Free Friends Like Us by Siân O'Gorman Page B

did ask if you were gay,’ said Walter, ‘however…’
    â€˜And what did you say?’
    â€˜I said, you may as well be.’
    â€˜May as well be? ’ Cormac spluttered.
    Walter shrugged again. ‘You are not, as they say, getting much action … you are wasting all that virile energy, your männlichkeit .’
    â€˜Okay. I take your point. My männlichkeit has been a bit on the quiet side lately.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Okay. Set me up with her,’ said Cormac quickly. ‘Why not? Jesus!’
    â€˜Seriously? You sure?’
    â€˜Fuck it. It’s driving me crazy, all this. I’ve got to end it. Not that there’s bloody well anything to end. I can’t do this, the picking up, being nice, the listening to her heartbroken stories, being at the end of a phone whenever anything has gone wrong. I’m a doormat, that’s all, a fucking doormat. It’s time I faced it. I’ve realized that I can’t be her friend anymore. No more Herr Nice Guy,’ he said, for Walter’s benefit.
    His friend nodded, sensing Cormac’s pain. ‘It is time,’ he said, seriously. ‘I think you are making the right decision. I will organize it.’
    Cormac shook himself. ‘I’m ready. I am fucking ready.’ He almost whooped in an embarrassing attempt of frat boy enthusiasm. He felt excited. Or was it fear. Who cares? At least it was something.
    Come on, Cullen. Back in the game.
    And he was meeting her tonight at the bar at one of the city’s newest and swankiest hotels.
    When he arrived, it seemed to be just one giant room with busy-looking people in serious-looking suits, loosening ties and ordering large amounts of expensive cocktails. He was wearing a shirt, one of his nicest. He had shaved extra carefully and was wearing his old jacket. He’d had it for years but, as far as he could tell, it still looked good. Well, good-ish, he thought, being generous.
    He had looked at himself in the mirror earlier, while he was shaving. Jesus. Since when was he turning into his Dad? When exactly did he get old?
    That was his first wobble. He briefly considered heading off to Glenstal and becoming a monk but, instead, forced himself out of the house, towards a life of non-celibacy. For that was why we was doing this awful, excruciating thing, wasn’t it? To be non-celibate and all that signified, to move on from Melissa… to what? A family? A life? He didn’t dare to think that far ahead. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.
    This hotel wasn’t a Dublin he recognized. This was like being in New York or Los Angeles or Malaysia or someplace. He suddenly had a pang for Mulligan’s where he and Melissa often met after work. He looked at the door (more a wall that moved) and wondered if he could make a run for it. Meeting Erica had been a bad idea. He wasn’t ready for this, he wasn’t a Tinder-using modern male. But standing people up, he knew, in any age and at any age, was not on. Or could he one drink and if she wasn’t there, then maybe it was okay to leave?
    He ordered a pint and tried to look busy or at least like someone who was not waiting for a stranger, in the hope of having a long and meaningful relationship, and studied the bar menu in great detail. He then stared around the room before considering getting out his phone and texting Melissa and telling her what he was doing… making her laugh, perhaps, or just being in contact. He felt suddenly so lonely, so dejected. The one person he loved, the one person he wanted in his life, was an impossibility.
    He held his phone in his hand, looking at it. No. Put it away, Cullen. You are moving on.
    Walter had said Erica was tall, with long brown hair. That sounds nice, he supposed. She had hair. That was good. And legs. Always useful.
    He had nearly finished his pint. Could he go? Make a move? He had just slipped his phone in his