The Hotel Room (Phan)

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

I was impossibly nervous by the time six pm rolled around. It wasn’t like I’d ever been on a date with another guy before; I had no idea how these things worked! So yeah. Just a little nerve-wracking.

 If I was honest, it felt a little bit stupid to be standing in a hotel lobby, wearing a tux and holding a bunch of roses. And the receptionist kept looking at me. So I was pretty uncomfortable.

Phil was exactly thirty-eight seconds late, which I knew because I kept anxiously checking my watch, and when I looked up he was there, adorably bashful in a tie with his hair lying flat and his hands clasped together. It occurred to me that he was my best friend first and foremost, and that if I made this awkward I’d never forgive myself, so I managed to walk forward to take his hand and give him the flowers. They weren’t red, because I had managed to not be that ridiculously cliché. They were light blue, a little bit similar to his eyes. I’d chosen them because of that, and also because they were unique, just like him.

“Ready?” I croaked. He nodded mutely, eyes shining. I handed him the flowers, smiling a little.

Outside, it was warm, humid and still light. The rented car was parked idly in the space nearest to the hotel itself, and I dragged Phil around to the passenger side, opening the door for him in the most gentlemanly action I was probably physically capable of.

“When did I become the girl?” Phil inquired, giggling. I raised an eyebrow at him. Just to reiterate, he was giggling.

The drive to my restaurant of choice took less than ten minutes, in the end. We sand along to Muse on the way (“I won’t let you smoooooother it…”) and generally just forgot that we were supposed to be on a date. Until, that is, we reached the restaurant: La ville dinée, which was technically out of my price range. Even though the French was more than likely completely incorrect. I wasn’t sure. Phil knew that I barely had enough money in my bank account (yeah, I wasn’t great at saving money) to pay for a meal here, and he eyed the posh waiters through the window nervously. The light outside was fading somewhat, so I pulled us both through the door.

“Um,” I started, announcing my presence to the waiter, whose nametag said ‘Chris’ in swirly lettering. “Can we have a table for two, please?” I asked politely.

“Sure. Right this way.”

Our table was small, and lit by a tall candle. I slipped into one of the seats and Phil sat across from me, his eyes wary.

“Can you afford this?” he asked sheepishly.

“I had some money saved,” I shrugged. “It’s not like buying £200 worth of Disney merchandise was a better use of my money.”

“Dan…”

“Shut up,” I said softly. “I don’t regret it, not one bit, so you can get whatever food you want off this ridiculously overpriced menu, okay? Don’t worry.”

***

It turned out that when you live with someone and spend every waking moment with them, there tends to be a slight lack of things you can talk about. And the napkins at the restaurant were made out of fancy red cloth, so we couldn’t even play hangman while we waited for the food like we normally did. In the end, our conversation turned weird.

“If you were allergic to every food you liked eating, but could eat everything else, what would you do?” I asked. This was the seventeenth question of this variety.

“I would stop eating foods I liked,” Phil said. “That’s a sad thought, though. Just thinking of all the things I’d miss out on. Ice cream and cornflakes and fish fingers…”

“What about trying new foods? You wouldn’t know whether you liked them or not.”

Phil sighed almost imperceptibly.  

“At least we know it’s a medical impossibility,” he replied.

I nibbled at my lower lip.

“This was awkward, wasn’t it?” I admitted shakily.

“I knew you’d act differently around me,” Phil murmured, eyes downcast.

“No, that’s not it!” I denied his assumption quickly. “I just—I wanted this to be perfect. But we’re awesome anyway. We’d be way more awesome at McDonald’s.”

“Well, this brownie is far superior to a McDonald’s brownie,” Phil smirked. I reached for Phil’s hand, squeezing it gently.

“Can I try some?” I asked.

“You just had one,” Phil laughed.

“I was just analysing the difference between your brownie and mine. I’m in need of some data.”

“You’re insufferable,” Phil grinned, but he reached out the spoon to me, laughing when I licked the spoon that was still in his hand. “And gross,” he added.

“You love me really,” I smiled. “Or at least, I hope you do.”