You're My Boyfriend

We booked dinner for Thursday because neither of us wanted the photograph to become a reason to stop leaving the house.

All week, we'd discussed what we were ready for. Carefully. Repeatedly. So carefully, in fact, that we kept offering each other room without stepping into any of it.

“I won't rush you,” Rafa said.

“I won't rush you either.”

It was a very considerate stalemate.

At the restaurant, we put our phones away and ordered food. For an hour, we managed to discuss a blocked drain at his flat, Ben's increasingly ambitious birthday plans, and whether my stuffed gull deserved a place of honour on the living-room shelf.

“He's watching us,” Rafa said of the gull.

“He's a professional observer.”

“He fell behind the sofa.”

“Difficult working conditions.”

By dessert, I was laughing hard enough that the tension of the week had loosened.

We shared a slice of chocolate cake. Rafa claimed he wanted only a taste, then proceeded to demonstrate a flexible understanding of the word.

I had the last half packed to take away.

Outside, the pavement shone with earlier rain. Rafa carried the paper bag in one hand and held mine with the other.

“You said one bite,” I told him.

“You cut a bite the size of a building.”

“Professional athlete. Large appetite.”

He looked down at me, smiling, his thumb moving once over the back of my hand.

A flash lit the pavement.

“Hayes! Costa! Over here.”

A man stepped away from a parked car with a camera raised. Another held a phone, already recording.

“The pictures online. Are you two dating?”

Rafa stopped.

His fingers loosened.

My hand fell to my side, and for a moment the cold touched the exact place where his palm had been.

I looked at him.

“Why did you let go?”

He turned towards me immediately. His voice dropped.

“I wasn't sure you'd decided about being public. I didn't want to make that decision for you.”

He glanced towards the cameras, then back at my face.

“If you want to leave, we can leave.”

I looked at the creased paper handles in his other hand. He'd gripped them too tightly. He was nervous, and he was staying, waiting for me to answer instead of deciding what silence meant.

Eight months ago, I'd stood in a hotel breakfast room watching a man on a screen tell the world I didn't matter.

Now that same man had spent months learning how to be there. Early for coffee. Still on the coach when I woke. Sitting at my kitchen table through a conversation neither of us enjoyed.

I reached for his hand.

This time, I threaded my fingers between his.

“You're my boyfriend,” I said. “Why should I be afraid to let people know?”

His lips parted. For once, nothing clever came out.

I squeezed his hand.

“You're usually much more talkative, Costa.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound unsteady.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I turned towards the cameras.

“Yes, we're together. Rafa's my boyfriend.”

The shutter clicked in a rapid burst.

“How long has this been going on? Was the rivalry just publicity?”

“The competition was real,” I said. “So is the dating.”

Beside me, Rafa finally found his voice.

“And I'm very happy to be his boyfriend.”

I looked at him. He was smiling so openly that I almost forgot the cameras again.

“Costa, last year you said Hayes meant—”

“That was a hurtful thing to say, and it was wrong.” Rafa's hand remained steady in mine. “I'll address it properly. Tonight, we'd like to go home.”

There were more questions. I didn't answer them. We walked to the car together, and he opened the passenger door for me before placing the cake safely behind my seat.

Only when both doors were closed did the outside noise recede.

Rafa sat with his keys in his free hand.

“I thought,” he said slowly, “you might think I was trying to distance myself again.”

“For a second, I didn't understand.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So I asked you.” I turned my hand in his. “And you answered.”

He looked down at our fingers.

“Next time,” I said, “just ask me before you let go.”

“I will.”

He lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles.

We sat quietly for a moment. Then I took out my phone and called Lucy.

She answered on the second ring.

“We've just spoken to two photographers outside dinner,” I said. “We told them we're together. We both wanted to.”

“Are you somewhere private now?”

“In the car.”

“All right. Send me anything you remember them asking. Go home. I'll be available if you need me.”

After I hung up, Rafa finally started the engine.

Halfway home, he glanced over.

“Boyfriend?”

“You've heard it several times tonight.”

“I know.”

I could hear the smile in his voice without looking.

“I'd like to hear it once more.”

I turned towards the window, trying uselessly to hide mine.

“Drive me home, boyfriend. You still owe me half a cake.”