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I live in a brilliant flat.
When I move in, I can’t believe my eyes. I’ve never lived anywhere but school or group homes before, so having my own flat was going to be a change. But this flat? It has fifteen floors! A lift! A bloke who just stands at the door and opens it for you!
I could never afford it if it weren’t for the money my dead pa left me. (But I’m not going to think about that.)
After my friends Penny and Shepard help me move in, I just lie in my new IKEA bed and stare at the smooth, stain-free ceiling and cry. And then I bake a dozen sour cherry scones to get over it, and drop some off at Penny and Shep’s to thank them.
After I come back, I go and press the button for the lift. Or touch, I guess. You don’t even have to press it! A huge lift full of mirrors arrives, and I waltz right in.
I'm not alone.
Standing in one corner of the lift, wearing one of those big purses blokes wear to the side, scrolling through his phone, is a man.
He's taller than me. Red-gold skin, black hair down to his shoulders, wearing a pretty shirt with loads of flowers on it. He's fit - no, more than fit. He's the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
He looks up from his phone and raises an eyebrow, and my heart stutters.
“This isn’t your lift,” he snaps.
When I don't respond, he rolls his eyes and points at the panel of buttons. Where the different floor numbers should be, there's only one button, labeled P.
“This is the private lift for the penthouse,” he says, stretching out his vowels like I don't understand English.
“So, get out,” he says finally, and my brain manages to escape the fog of his hotness enough to actually react. I turn red and practically trip over the tiles as I rush to get out of the lift.
Once I get to my flat - in the correct lift this time - I pace around the living room and chew a scone aggressively. I can't stop thinking about him. My heart is still pounding, as if I’d taken the bloody stairs. When I close my eyes, all I see is the charming bump in his nose, the pouty bow of his lips, the peek of chest hair from the collar of his shirt…
I’ve never considered being into another bloke before. I mean, I guess I'm straight, but only because I figure that I would have found out by now if I weren’t. I’ve never dated seriously, and no one I’ve ever been on a date with has ever given me that feeling.
I need to know more. I need to mount an intelligence gathering mission.
I take to loitering in the lobby in the mornings. I pretend to be busy next to the coffee machine and watch the private lift closely. At nine-thirty - which is late for someone to be heading to work, isn’t it? - the doors open and he sweeps out, wearing a big scarf that I want to pull him to my lips by.
“Have a good day, Mr. Pitch,” the doorman says, and he nods in acknowledgement.
He has a last name.
“Isn’t there some kind of, like, directory for your apartment building?” Shep says as I complain about my crush for the thousandth time. So I go and check with the front desk, but apparently building directories don’t include the posh git who lives on the top floor.
“Find who you were looking for?” the guard asks as I finish thumbing through the book.
“Not really,” I sigh, and I’m about to confess everything and beg her to tell me about this Pitch guy when her attention shifts abruptly.
“Welcome to 450 Gooding,” she recites brightly, with an edge. “Visitors have to be registered. What’s your name and the name of the tenant you’re visiting?”
The woman who just walked in whips her head around, looking right angry. I creep out of the way as she and the security guard, who is apparently new, have a lively, terrifying argument. Finally the woman snaps the front desk pen in half and yells, “Baz Pitch’s bitch aunt - write that down, you sorry excuse for a serviceperson,” and storms into the special lift.
Baz.
Baz Pitch!
I spend the next few nights rolling his name around in my mouth. Baz. I wonder how it’s spelled - one z or two? Or an s? Is it French? Is it short for anything? I like the way our names sound together. Baz and Simon. Simon and Baz. Baz Pitch-Snow - or should it be Snow-Pitch? Maybe he wouldn’t want to change our last names.
I’m getting ahead of myself.
Once I’ve loitered around the building a few more times, I’ve got his schedule down. He leaves around nine on a good day, and comes home after seven. He drinks coffee, not tea, in the morning - some orange drink from the Starbucks next door, that he licks the whipped cream off of so seductively that I nearly faint every time. He always looks pressed and perfect and never spares me a single glance.
“Stop stalking him!” Penny complains at Friday drinks. “I’m sick of hearing about him. Just ask him out!”
“Like, on a date?”
“Yes, a bloody date.”
There’s no way I’m doing that. I didn’t exactly make a great first impression. I’ve got one shot at Baz Pitch, and I need it to be perfect.
“What are your plans this weekend?” Penny continues. Before I can open my mouth, she whips something out of her bag. “Actually, don’t answer that. I know it’s being pathetic and stalking your neighbour. I got you this.”
She hands me some passes to a local group fitness gym, where you kickbox against hot pink punching bags while clubbing music blasts from the speakers, and a very athletic woman screams at you through a megaphone. I go because it’s just down the street and I love hitting things, and find it surprisingly relaxing.
Now, instead of loitering around the lobby every morning, spacing out and imagining what Baz and I would name our kids, I go to kickboxing class. (And imagine what we would name our kids, and then think about teaching them to kickbox.)
A tall blonde woman that I recognise from the past few classes approaches me, while I’m cleaning off my bag and toweling the sweat from my hair.
“You live in 450 Gooding, don’t you? I recognise you. I live there too.”
Her name is Agatha, and she’s scary good at kickboxing. Her calves are made of iron. We walk back to our building together, and she hits the button for the special lift.
“Oh - that’s the wrong button,” I correct. “Only goes to the top floor.”
“Actually, I live on the top floor,” she says, and I nearly rip my boxing gloves in half.
*
“He has a girlfriend!”
“Stop moping,” Penny snaps, at the same time that Shepard says, “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” I moan. “I double-checked the floor plans online. There’s only one flat up there. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms.”
“Exactly. Two bedrooms, my dude. Don’t lose hope.”
“I would use this opportunity to lose hope,” Penny cuts in. “Look, I’m glad that you’ve had a sexual awakening and all, but really, this particular crush has got to go. What about Todd from my work? I think he’s gay.”
Shep and I both grimace.
“I’m never going to love again,” I say. “Baz Pitch has ruined every other human for me.”
“Then you’ll have to resort to bestiality," Penny says coldly. "Alright, that’s your ten percent. Now let’s talk about anything else.”
As if realising that I have to become a home-wrecker isn't hard enough, my bathroom floods the very next weekend. I complain to Agatha about it vehemently after our evening exercise class.
“Stop whinging and come stay in mine,” she replies.
She looks around my flat as I gather my things, then leaves a strongly worded voicemail for her father’s property management company. (Yes, if dating the most gorgeous man alive weren’t enough, she’s also richer than God.)
“Thank you, have a lovely day,” she says as she hangs up, with a voice that could cut steel. “Alright. It’s going to be Monday at the earliest before you can move back in. You’d better just stay with me this weekend.”
Baz isn’t home when we get there. I strip and get in the shower - it's huge, and the water pressure is incredible. It's stuffed full of fancy soaps and shampoos. I can barely tell which products are his and which are Agatha’s, but then I get a whiff of posh soap and it takes me right back to that first day in the lift.
I grab the soap and turn it over in my hands, imagining all the places it’s touched on Baz’s naked body.
And then I snap out of it. I can’t believe I’m using my friend’s goodwill to get horny over her boyfriend’s soap.
Maybe I should call Todd.
I step out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wearing just my towel, at the same moment that Baz Pitch comes home from work.
I swallow and will myself not to stare. He glances at me like this is nothing new, and walks into another room.
A bedroom.
Not Agatha’s bedroom.
I try to calm myself down. It could be a home office! A billiards room! A conservatory! (Now I’m just naming rooms from Cluedo.) There are a hundred reasons that he might go into that room, that aren’t because he sleeps in there.
Still, Shepard told me to keep the faith. So I decide to be honest and direct and just ask Agatha if the two of them are together.
“D’you and Baz sleep in separate beds because your relationship is falling apart? Or because you’re just mates?”
Agatha frowns. “First of all, super weird thing to say. Second, no, we’re just friends.”
She grimaces. “Simon, are you into me? Cause it’s really not like that—“
“No, no,” I assure her, my eyes unwittingly cutting to Baz’s closed door.
She studies my face for a moment, and then sighs.
“Look, I’m not some quirky rom-com BFF whose life is dedicated to fostering your romance. If you like Baz, just ask him out.”
“I - I didn’t actually say that.”
She rolls her eyes and hands me a card that looks like the room key at a hotel.
“Here. This is a guest key to use our elevator. You can use it to come up to shower anytime you need.” She pauses. “Even when I’m not here. Like next weekend. I have a dressage competition.”
“I thought you said my bathroom would be fixed by next weekend?” I ask.
“Mhmm.”
She glares at me until I finally figure it out.
“Oh!” I can’t hold back a grin. “Aggie, you’re the best quirky BFF I could ask for.”
She throws a trainer at my face.
*
I don’t see much more of Baz that weekend, and my flat is habitable again by Monday, just like Agatha ordered.
Because she clearly knows everything, I take her advice and knock on her door at ten a.m. sharp on Saturday.
I don’t hear anything for a while, and I have to knock again. I’m about to give up and assume that Baz is out when the door flies open.
“How the fuck did you get up here?” Baz Pitch mumbles, one hand rubbing his face, the other supporting him as he leans against the wall.
He’s wearing glasses and silky pyjamas. His hair is tied up in a messy knot, and his eyes are still heavy with sleep.
He’s adorable.
“Agatha’s not here,” he says. Then, he stares at me a bit longer. “Oh lord, she gave you a key?”
I smile awkwardly. I’m not sure what else to do, so I just fidget on his doorstep.
“Are those for her?” Baz points at the paper bag I’ve forgotten I’m holding.
“Oh - um. I got some donuts. I could just come...drop them off?”
Baz suddenly looks a million more times awake.
“Donuts from where?”
“The place three blocks away. They’re doing pumpkin and apple cider flavours for fall.”
“You can come in,” he says immediately.
(Baz Pitch can be bribed with sweets. That’s good to know.)
He snatches the entire bag and heads to the kitchen. I take a seat at the island (a bloody island! Marble, too) and watch helplessly as he pours himself a huge cup of coffee and downs two sugary donuts faster than his skinny frame would suggest.
“Can I have one?” I ask. Baz stares at me like it’s the most ridiculous question, then sighs and passes me the bag. I only bought four donuts, so there are only two left in the bag.
I feel Baz’s beady eyes studying me. I’m glad I ate a full English before I headed out to the shops. (I’m an early riser - I can’t be expected to wait until ten to eat brekkie.)
I take pity on him and break off only half of one donut, then pass him the rest. I could have eaten all four myself, but there’s a more important goal to focus on. If I’m going to win Baz Pitch’s heart, I need to make sacrifices.
I can eat as many donuts as I want once we’re married.
I pour myself some coffee, with Baz’s reluctant permission. Christ, he’s a prick. I don’t mind, weirdly enough. He’s funny, and his observations (insults) are weirdly specific in a way that makes me feel like he notices me.
And I don’t really think he means to be rude. I think he’s sleepy, and confused, and a little bit shy.
He answers all of my questions with one-word answers, and stares at his coffee mug with pink cheeks. Finally, he gets up and starts collecting the dishes.
“I have to finish up some work. I’ll let Wellbelove know you dropped by.”
“Okay!” I say. I’m not even upset that he's pushing me out. I check my phone - it’s 11:30. An hour and a half of Baz Pitch’s company.
I’m more keen on him than ever.
*
“Heard you dropped by,” Agatha says at kickboxing. I smile stupidly, feeling warm all over.
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t ask him out, I gather.”
“Well.” I shrug. “He seems...picky. I don’t know if he’d say yes. I feel like I’ve got to prove myself to him. What do you think?”
“He is a drama queen,” she muses, accompanying the words with a brutal roundhouse kick. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
“Is he, like, seeing anyone?”
“Baz?” She laughs. “No. I think he’s been on dates like, twice in the time we’ve lived here.”
“So he’s not going to say yes,” I sigh. “He must get asked out all the time. He must reject everyone.”
“I guess. He has a hell of a resting bitch face though - probably puts guys off.”
“As a guy, I’m gonna say no way.”
She pretends to gag. “Please, let me focus, or the next punch will be aimed at your face.”
Agatha doesn’t joke about these things. I clam up and try to focus on the tiny, angry instructor, and not my doomed unrequited love, for the rest of the class.
*
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” I gasp, my lungs burning. I look up at the board that displays everyone’s heart monitor results. I’m 34 out of 35 people in terms of my heart rate - meaning I’m one of the only participants panting like a dog.
Agatha frowns at me from the next treadmill. She’s not even broken a sweat.
“You really need to improve your cardiovascular fitness." Her lips quirk. “You’re going to need that stamina to keep up with Baz in the bedroom.”
I sputter and nearly fall off the treadmill. “What?”
She looks resolutely ahead and turns up the speed on her machine. “Eyes on the prize, Simon. Eyes on the prize.”
After our conditioning class - which is on Friday evenings, because Agatha’s a psycho and so am I, apparently - we grab dinner with a few of our classmates and our instructor. The instructor’s name is Trixie. She’s tiny, has pink hair, and is wearing leggings and a sports bra that make her look like a disco ball.
“I’m so excited for the KickFit race,” she gushes as we wait for our (upsettingly healthy) dinners to arrive. “Simon, are you sure you’re not doing it?”
“He’s doing it,” Agatha says.
I grimace. “The training is at 5 AM every Saturday! That’s mental.”
“You’re not leaving me alone, Simon,” Agatha says. “I need the confidence boost of watching you struggle.”
“Hey!”
“I can make it worth your while,” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows. “You can come shower at mine afterwards.”
“Ew!” Ginger says. “Is that some kind of innuendo?” (She and Agatha dated, ages ago.)
“He’s in love with my flatmate,” Agatha explains. “But he’s completely hopeless at showing it.”
“Ooh.” Trixie leans in. “This is a great idea. You have an excuse to be all fit and half-naked around them.”
I blush. I don’t even look that good naked. I’m chubby and broad-shouldered. But there’s no way I’m calorie-restricting like Braden, the obnoxious straight guy who’s always trying to impress Agatha, just to get muscle definition.
“Abs are obnoxious on anyone over the age of 25,” Agatha replies when I voice my concerns, and glares at Braden in his barely-there workout vest. “No one who maintains abs at that age has anything to contribute to a relationship beyond their gym routine.”
After dinner, Agatha invites me to hers for an ice bath. She has a bathtub, and so does Baz, so we can both take one at the same time. (She’s so bloody privileged. My shower is barely big enough to bend my arms in.)
I sink into the ice bath with a groan, and lay there with my eyes closed, letting the cold soothe my aching muscles. I must actually doze off, because I startle awake when I hear the bathroom door open, and Baz screams.
“Oh fuck, I’m sorry! I thought this was Aggie’s tub!” I curl up in a corner of the tub and try to hide my inappropriate bits.
“It is, but she’s hogging my bathroom."
“I’ll get out - sorry. Must have fallen asleep.” I stand up, and Baz’s eyes run down my body.
Fuck! I’ve already forgotten that I’m naked.
Baz squeezes his eyes closed and shoves a towel at me. I wrap it around my waist and practically sprint out of the bathroom.
“I’m never living this down,” I groan, laying in Agatha’s bed with her while she waits for my hair to dry so she can “put proper product in it.”
“Maybe,” she chuckles. “It’s fucking hilarious, though.”
We end up falling asleep in her bed, basically naked. My alarm goes off at 4:30 AM and I jump awake, then groan.
I reach over and tap her on the shoulder. “Hey. Wake up. We have to get to KickFit training.”
“No,” she groans. “Let’s not.”
“Get UP!!” I hit her with a pillow, and she laughs and hits me back. Eventually, we stagger out of bed. She tosses me the pants and a t-shirt left behind by a bloke she had sex with last week, and we quickly get dressed and rush out of her room, knocking into the walls in our hurry.
“Will you please shut up--” I hear Baz call out from his bedroom. He opens his door, sees the two of us fighting over the orange juice carton, and slams the door closed again.
“What’s his problem?” Agatha says, using my distraction to win the juice battle.
“Woke him up,” I say regretfully. I hope he doesn’t remember this well enough to hold it against me.
I go to breakfast with Penny and Shepard after the early morning training. It's our new tradition, since I’m too knackered after Friday evening's class to go out for drinks.
“Is there like, a thing between you and Agatha?” Penny asks, raising her eyebrows as I relate the story of last night.
“Nah, she's aromantic. Also, she’s like my sister.” I grimace. “I mean, not as much as you, Pen.”
Penny smiles kindly. “I’m not jealous. I’m glad you have a friend to do all your athletic stuff with, Simon. You seem a lot happier.”
“Plus, you’re finally allowing Penny and me to have alone time,” Shepard adds, and Penny elbows him.
*
I find myself with a tonne of energy and not much to do on Sundays. I usually spend the day playing video games and napping on the couch, then regretting my life choices as I remember that I have to kickbox on Monday morning.
I end up ringing Agatha’s doorbell one Sunday, out of boredom and loneliness. Baz answers.
There are snacks littered on his coffee table, and a paused game of FIFA on the giant television. I light up. “Is that the new FIFA?”
He looks caught out. Then he sighs and says, “Yes.”
“What do you think?”
He lights up and starts explaining the updates to the game, which transitions into a lively debate about football. We end up throwing popcorn at each other and playing FIFA until it gets dark. We only realise how late it's become when Agatha comes home and yells at us for the mess.
When I go home that night, I stare at the ceiling and think, I’m in love.
*
The KickFit race comes and goes, and the entire crew goes out for celebratory drinks.
Of course, the conversation shifts to my pathetic crush.
“You still haven’t asked him out?” Trixie says.
I laugh along with my friends. As the laughter dies out, Braden grabs my shoulder. “Simon, dude, I’m serious. You need to ask him out. It’s getting kinda sad.”
I stare at him in disbelief. Braden Bodmer is calling me out? This toxic gym bro who has tried and failed to hook up with every girl in our group?
Agatha nods. (Pigs must be flying if she agrees with Braden.) “Simon, really.”
“I don’t know if he likes me back!” I argue. “Plus, we’re like, friends now. I don’t want to make it weird.”
Braden shakes his head. “Wake up, bro. You’ve got get out of that friendzone. You've got to level up.”
“What does that even mean?” I groan.
*
One Sunday, Baz and I play a contentious game of Catan. Somehow our argument escalates into a wrestling match, which I let him win. He presses me against the rug with one lean forearm. His body is cool and his skin is glowing. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair tickles my neck.
He’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
I think about kissing him. I even close my eyes. I imagine what it would feel like to finally, finally taste Baz's lips.
“I’m home!” Agatha yells. We jump apart, and I feel like the moment is ruined forever.
Only...Agatha calls me, a few days later.
“Simon?”
“What’s up, Ags?”
“I didn’t want to get involved. I told you this. I am not your rom-com BFF.”
“Hey! I know that.”
She sighs. “Baz freaked out when he saw a girl I hooked up with earlier this week. Gave himself a second-degree burn. All because he thought the two of us were dating, and that I’d dared to cheat on his precious, perfect Simon.”
“What?”
“Yeah. So this is the only time I’m getting involved in your love life, Simon - don’t make me regret it. Eight PM. Wear a suit. Bring hydrangeas, and for fuck’s sake, Simon -- ask him out.”
I change my shirt three times. I rehearse what I’m going to say until the words “Will you go out with me” start to sound like gibberish. I buy a second bouquet of flowers, because I drop the first on the Tube and it gets trampled.
At 7:55 PM, I ring Baz’s doorbell. He opens the door, takes one look at my getup, and frowns.
“Agatha’s not here,” he says.
I furrow my eyebrows. “Yeah? I know. She told me she’d be gone until the morning.”
I stare at him. The words are stuck in my throat. I keep imagining him throwing me out on the street and stomping my heart into the pavement, like the London commuters did to my first bouquet.
I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, then thrust the flowers at his chest. I’ve always been a courageous fool. It’s time to put everything on the line, because Baz is worth it.
“These are for you," I say.
He doesn’t reply. So I stammer some more words, until he yanks me by my collar and puts me out of my misery with his own mouth.
(We don’t end up going on that date. But he tells me how much he appreciates my suit as he’s taking it off of me.)
*
[12:21 AM] AW: How’d it go?
[12:35 AM] SS: You were right about the stamina.
[12:36 AM] AW: Oh my god. Never speak to me again.
[12:37 AM] AW: I’m happy for you.
I’m happy for me too, I think, as I reach towards Baz Pitch’s glorious mouth. Then: Fuck, do we have to name our firstborn Agatha?