I kick around my London flat for a couple of days, debating whether to go back to the States for a while. I want to take Cerys back there; I want to spoil them after the crap they’ve been through. Now the dickhead ex is making their life worse, and it appears because I’m not a dickhead, I’m too nice. Last time I met him I bit my tongue against saying a lot of what I thought of him. If I saw him again, things wouldn’t be pretty. Two days of sulking and Xbox later, I call Bryn after a couple of beers and ask what he’s up to. “Am I just the go-to guy for all your broken hearts?” he asks, and I know he’s half serious. “I don’t have a broken heart,” I snap and almost add ‘just a bruised one’. “So what’s happening? I haven’t heard from you since the night at Plan B, so something’s wrong.” Fuck it, I need a second opinion; and of all the guys, Bryn’s the one who won’t take the piss.
