Chapter 312: A Little Too Much Like Home

The walk home was considerably quieter than our trip to the carnival, although it was the kind of silence I found myself enjoying rather than feeling the need to fill with us bickering nonsense.

Damien walked beside me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his shoulders occasionally brushing against mine whenever the pavement narrowed, while I carried the ridiculously oversized stuffed animal he had won for me.

The carnival had done something to us, though I wasn’t entirely sure what. Perhaps it was the familiarity of walking beside him without an argument waiting to happen, or the way he had laughed quietly when I accused him of choosing the most embarrassing stuffed animal available.

Maybe it was simply the fact that, for a few hours, we had been able to enjoy each other’s company without dragging the weight of our past into every conversation.

Whatever it was, the tension that had followed us since his return had eased enough for me to breathe a little more freely around him.

When we reached the little house, the familiar sight of the porch light glowing against the dark made me feel strangely reluctant to go inside.

The carnival had been bright and noisy, filled with music, laughter, colourful lights, and the smell of fried food, while our home stood peacefully at the end of the street, with its quiet windows and slightly uneven front steps.

Damien paused beside me as I unlocked the door, glancing at the small porch and the potted plants Frank insisted on keeping despite his ongoing disagreements with their survival.

"Your father has been taking care of these?" he asked.

"Mostly. Although I suspect the plants have been taking care of themselves for the past few weeks."

"That’s unfortunate."

"Don’t sound so disappointed. They’re doing their best."

"I wasn’t criticizing them."

"Good, because they’re very sensitive."

He gave me a look that suggested he was reconsidering several things about my personality, but he followed me inside without another word.

The house was quiet, and the only light came from the small lamp in the living room, which Dad usually left on when he knew I would be returning late.

I glanced towards the hallway, expecting to hear him call out to ask how the carnival had been, but there was no movement from his room.

"Dad’s probably asleep," I murmured, lowering my voice out of habit.

"Should we leave the light off?"

"There’s no point. He’ll wake up if we make too much noise anyway."

I took two glasses from the cupboard and filled them with water as Damien leaned against the counter while I handed him one, and for a little while, we drank in silence.

I could hear the ticking of the clock above the doorway, and the familiar smell of the house, a mixture of laundry detergent, wood polish, and whatever Frank had cooked for dinner, settled around me.

It was strange how quickly the night had changed.

Only an hour earlier, I had been standing beneath carnival lights, laughing at Damien’s terrible attempts to win prizes, and now we were in my father’s kitchen, sharing a glass of water as though this were something we had done every evening for years.

The thought made my chest tighten, although not entirely unpleasantly.

"So...did you have fun tonight?" Damien asked.

I looked at him over the rim of my glass. "Are you asking because you genuinely want to know, or because you’re expecting me to compliment your impressive carnival skills?"

"I won you a stuffed animal."

"You spent an unreasonable amount of money trying to win me a stuffed animal."

"That’s not an answer."

I set my glass down and pretended to consider the question. "I suppose I had a decent time."

"A decent time?"

"Don’t push it. I might change my damn mind."

His smile deepened, and he looked so quietly pleased with himself that I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes. "I’m glad."

"I did have fun," I admitted after a moment. "More than I expected to, actually."

"I know."

"Oh, you know?"

"You were smiling most of the evening."

"That doesn’t mean anything. I smile at students when they ask me whether an assignment is compulsory, even when I know they’re hoping I’ll say no."

"Do you?"

"Of course. It’s called being approachable."

"And what do you tell them?"

"That the assignment is compulsory, obviously."

Damien laughed softly, and I felt an absurd amount of satisfaction at having been the reason for it. "Evil guy..."

I had always liked his laugh, even when it was little more than a quiet breath of amusement, and hearing it again made me remember all the times I had missed it without allowing myself to acknowledge how much I wanted it back.

"How has work been?" he asked, his expression settling into something more attentive. "You mentioned your students were giving you trouble earlier"

"They’re not giving me trouble," I replied, although the memory of my most recent lecture made me reconsider. "They’re just very committed to testing the limits of my patience."

"Isn’t that part of teaching?"

"It’s part of teaching when you enjoy it. When you don’t, it’s a daily exercise in discovering new ways to remain polite."

He raised an eyebrow. "You don’t enjoy it?"

"I enjoy the subject. I enjoy psychology, and I like helping students understand things they might have struggled with before. But standing in front of a classroom and trying to convince a group of people who would rather be anywhere else or flirting with me that what I’m saying is important can be exhausting."

"Yet you chose to become a lecturer."

"I didn’t exactly wake up one morning and decide that my life’s ambition was to stand in front of a room full of young adults who think deadlines are suggestions." I took another sip of water. "I wanted to work in a field that allowed me to focus on psychology, and the opportunity came along. It was a good position, and I wasn’t about to turn it down just because some of my students think submitting an assignment at three in the morning is a reasonable way to demonstrate commitment."

"Do you like the university?"

"Most days. The staff are decent, and the students aren’t all terrible. There are a few who genuinely make the job worthwhile, especially when they come to tell me they’ve understood something we discussed in class or that they’ve decided to pursue further studies because of it."

I shrugged lightly. "I suppose those moments make the rest of it easier to tolerate."

Damien watched me with a thoughtful expression. "You always were good at explaining things."

"That’s because I have the patience of a saint."

"Oliver."

"Fine. I have the patience of someone who needs his salary yesterday."

His quiet laugh returned, and I found myself leaning back against the opposite counter, feeling more at ease than I had expected to. It was easy to talk to Damien about work when he wasn’t looking at me as though every word I said had some deeper meaning.

"I think you’d make a good lecturer," I told him.

"I’m not sure my employees would agree."

"Why? Do you give terrible presentations?"

"I don’t give presentations unless they’re necessary."

"That’s probably why. You’d have to explain things to people who don’t already know what you’re talking about."

"I manage an entire company."

"Yes, but do you manage to explain a complicated business proposal to someone who has absolutely no interest in listening to you?"

"I have assistants for that."

There was something in the way he said it that made me glance up, but he had already lowered his gaze to his glass. I wondered what he was remembering, and whether the memories were as complicated for him as they were for me.

There had been a time when I could read his expressions almost effortlessly, when I knew what he was thinking simply by the way his eyes moved or the slight tightening of his mouth. Four years apart had made me less certain of those little details, but there were still moments when the man standing in front of me felt so familiar that it almost hurt.

"What about you?" I asked, shifting the conversation towards safer ground. "How is life as a terrifying corporate executive?"