NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY |

59: rupaul's longest one-night stand race

            'And then they yelled at me for ten minutes until Sasha threatened to ban them from the club even though I had explicitly said that we're out of raspberry syrup so it is okay to replace with strawberry and they had said yes.' Joe takes a swig of her pint and I squeeze her hand under the table. Our hands have stayed interlocked since we slid into this booth at The Poked Bear.

'I think we should have the right to throw rotten vegetables at people who yell at servers,' Caleb mutters. 'One of them medieval stocks could suit the decor at Spectrum.'

'Eilidh, tell us something from your work. Your stories are always comforting rather than rage-inducing.'

Eilidh tucks strands of overgrown pixie cut behind her ears. 'Well, one of my customers gave me flowers as a thank you for the end of her physical therapy. And the gym finally agreed to invest in more wheelchair-accessible equipment since we've been getting more wheelchair users and they have to cut their sessions short to give each other turns.'

'Champion,' I say, 'we get drinks thrown at us and you get flowers.'

Caleb, who has been echoing the word "flowers" in her Scots accent, giggling each time, narrows his eyes. 'Maybe if you were less bitter and better at your job, you'd also get flowers.' His glower barely lasts a second before it crumbles under laughter. 

I run my thumb back and forth along the bridge of Joe's as Eilidh goes into more detail about the drama at the gym where she works. It's Monday evening and the pub is comfortably congenial, people enjoying their pick-me-ups to carry them through the week without the riot of a Friday.

I sip at my paloma—non-virgin, for once. Since The Poked Bear is close enough for all of us to walk home (and the weather for once permits it), I don't need to be the designated driver tonight. And it's not like I'll get drunk from one drink so even if summat happened with Cece, I would be fine. It's just the four of us meaning we're able to talk properly without people accidentally interrupting each other every few sentences.

And that I get to hold Joe's hand with less risk of someone clocking it.

She catches my wrist as we exit. Caleb hops up the stairs from the cellar pub and Eilidh carries his wheelchair like it weighs the equivalent of exactly three sheets of A4 paper—which it don't. I'd know; I carried it up and down the stairs of our school for years. They're too deep in their football debate to notice us steal a kiss.

The string of hearts constricts around my chest, yearning to pierce through it and tangle in her ribcage too. And as I press her into the brick wall at the base of the staircase, her hands twisted in my jacket to instruct me without separating our lips, I think Joe invites the propagation.

'Where are you?'

We jolt apart just as Caleb pokes his head over the wrought iron railing at the top of the staircase. 'Shoelace,' I say and bound up the stairs at a churchly distance from Joe.

Since the pavement ain't wide enough for all of us to walk together, Joe and Eilidh fall into their own conversation several metres ahead of me and Caleb. The February air is crisp but still; it's a comfortable walk back to Moss Side along Raby Street.

Well, it is until Caleb's observation: 'This is a double date.'

'No, this is four mates hanging out.'

He makes a sound of crippling incredulity. 'Not with those lovey-dovey eyes of yours.'

'I don't–' I start but can't deny it.

Empirical and statistical fact: I'm in love with Joe. And, over the past two weeks, it has started to become difficult to avoid the thought that she, by some miracle, reciprocates it.

But I can't admit that to Caleb who'll slap me.

'Our practice dates–'

Caleb jerks his chair to a stop so quickly, he gets friction burn on the side of his thumb that's unprotected by his gloves.

'Back up!' he exclaims. Luckily Joe and Eilidh have collapsed into laughter and don't hear. His glare harpoons through me as I turn to face it. 'Back. The fuck. Up. Practice what now?'

I shrug, intentionally obtuse. 'Joe reckons the reason my dates are always so shit is cause I can't talk about myself so we've been practising.'

'I thought this were friends-with-benefits.'

'That is a benefit.'

Caleb's face wouldn't screw up like this even if he ate a whole lemon. His fingers contort as he employs his hands for extra emphasis, not that he needs it with the waves of his intonation.

'Let me just make sure I've got the whole picture: you have sex, you tell each other your deepest darkest secrets, she has slept at yours for ten nights in a row, and you clearly have romantic feelings for each other. Baby girl, that's a relationship.'

'No, it's just casual,' I say, perfectly happy to cling to my delusion. 'No strings attached.'

'Nicolás, you're made of strings. If someone gut you right now, you wouldn't even have intestines in there, it would just be a clump of strings. And they are all attached.'

'I have organs.'

'Not after I bury you alive and worms eat them, you won't.' His hands drop limply into his lap. The edge of his glare sags to what my body instantly tries to cough out: pity. 'You said you wouldn't.'

I dump my well transparent shroud of cluelessness. 'You said you'd let me have this.'

'Yeah, friends with benefits. I didn't know you were playing house. I am not being funny, either define the relationship or stop.'

My gaze finds her on instinct. Joe and Eilidh are waiting for us halfway down the street. Their conversation is definitely less threatening than this one, if the way her giggles bubble into the air is owt to judge by.

She glances at me with a smile and, though there are fifteen yards between us and the February sun set hours ago, I bloom.

Caleb is right, of course, I know that. But I'm not ready to go back to dating. I don't want to have to wait an hour before I respond to someone's text so I don't come across as clingy, I don't want to worry about my life and interests being boring, I don't want to stumble into another Michael who don't respect my mates or my brother or who I'll have to convince that pansexuality is not evil actually.

I want someone who'll let me listen to them talk about their passions even when I don't really understand. Someone who'll listen to me even when they don't understand. Someone who'll let me be angry and annoyed and a martyr sometimes. I want someone I can hug, someone I can cook for, someone I can walk home and just hold. And yes, also someone I can kiss and fuck and try new sex things with.

I want that with Joe.

Allan was right: it's miserable trying to date just for the sake of it. What he failed to mention is that it's even more miserable when you want to date a specific person.

There's nowt I wouldn't want with Joe. Love with her doesn't make me hold my breath; it's a slow exhale. I couldn't ask for anything better.

While we've been "playing house", Joe has finally coaxed me into telling her about the millionth time I turned a computer off and on again at work and into rambling about every one of my plants, with detailed records of how and when I got them. I even showed her all my cool marbles. She's much more open too, now that I know the truth about Tamsin. It's not always me who ends up crying when we talk.

But I'm still a liar. Whenever I tell her about my parents, she'll see me for what I really am and the line between "friend" and "whatever it is that we're now" will be drawn wide and clear.