“He works at night.”
Finn turns back to the sizzling pan. “That’s better for you then.”
I sip on my wine, watching as Finn drops in chopped vegetables and pours in sauce. He tips the wok around like an expert.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nope, but I might splash some of the wine in here.” Finn holds out a hand and I pass him the bottle.
Conversation stalls. I wait for Finn to open up with chatting about our hometowns, TV shows, music, anything. Instead, he hums along to Alek’s music and doesn’t speak. In a way, I’m relieved because I don’t want to talk about myself and because every time Finn does talk to me, I’m the topic.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“London.” He doesn’t turn round.
“You don’t have the accent.”
“I didn’t live there long.” Finn turns and leans across the table, grabbing the packet of rice. As he does, I catch his scent and it dizzies me as it triggers a hidden memory I can’t place my finger on. I grip the wine glass.
“You okay?”
“Yes, must be the wine.”
“Lightweight!” He laughs. “You’ve only had one glass; not even that, actually.”
The amusement in his eyes retreats to a frown; I catch a glimpse of as he turns around. I breathe in deeply, hoping the fainting isn’t coming on again. Maybe I shouldn’t drink if I’m still taking the painkillers.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
I spread my fingers on the table in front of me, concentrating on the cold linoleum table, and think what a stupid move it was to ask Finn where he was from. Of course, he’s going to ask about my home too, and then we’ll move onto what we did over the summer.
The music upstairs stops and the familiar sound of Alek’s boots stomp downstairs.
“Hey, Casper…” The grin I heard behind his voice disappears as he walks into the kitchen and sees us. His brown eyes narrow beneath the dark hair falling across his face. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Finn.” He holds out a hand to shake, a formal gesture I find very strange and one Alek doesn’t accept.
Alek looks at Finn as if he’s something I brought in on the bottom of my shoe. “How did you get in?”
“He’s my guest, Alek.”
“I don’t like your guest.”
Something strange is in the room with us, a tension thickening the air as the two guys regard each other. I gulp down my glass of wine and sigh at the testosterone. Finn and Alek are on the edge of each other’s personal space and stare at each other. Finn’s stance is less aggressive; hopefully one of them is mature enough to back down. Behind Finn, the wok sizzles and spits so I get up to stir the meal. Finn steps to one side, breaking his standoff with Alek.
“I’d better go,” Finn says to me.
“Yeah, good idea.” Alek’s voice is as low as Finn’s, and his features are arranged into an expression threatening enough to make me run. I almost do.
“Finn’s my friend,” I snap, “and you don’t get to tell me who I can bring home.”
“See you tomorrow, maybe?” Finn grabs his jacket and bag, then edges around Alek. They’re almost the same height, although Finn is stockier and for a horrible moment, I think one of them is going to punch the other. Finn lingers for a moment, with an impassive look at Alek, before disappearing down the hallway.
The front door shuts.
After a few moments of catching up with the situation, I move to the kitchen counter and pour another glass of wine, then slam the bottle on the table. “What the fuck Alek?”
“I don’t like him.”
Alek is still in the doorway; he hasn’t moved since he saw me and Finn, but at least the dangerous look on his face left with Finn. He’s staring toward the window, barely registering me. Who does he think he is?
“How dare you, you asshole! He’s my friend.”
“I said, I don’t like him,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Why? Do you know him?
“No.”
“This is my home, too. I invite who I like! Do you have to like everyone who comes into this house? You don’t own it!”
“I got a bad…vibe from him; I don’t want him here.” Alek’s tone is low and imploring.
“Well, I get a bad vibe from you!”
Alek remains in the doorway, and as I attempt to get past him, he stretches an arm across. “Stay away from him.”
My fingers itch to push him away, but I don’t want to touch him. “He’s a friend from work who I’m sharing a meal with! So you don’t like him. Tough.”
“Is he the only friend you have at work?”
“No.”
“Who else do you know there?”
I have no answer, because over the last few weeks Finn is the only person I’ve spoken to any longer than polite small talk to work colleagues. “People.”