Finding Him, Finding Me

Chapter 2: How Not to Flirt, Featuring Me

The week flew by in a blur of reconnecting with everyone. Mum seemed a bit less worried once I got a job — yeah, pulling pints in a gay pub, but hey, it was something. Lenny was settling me into shifts, and seeing the familiar faces of the regulars felt like slipping into an old, comfy sweater. But there was this little part of my brain, the one that usually freaks out over everything, that kept replaying that moment with the guy in the booth — the smile that made my stomach do backflips.

  I tried to act normal, whatever that meant for me — Leo Weston, twenty-two, recently failed Australian émigré, and emotional train wreck. I ate toast, read the same paragraph of a book a million times, and spent way too long staring in the bathroom mirror, asking myself why I always made everything so weird.

  My first official shift back behind the bar was on a Thursday afternoon. It was quiet, steady — not too busy. Regulars drifted in one by one, nursing their pints, chatting about boring stuff like the price of petrol or the latest EastEnders drama. It was the kind of shift where you had just enough time to polish glasses until they shone and half-listen to the same old jokes you’d heard a thousand times. I was finally settling in, feeling like I belonged again. I even managed to smile politely at a bloke who made a joke about the beer being “as flat as his ex-wife.” It was a small miracle, considering my usual internal monologue of don’t look weird, don’t look weird. Then, just as the golden light spilled through the open pub door, in he walked.

  Oh. Right. It was him. The guy from the week before. He was even taller than I remembered, or maybe it was just the way he carried himself, like he owned the place. His dark hair fell in perfect waves, and he moved like he was gliding, making the whole pub seem to fade away. My heart, which had been doing a decent job of keeping a steady rhythm all afternoon, suddenly decided to audition for a drum solo.

  He came straight to the bar, right where I stood, like he knew exactly where he was going. Those same kind eyes found mine, and this time, the smile was just for me. A slow, warm smile that made my stomach flip.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice low and warm, like honey sliding down my spine. “Can I get a Newcastle Brown Ale, please?” And then — his accent. Scottish. Rich and melodic. He turned a simple drink order into something almost seductive.

  I stared, frozen for a moment, my hand hovering over the clean glasses on the rail. My brain started screaming: Say something cool! Say something witty! Don’t just stand there like a goldfish! “Y-yeah, of course, mate,” I stammered. My voice sounded like I’d swallowed gravel, completely out of sync with the charged space between us. You pillock, Leo, my inner voice screamed, doubling down on the self-deprecation. Mate? Seriously? Could you sound any more like a confused teenager trying to act tough in front of the popular kids? Just hand him a juice box and tell him to run along.

  I turned away, grateful for the excuse to be busy, to hide the mortification blooming across my cheeks. I fumbled for the bottle opener, nearly dropped it, then pulled a cold Newcastle from the fridge, acutely aware of his calm gaze on my back the entire time. I placed the bottle on the bar, my hand trembling slightly, the condensation on the glass feeling like a spotlight on my nerves. A simple transaction, and it felt like a seismic event.

  A low chuckle broke the silence. My stomach dropped. I looked up, slowly, dreading what I’d see. He was leaning forward slightly, his eyes twinkling with mischief, a knowing amusement dancing in their depths. “Have I made you blush?” he asked, his Scottish accent wrapping the words in charm, making the question sound less like an accusation and more like a gentle tease.

  My mouth went into autopilot, trying to salvage what little dignity remained. “In your dreams,” I said, aiming for detached cool and probably landing somewhere near ‘aggressively constipated.’ I managed not to say mate this time, which felt like a small victory. He laughed — a full, warm sound that made my heart do a little jump, a pleasant flutter instead of the usual panic scramble. He saw right through my flimsy bravado, and not only did he accept it — he seemed to enjoy it.

  He leaned on the bar, the Newcastle bottle forgotten, his gaze still on me. His expression shifted from playful to genuinely curious, and something about that made me feel like I could actually breathe. “I remember you from the other day,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ve never seen Lenny that excited. What’s that all about?” It was the perfect question. Not about me being awkward or flustered. Something real. Something that invited an actual conversation, not just a performance.

  I felt the tension ease from my shoulders. “Lenny’s my best friend,” I said, finding my voice, which now sounded almost normal. “I’ve been away a year, travelling in Australia. Just came back last week. Surprised her.” When I mentioned Australia, his interest sharpened. He wasn’t just being polite; there was a genuine spark of curiosity in his eyes. He asked real questions — not just “Did you see kangaroos?” but about what it felt like, why I’d left, why I came back.

  And just like that, I wasn’t the awkward barman anymore, not the twenty-two-year-old failure hiding behind a pint glass. I was just a guy, telling a handsome man with a Scottish accent about the year that changed my life, about the vastness of the country, the heat, the isolation, the eventual realisation that running away doesn’t actually solve anything. I talked about the beach jobs, the endless stretches of highway, the feeling of being utterly lost and finally admitting it. He listened, totally absorbed, nodding occasionally, a thoughtful expression on his face. The pub noise faded around us, becoming a distant hum. The only thing that existed was the polished wood between us, the half-finished pint, and his undivided attention.

  I was mid-story about the relentless heat in the Outback, about sleeping in a car and waking up to spiders, when he paused — not by interrupting, but with a subtle change in his face, a slight shift in his gaze. That teasing light returned to his eyes, and he leaned in slightly, like he was about to tell a secret.

  “Can I tell you something…?” he asked, letting the question hang there, a silent invitation. He held my gaze, and I understood. The sentence needed a name. My name. “Leo,” I said, my name feeling new on my tongue, like it meant something more in that moment. A slow, brilliant smile spread across his face, one that reached his eyes and made them crinkle. He nodded, as if I’d answered perfectly, as if my name was the only missing piece.

  “Can I tell you something, Leo?” he repeated. Hearing my name in that accent sent a shiver down my spine. It felt like he’d always known it, like it had been waiting for him to say it.

  “Okay,” I managed, my breath catching somewhere in my throat. My heart was doing a frantic little dance, but this time it was excitement, not panic. “I was here the other day with my friend Craig,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, conspiratorial. “When you came in to see Lenny, I turned to him and said, ‘He’s definitely boyfriend material.’” The air left my lungs. Every awkward thought evaporated, every self-deprecating comment vanished into thin air. His words just sat there, tender and terrifying and utterly unexpected.

  Boyfriend material? Me? I’m sure I stared, open-mouthed, for a good thirty seconds, my brain trying desperately to reboot after that emotional overload. Then a laugh escaped — real and disbelieving, a half-choked gasp of pure surprise.

  “Oh wow,” I said, shaking my head, a goofy grin plastered across my face. “That’s the best pickup line I’ve ever heard.” He smiled, visibly relieved, a gentle amusement playing around his lips.

  “You haven’t asked my name yet,” he said, playful and just a little smug, that knowing glint back in his eyes. That was my cue. Time to try and be cool. Time to try and live up to this outrageous compliment.

  “Let me guess,” I said, a grin breaking through, a spark of my usual Leo self-returning. “You’re definitely a Hamish.” The change was immediate. His smile vanished. His expression went cold, almost blank, like a mask had dropped. He set down his beer with a quiet thud, the sound echoing ominously in the sudden silence between us and turned toward the door.

  My stomach plummeted. My blood drained from my face. I’d ruined it. I’d gone too far. Of course, he was leaving. I always do this. The embarrassment was so profound it was physical, a hot wave of shame. But then — he stopped. Just before the door. Turned.

  His grin, wide and utterly unrepentant, told me I’d been played. Relief flooded my body so hard I nearly sagged over the bar, a full-body slump of unspent panic. The bastard. He returned, grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying my distress.

  “Is that” he said, savouring the words, his eyes sparkling, “the best you’ve got?” In that breathtaking smile, in that playful, almost challenging question, something clicked with perfect clarity. I wanted this. I wanted to know everything about him. I wanted to see that smile, hear that laugh, every single day. The self-doubt hadn’t vanished entirely, but it was being drowned out by something much stronger.

  “Okay,” I said, leaning forward, giving up the act, a genuine laugh bubbling up. “Paul.” He raised an eyebrow, an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “No? John.” Still nothing. I paused, enjoying the game, but also genuinely curious. Then I dropped the act completely.

  “William,” I said, quiet but sure. The name just... fit. It was solid, steady, a name that grounded him. “You look like a William.” His jaw dropped. This time, it was real shock, a flicker of genuine surprise that made me grin even wider.

  “How the f**k did you guess that?” he asked, a hint of awe in his voice.

  I gave him a slow, mysterious smile, leaning in. “I’m psychic. Didn’t you know? It’s part of the Leo Weston package. Along with existential dread and an inability to fold laundry.” Recognition dawned. He laughed softly, a genuine, delighted sound.

  “You asked Lenny about me, didn’t you?” I let the mystery fall away, no point in pretending.

  “Alright. I might have asked who the ‘drop-dead gorgeous man’ in the booth was. You know, for research purposes.” He laughed again — a full, happy sound that filled the pub, a rich counterpoint to the jukebox’s latest anthem.

  “Hey, can I get your number?” he asked, looking straight at me, and my heart did that weird flip again.

  “Uh, sure,” I said, trying to sound cool, but I probably just looked like a deer caught in headlights.

  He quickly wrote my number down, tearing the beer mat in half. He handed me one half, grinning. “Here’s mine,” he said, “Now we can be proper mates.” I took the half he gave me, my fingers brushing against his, and I felt that little spark again.

  “Thanks, William,” I said, trying not to sound too mushy.

  “Just don’t lose it, alright? I’d hate for you to forget me,” he teased, his smile wide and playful.

  “Like I could forget you,” I replied, probably sounding way too earnest.

  William pulled up a stool and stayed for the rest of my shift, effortlessly sliding into the rhythm of the pub. Between pulling pints for thirsty regulars and wiping the bar down for something to do, I learned he was a registered nurse — more than that, a counsellor for pre- and post-HIV testing. He spoke about it without melodrama, his voice calm and steady, but as he did, a subtle shift happened in his eyes. The mischievous light dimmed, replaced by a focused, steady calm, a quiet strength that made me realise he was much more than just a handsome face and a charming accent.

  In that moment, I saw past the easy flirtation to something solid underneath — a quiet compassion, a depth of character he didn’t need to announce. He told me about his childhood in Scotland, a few brief anecdotes about growing up, his surprising love of classical music. I told him about my writing, my chaotic family, my year in Australia... only to find myself back in a Hammersmith pub, feeling more at home than I had in a very long time.

  The pub emptied slowly as closing time approached. The lights came up, revealing all the sticky realities of a gay bar at the end of the night. Lenny had to practically shove him out the door, with a playful “Go on, you! We’ve got cleaning to do!” As I watched him go, a ridiculous thought, clear as a bell, landed in my head: Oh. There you are. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. The kind you make when you find something you didn’t even realise, you’d been searching for, something that felt like it had been missing all along.

  I locked up that night, the metallic clunk of the deadbolt echoing in the suddenly quiet pub. The scent of stale beer and cleaning products filled the air, but I barely noticed. I felt like someone entirely new. Like the messy, anxious, self-deprecating Leo hadn’t disappeared but had just… shifted. Made room. And in a way, I really was.