Wild Things

by Laura Kay

Genres: General Fiction; Small Town & Rural; LGBT & Pride; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

NEW YORK TIMES EDITOR'S PICK • Two best friends. One huge crush. A year that could change everything...

A warmhearted, hilarious queer rom-com about what happens when a group of friends are actually brave enough to live the dream and give up their dreary city apartments to buy a house in the country together. • “Real Emily Henry vibes but gay. Joyous, funny, sexy, and romantic—a triumph!”—Kate Sawyer, award-winning author of The Stranding
 
“Buoyant, charming, delectably wistful, and quietly earnest—not to mention, British enough to beguile even the subset of Americans who cuddle up to The Great British Bake Off on a Sunday afternoon.” —Casey McQuiston, The New York Times
 
"A delightful romance, complete with DIY home repair, a beautiful queer found family, and backyard hen.” —Ashley Herring Blake, bestselling author of Astrid Parker Doesn’t Fail

El is in a rut. She’s been hiding in the photocopier room at the same dead-end job for longer than she cares to remember, she’s sharing a flat with a girl who leaves passive-aggressive smiley face notes on the fridge about milk consumption and, worst of all, she’s been in unrequited love with her best friend, effortlessly cool lesbian Ray, for years. So when a plan is hatched for El, Ray, and their two other closest friends—newly heartbroken Will and karaoke-and-Twilight-superfan Jamie—to ditch the big city and move out to a ramshackle house on the edge of an English country village, it feels like just the escape she needs.

Despite being the DIY challenge of a lifetime, the newly named Lavender House has all the makings of becoming the queer commune of the friends' dreams. (Will has been given a pass as the gang's Token Straight.) But as they start plotting their bright new future and making preparations for a grand housewarming party to thank the surprisingly but wonderfully welcoming community, El is forced to confront her feelings for Ray—the feelings that she’s been desperately trying to keep buried. Is it worth ruining a perfectly good friendship for a chance at love?

A VINTAGE ORIGINAL.

Release date: May 23, 2023

Publisher: Vintage

Print pages: 288

Sample

Chapter One

I look down at my phone and watch with relief as the ticks turn blue. She’s typing. In the moments before her reply appears, I reflect on how profoundly tragic it is to be seeking company on WhatsApp in this situation. Truly a dark moment, even for me.

I’ve forgotten to switch my phone to silent mode and cringe at the loud message alert tone. I don’t know the etiquette in this situation—­perhaps it is like being at the cinema? No one appears to notice the disturbance.

What do you mean you feel like a spare part?! Just get involved! Put yourself out there!

I glance up briefly at the scene unfolding in front of me and then back at my phone. That’s easy for her to say. Ray is an extrovert. She loves getting involved. I’ve never ­really been a “group activity” kind of gal.

I literally am a spare part, Ray. It was fine at first but then I just sort of became surplus to requirement.

So what are you doing?

Messaging you! I’m just . . . watching?

Oh god, El! I mean cool if that’s what you’re into.

I’m not into it! I don’t want to just watch. I wanted to get involved. This is my wild year! I’m being wild!

I place my phone down on the desk at which I’m sitting, a statement which, under the circumstances, feels very bleak indeed. I notice a framed, faded photograph of a man crouching down, his arms wrapped around both a golden retriever and a child wearing a pair of shorts and an enormous sun hat. I turn it facedown. The respectful thing to do. No father or golden retriever should see their child doing this.

I glance back at the couple on the bed and sigh. It would perhaps be better if they were fucking. Doing something obscene. But they’re doing only what I can horrifyingly describe as making love.

How did I find myself here—­silently observing a couple of strangers having sex from the comfort of an ergonomic office chair? Well, it’s the fourth month of my Wild Year, a self-­inflicted challenge born out of a drunken New Year’s Eve fifteen long weeks ago. It’s the resolution that just keeps on giving.

“I’m stuck in a rut,” I’d said at Ray’s house party, flinging my arm in the air hopelessly, wine sloshing out of the top of the bottle I was holding. The four of us—­Ray, Jamie, Will, and I—­were in the garden getting some fresh air (smoking) and a much-­needed break from the people inside. I honestly don’t know why we ever bother inviting anyone else, it always ends up just us, willing them all to go home. I was especially grateful for the break from the chatter inside that night. I had been starting to feel like the only person in the room who didn’t have something exciting to contribute to the conversation—­a fabulous professional achievement, a baby, a sordid affair, a divorce even. Oh, to be a glamorous divorcée! But no, I had nothing.

“Don’t be so dramatic, El,” Jamie said. He could talk. He’d borrowed someone’s faux fur coat to wear into the garden as well as a pair of stilettos that he couldn’t walk in. I’d heard him announce only moments ago that he was going to “literally die” if the rumor that we were running low on ice turned out to be true.

“I can’t believe that’s another year of my life gone,” I carried on, ignoring him. “Everything stays the same. I dated Greg for a hundred years. I feel like I’ve been doing this job I fucking hate since birth. I’ve lived in that flat for three years now and every single day I want to throw myself out the window.”

I’d taken a clumsy drag on a badly rolled cigarette and coughed dramatically. Ray rolled her eyes at me and took it from my hand, shaking her lighter and relighting it. I know smoking is very bad, not cool in any way, but the way Ray does it—­sorry, she should be on adverts, everyone would be taking it up.

“Well, you do live on the ground floor, El, so . . . ,” Ray said, blowing smoke into the night air.

I saw Ray lock eyes with Jamie and exchange a look, the briefest flicker of a smile.

“I’m being serious,” I said. “This is what I do! This is my life! Just the same, always, always the same. I never do anything different or interesting or, or . . . brave!”

It was partly incoherent, drunken rambling, but it came from somewhere real and deep and guttural. This feeling of utter stagnation so intense sometimes I’d wake up in the night gripped with it, seized by panic.

“You broke up with Greg,” Will said, dropping his own cigarette end to the ground and squashing it under his foot. “That was brave.”

I don’t think sweet Will would know bravery if it slapped him in the face. As we spoke, he popped a piece of chewing gum in his mouth so his girlfriend wouldn’t know he’d been smoking.

“It wasn’t brave to break up with Greg,” I said.

It ­­really wasn’t. It didn’t feel brave in any way. It felt essential. Vital to being able to go on living. Like shedding the weight of the world. Sorry, Greg.

I was drunk enough in that moment that I nearly said what I ­really thought would be brave. The reason I feel like a coward most of the time. It was on the tip of my tongue. But I chickened out of course. Thankfully, I suppose. Or unfortunately. I can never decide. Instead I said:

“I’m going to do something about it next year.”

I poured white wine confidently and generously into my mouth directly from the bottle as the others cried out in indignation. In hindsight, I don’t believe it was mine.

“I have to do something that scares me every day, something brave, something wild. Wait,” I said, screwing up my face, reworking the math, “not every day, every month. I mean month, obviously.”

Ray laughed in my face, taking the bottle from me to pour the dregs into her glass.

“El, you couldn’t even think of twelve wild things,” she said, “let alone do them.” She didn’t mean it unkindly, she said it as a matter of fact—­as surely as she knew the sky was blue she knew that Eleanor Evans was not a wild woman.

It felt like a punch to my stomach. The wine threatened to make a reappearance. Is that ­really what she thought of me?

“I can,” I said indignantly, looking around at the others. “I can think of loads of wild things. I can be wild, don’t you think?”

Will squinted and looked into the distance, like he was concentrating on something far away and couldn’t hear me.

“Babe,” Jamie said, “earlier you told me that you’d been doing a lot of research into memory foam pillows because ‘it’s not a decision to be taken lightly.’ ”

“That’s just good sense,” I said. “You only get one neck, Jamie.”

“El,” Ray said, “you’re fine just as you are. You don’t need to do anything differently. We like you like this—healthy necked and sensible.”

It is deeply humbling to be described by someone you fancy as “healthy necked” but on that night it only added fuel to the fire.

“No, Ray,” I said, “I’m not fine as I am. I know there’s a better version inside, a wilder, more exciting one. I’m going to show you.”

“Yeah?” Ray said, looking at me in that maddening way, that twinkle in her eye, that cockiness.

I hate myself for it, but it just does something to me. Instead of grabbing her and kissing her, which is what I wanted to do, I reached out and poked her in the side with my index finger. Nursery school flirting. She didn’t respond at all, probably because she is twenty-­eight, not six.

“OK,” she said, and held out her hand.

I took it and we shook.

“A year of wild things. Really wild though, El. I’m going to hold you to it. Proper out-­of-­your-­comfort-­zone stuff.”

I nodded as I watched her fingers slip from mine. The way she looked at me, amused, with pity almost, and then up at Jamie to share a knowing glance. She didn’t think I could do it. The concept cemented in my mind.

I have never wanted to prove someone wrong so badly.

I’d like to say I was overflowing with ideas for my new adventures but, actually, my immediate thought was of the new notebook I would treat myself to so I could journal my progress, perhaps a new pen. Highlighters, even. The thrill of new stationery! Yes, this was definitely something I could get into.

So now here I am. After a minute or two longer of waiting to be subbed in, I admit defeat, get up from the desk chair, and start pulling on my jeans. I wonder if this will remind the couple that I’m here, that I’ve been here the whole time. That I’m the person they took out for drinks. The person they kissed in the back of an Uber. That they took these jeans off in the first place. They remain oblivious to my existence.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror leaning up against the wall. Jeans undone, black lace bra chosen especially for other people to look at, my freshly cut hair disappointingly unruffled. There is a flush of red on my chest, my internal discomfort making itself known. I take a couple of deep breaths and press the back of my hand to my chest, trying to cool it down. I give my reflection a grim smile. It’s going to be a good story at least. Well, a story.

Once I’ve pulled my T-­shirt back on and ordered an Uber, I hover by the bedroom door. I’d love to just walk out, but I am physically incapable of leaving any social situation without first profusely thanking the hosts for their hospitality.

“Um, I’m just going to . . . I’m heading off. Thank you so much for having me, um, well not having me but, um, your flat is lovely. Very”—­I run my hand over the doorframe as though I might be admiring the timberwork—­“sturdy.”

I hardly recognize my own voice; for some reason I’m speaking in a sort of reverent, hushed tone like a librarian.

They both turn their heads, one on top of the other.

“No,” the girl says with no conviction whatsoever. “You should stay.”

“Yeah, stay,” the man says.

“Oh, no. I have . . . some work to do. So good to meet you though!”

I run out of the flat and onto the street. The door slams behind me, and I burst out laughing. A passing dog walker glares at me, but I don’t care. I’m free. My heart is racing. I’m relieved at the laughter; I feel dangerously close to crying. It could have gone either way.

It’s a long way from the couple’s flat in Barnes to my own in Leyton—­£55-­in-­an-­Uber long. I check that I have enough money in my account. I do, just. Luckily, I transferred all my “savings” into my current account at the beginning of the week. That £134, the total of my assets, has now disappeared with nothing to show for it but the memory of a couple of great Pret sandwiches and the beginnings of a savage hangover.

I clutch my phone in case it turns out I need to play one of those TikToks that makes it seem like your burly boyfriend is waiting for you at home, but I don’t look at it, as I’ll get carsick. The driver appears as relieved as I am that I’m not going to be chatty and that he can listen to talk radio in peace and so, after a few minutes of not being murdered by him, I decide to take the risk and close my eyes. I rest my head against the window and let it vibrate against my skull.