No Big Deal by Bethany Rutter

Author:Bethany Rutter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

It’s weird and nice, seeing a film that you’ve seen a million times before but in a completely new setting, in a new place, with a new person, with new and different feelings. I realize I’m trying to suppress my laughter at bits I think are hilarious but that don’t make him laugh, and laughing more than I usually would at the bits he likes. I can even feel myself holding my breath a little whenever something romantic happens, as if willing some kind of transmission to occur between the screen and his brain and my brain.

When the film finishes, he turns to me. ‘Do you want to get a drink? It’s still kind of early,’ he says, looking at his watch.

I don’t want him to be thinking about the time. I don’t want him to have a point in the future that becomes ‘late’ that in turn becomes a time at which he has to say goodbye to me.

‘Yes, as long as you know somewhere they don’t ID,’ I say, laughing.

‘Oh yeah, I forget about that,’ he says. ‘You don’t seem that young.’

‘How old are you, then?’ I ask, not sure how to take that comment.

‘Nineteen, but only just. It was my birthday last month. OK – let’s go and get coffee instead.’

‘Many happy belated returns!’ I say as he begins to lead us in the direction of the cafe he has in mind. ‘Hey, are you still working at Beats Per Minute most of the time?’

‘Yeah, although I wish I wasn’t. It’s kind of a drag. As you know, we don’t have that many customers, but my dad seems to think that while I don’t have anything “better” to do, it’s my duty to put in the hours in the family business,’ he says, sounding a little bitter.

‘But it seems kind of like a natural home for you, right?’ I say. ‘You’re good at your job.’

It’s getting dark now, and I want us to get to where we’re going before he decides it’s too late, so I walk a tiny bit faster.

‘Thanks, but it’s not really the job I want to be doing,’ he says.

‘What do you want to do?’ I ask gently.

‘I guess I would quite like to be a musician,’ he replies quietly.

‘That’s great! What do you play?’ I ask, overwhelmed with a genuine enthusiasm for him pursuing his passion.

‘Guitar, bass, and I sing OK,’ he says modestly.

‘Anyone who says they sing OK clearly sings really well. And hardly anyone can sing really well. So, good for you,’ I say, giving him a warm smile.

‘I appreciate your belief in me.’ He smiles back at me.

Finally, we reach a little cafe the other side of a patch of grass by Waterloo Road. It’s small and kind of shabby, and I don’t necessarily trust the upholstery. But it’s cute, and – more importantly – we’re here.

‘What can I get you?’ Joe asks as we take off our coats and occupy a small table in the far corner.

‘Whatever you’re having,’ I reply smoothly.

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