Charlie wasn’t happy when he came back from Barcelona. He didn’t say much on the way from the airport, and I put it down to post holiday blues. He’d spent a lot of time  in the sun and was still dressed for the beach.

His arms and legs were tanned, and his thick black hair had ginger tints. He said that he’d had a good time and missed me, but I noticed he was scrolling his phone looking for cheap flights. He was planning a quick return. 

I thought about what he might have been up to over the past week. He said he’d met up with friends, but I suspected he’d hooked up with someone. Why else would he be silent? A cute French boy would have no problem finding someone to have sex with. Knowing Charlie, he would have fallen in love with them.

I was resentful but had no reason to be. We weren’t in a relationship and to all extent and purposes we were simply flatmates. Charlie was a flirtatious boy and had carefully manipulated me into letting him have a room.

I’d missed our quiet nights watching movies on TV and missed the hours he spent sitting cross-legged on the floor while he painted.

I had something to tell him, but his gloomy mood suggested it wasn’t the right time. 

I was afraid to mention that Levi had moved in.

This was the same Levi, with his boundless energy, who claimed to be Polish and spoke with the broadest Yorkshire accent. Like Charlie, he’d asked for a place to stay, and I’d let him have the spare room.

Charlie sensed something was wrong as soon as we arrived home. I hid in the kitchen while he inspected every corner of the apartment. Eventually he opened the door to the last room and saw Levi asleep on the floor. 

Charlie closed the door and muttered something in French that I didn’t understand. Then he threw his rucksack on the floor and kicked off his Nikes. He looked at me, a flash of anger in those eyes that turned to hurt, and he slammed the door as he disappeared into his own room.

It was the first time that I’d seen Charlie jealous, and I felt strangely satisfied.