do that in the winter too). Plus, I’m a shorts kind of guy, so as soon as I think it’s warm enough (unless trousers are absolutely necessary) I pretty much live in shorts. It will be the tail end of September before I can see that changing.

And yet… English summer isn’t the same as holiday summer, is it? When winter was dragging into spring, all I was asking for was warmer days. Now that they’re here, all I’m asking for is to go on holiday. To be honest, I think the only thing that’s stopping me is my dad. Not that he wouldn’t let me go – more that he would want to come with me. I’ve experienced going on nights out with him – imagine a lads’ holiday! I know without asking that none of my mates would be up for it, so it would be just me and Dad – Hank, should I say. I’m not supposed to use the D-word when he’s in pulling mode.

‘It really was great, you know…’ he pipes up again.

‘Glad to hear it,’ I say – though I’m not. I’m happy he’s happy, of course, but he can spare me the details.

I indicate at a roundabout and keep my eyes on the road.

‘Chrissy is lovely. And that daughter of hers, she seems like a laugh. She’s single, you know…’

I laugh.