Raife and Dexter Are Getting Married: Raife and Dexter

Chapter One

Sixteen days. How have the days, weeks, and months flown by so fast that they are now down to only sixteen days? Raife studies the calendar stuck to the fridge, checking he doesn’t have his numbers wrong. He gets distracted by the wonky heart drawn on the small whiteboard to its side. Dexter always leaves some doodle or message for Raife to see before he leaves for work, and Raife always looks forward to it. It is a gesture dating back to when they first moved in together some eleven years ago.

Raife then slides the screen open on his phone like the calendar on there might have different dates. Once again, his attention is stolen; by the new lock screen wallpaper he put there last night. It is a photo taken by Dexter’s dad Stan last week when along with Flora, Dexter’s mum, the four of them took a walk along the coast. Raife likes this photo because it captures a rare moment of Stan taking a picture that wasn’t just of plants. Even if he is sure the picture he’d meant to take was of the trees in the pub garden where they stopped for dinner. Raife echoes the smiles captured on their faces, then checks the phone calendar, seeing the confirmation that yes; there are only sixteen days to go.

It is the morning for distractions. Raife finds the photo he’d taken Sunday morning of Dexter, sprawled across the bed with his face pressed into his pillow and his curls in every direction. The next photo is of Dexter too, wearing only his Cardiff Devils hockey jersey, pulling down the front of it for modesty and winking for Raife. He hadn’t really meant for him to only wear the jersey, but Raife smiles now for the memory of what came next.

The rest of the photos are far more suitable viewing for other people, not that he often lets anyone but Dexter near his phone. Raife scrolls through tempting cakes in bakery windows, cats minding their business on the windowsills of their homes, and plenty more snaps of cars either in need of a service or victims of terrible custom jobs. It is a habit long-established; whenever Raife sees anything remotely awful to do with cars, he takes a picture to send Dexter. Dexter keeps them in a folder to use as a screensaver at work.

Raife thumbs through two pictures of him and Dexter at a barbecue of their friend Aron’s, then puts down his phone, needing to get ready to leave. He leaves the kitchen ready to go upstairs, but then sees a pile of laundry on the dining table that they’d meant to take up last night. He thinks to take it up with him now, though knows further delays for letting his gaze fall on the thick cream scrapbook open on the other end of the table.

The book started life as an empty scrapbook gifted to them by Danica, Dexter’s sister. Rings, confetti, and all kinds of other trinkets adorn its front and pages. There are pressed flowers, fabric samples, and photos capturing everything from cake tasting to the gardens at The Manor. There are receipts, scribbled notes to one another, and so many other things that leave Raife smiling. Every turn of the page is a cherished memory in which to lose himself.

The earliest photo in the book distracts him from doing anything else. Mirth fills Dexter’s hazel eyes, in contrast to Raife’s own more serious-looking brown ones. Though they had both erupted into laughter, just seconds after Raife’s brother Charlie took the photo for the filthy comment he made to make them crack. Taken just after their engagement, this photo makes obvious their height difference. Raife always likes to say Dexter’s soft brown curls make him appear at least two inches taller than his own five feet ten. Raife’s dark brown hair is often wild-looking, yet even when standing on end in every direction, Dexter is still taller than him. Raife loves this photo, as euphoric now as he had been when they posed for it. Even with a busy schedule ahead that includes a staff meeting and their last suit fitting, nothing could steal Raife’s happiness today.

Because in sixteen short days—and about six hours, if he’s being precise—Raife and Dexter are getting married. Raife marks the open page with his finger as he closes the book to see the cover, beaming at the Raife Anthony Fenton and Dexter Boone are getting married written there before turning back. He presses his palms against the open pages flat as a jolt of excitement sends flutters scattering in his stomach. How did his life end up as incredible as this?

The wedding scrapbook was one of the first gifts Raife and Dexter received after announcing they were getting married. Sometimes Raife and Dexter spend hours together on the couch flicking through it, filled with increasing excitement for every turned page. The book is open to a page with the date Dexter proposed written on a heart-shaped sticker stuck in the middle. Other pages have mocked up menus and invitations, as well as potential places to visit on their honeymoon. The book is where Raife and Dexter scribble I love yous when either of them is busy. There are even snippets of the vows they’ll be taking in just over two weeks from now. How many times he’s made himself late for work for smiling at some of Dexter’s messages in the book, Raife doesn’t know.

One glance at his phone has Raife swearing under his breath and tucking the pile of laundry under his arm. He runs back through to the kitchen to put his coffee cup in the sink. A splash of now-lukewarm coffee jumps from it, seeping through his shirt sleeve when he isn’t quick enough to step back. Raife swears again, this time for choosing today of all days to wear white. But it’s okay, it’s already a warm day. If he had any sense, he’d not be wearing a long-sleeved shirt in the first place but is already too late to change.

Raife rolls his sleeves past his elbows to level on both arms, picking the laundry up again before racing upstairs. He grabs his work satchel, which he’d meant to take down with him earlier, tripping over the towel that slipped from where he’d left it over the banister after his shower. Raife grumbles for it as he takes the towel through to the washing hamper in the bathroom. He is sure he can hear Dexter’s gentle teasing for it in his absence and imagines the kiss that would follow to placate him if Dexter was here.

Raife pats his pockets for keys, charges back down the stairs retrieving his phone from the kitchen, and is out the door seconds later, pleading with the traffic to be kind. He pulls out of the drive with a vigorous wave for their neighbour Carl, who has a wriggling Golden Retriever puppy in his arms that Raife needs to introduce himself to later. The puppy must be very new; Dexter would have pulled his puppy eyes on him for wanting a dog of their own if he’d seen Carl’s already. Raife makes a mental note to visit their new neighbour when they’re back tonight.

At the end of their street, as he turns the corner, Raife tries to guess what theatrics he might see in the front garden of the Miller’s house. There is always something. Today, Mrs Miller is brandishing a ski pole at her husband, whose tall though stooped frame is ambling up the garden path with a definite wobble. Or perhaps he’s dancing? Sometimes it is difficult to tell. Especially as Mrs Miller then embraces her husband, leading him in a waltz with the ski pole wedged between them.

When Raife joins the traffic, he swears once more, this time for forgetting he’d meant to take the longer route to work. It means a few extra minutes on a normal day. Yet with the current roadworks is the only way to guarantee he won’t get stuck in that awful bottleneck at the main junction near the primary school like he’s now done three times. He turns off at the main road, hoping he doesn’t get stuck behind one of those slow-moving farm monstrosities that are far too big to be called a tractor. Raife earns himself a glare from the traffic police sat waiting to snare unsuspecting traffic dodgers like him who don’t know to slow down at just the right spot. He resists the urge to wave or stick his fingers up.

As he drives, Raife strains his neck to look for anything of interest at the airfield he has to drive around the edge of to get back to the main road. Dexter keeps saying they should get their Mulder and Scully on, go out there at night in case there is some conspiracy involving aliens on their very doorstep. While Raife would like to blame the uniqueness of the Millers on some kind of alien interference, he is fairly sure their tiny village of Mallowham is free from anything paranormal. He can’t imagine even a single UFO being interested in flying over it. There isn’t much in the way of activity to draw attention from humans, let alone visitors from other worlds.

Not that he doesn’t love Mallowham and the other towns and villages around it. Raife moved to Dexter’s home town of Gileston, after completing his Bachelor’s and Masters in Cardiff. He had then taken a PhD at Aldcastle University, where he has now been studying and teaching since he was twenty-two. Raife loves this area; from the tiny shoebox of a first apartment rented with Dexter when they had first moved in together, to the house they first picked the keys up for six years ago.

The pace of life is so different here than Raife’s childhood in Bristol and is the direct opposite of the bustling one he’d known when studying in Cardiff. Sometimes he forgets and takes for granted the peace of it. Though he is always reminded again when they go to Dexter’s parent’s for dinner, only a twenty-minute walk away. Just the thought of dinner then reminds Raife they are having Sunday lunch with his parents at the weekend. Raife allows himself one moment of hope that Charlie might show up unannounced.

Roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, and his mum’s gravy that should be trademarked and given an award; Raife salivates for imagining it. His stomach gives a pang of longing so pathetic he pats it as though that might do anything to help. Raife does not understand how women go through the torture they do to slim into their wedding dresses. He and Dexter have been on a perpetually failing diet ever since booking The Manor for the wedding, and they’re only wearing tuxedos. Raife likes to kid himself that it is their self-restraint that has kept them fairly trim, but really, it is the terrier-like tailor they chose to make their suits. Owain knows if they’ve had so much as a custard cream too many in between fittings. His reproachful, critical looks have made both Dexter and Raife lose their appetites on occasion—though only temporarily, of course.

For his grumbling stomach, Raife stops thinking about the Sunday dinner that shouldn’t even touch their lips because of their diets. He is relieved when he sees the bridge that tells him he is almost at the junction. The traffic as he passes Raife only gets a quick glimpse of but looks pretty backed up, so he is glad he took this brief detour. Though then the brake lights on the black Honda in front of him flicker repeatedly before the car comes to a juddering stop, making Raife slow down. He turns the radio down, his blood running cold for the screeching tyres and colliding metal he hears ahead of him, straining his neck to look for the source of the accident.

Raife sees a Massey Ferguson tractor, pristine without so much as a dent in it, perfect aside from the mud splattered up its sides. The tractor sits primly in the traffic as though it had no part in the mishap that just took place, which, Raife supposes, it didn’t. It looks like the owner of the silver car on the other side of the road facing the wrong way thought they could overtake the tractor. It ploughed straight into the front of a red Range Rover as it tried. The occupants of the vehicles are fine, thankfully. Though the silver car, which might have once been a Vauxhall Corsa, is a crumpled mess. It reminds Raife of the foil of a Kit Kat scrunched up, but he has always had a bit of a food fixation.

Since this accident won’t be cleared any time soon, Raife grabs his phone from the passenger seat, thumbing through his contacts with trembling fingers. Pressing the phone to his ear, Raife is sure he can already hear an approaching siren, shrinking into his seat for the noise. He hates crashes, is always uneasy when stuck in the surrounding traffic. Raife wants to call Dexter, who always makes him feel better in these situations, but Raife knows he has a busy morning, so doesn’t. While waiting for the call to connect to Suzanne, head of his department, to say he’ll be late, Raife lets his mind wander to being stuck in the traffic of another crash.

2008

Raife adjusts the little he can in the driver’s seat of his new car, peering at the dreary sky in doubt. This is his first time driving anywhere of substantial distance at night. While it is only just after seven, for the continuous rain and wind buffeting against the side of the car it seems much later. More ominous, at least. How many years will it take until he is a confident driver?

Dexter found him the car, a red, older model Ford Focus that even came with fluffy dice hanging from its rear-view mirror—that Raife has long since tossed. There are definite perks to his boyfriend working with cars, not least for finding him a cheap one. Dexter has been patient with him practising in between lessons and prepared him for his test without even breaking a sweat. There is also the benefit that Dexter is never without money because he works full time, while Raife only gets the little he does from the tuition he gives to GCSE students. He has Kate to thank for that since she made them postcards to put on the noticeboards of a couple of secondary schools close to the university.

It is one such tutoring session that is the reason he is driving to Gileston far later than he would like. Normally on Fridays, he sets off by four, the best time to have missed the worst of the school traffic and avoid those leaving work. But the boy in question, a fifteen-year-old who can’t seem to get his head around any of his classes, had been desperate. Raife has never been able to ignore people crying, and what kind of person would he be to not help a kid crying down the phone at him?

Now, with Peter far happier about the mock exams he’ll be taking next week, Raife has finally set off for his weekend with Dexter. Dexter had offered to come to Cardiff instead, but Raife knows Dexter finds the city too busy and loud. Gileston is quiet, something that has grown on Raife this past couple of years. This is only his third time driving there, more used to taking the train or bus. The slickness on the road in front of him puts in his thoughts images of oil spills that will send him spinning off the road. He grimaces for the thought, and the seatbelt digging into his neck, and focus on the weekend ahead of them instead.

This weekend is their two year anniversary; it isn’t possible to be more ridiculously in love than Raife is; he is sure of it. These past two years have been amazing. Raife got a 2:i for his geography degree, while Dexter established himself as one of the best engineers at Aston Martin, the two of them slotting easily together in between their careers. They try to see each other as often as possible, which typically means weekends or when Raife has time away from studying. Dexter owns Raife’s heart; there isn’t an hour when they’re apart when he isn’t thinking about him. The world is a far better place for having Dexter in it.

Dexter is about the most perfect boyfriend it is possible to have. He is thoughtful, loving, and always knows the exact words Raife needs to hear if he’s anxious, or upset. Dexter is also his best friend. It isn’t because he’s like a furnace that warms Raife’s forever cold feet when they share a bed. It’s not because he is a cook to rival both sets of their parents. Nor is it because Dexter showed up before Raife’s final exams with food, flashcards to quiz him with, and a friendly face to look at whenever Raife let himself take a breath.

Dexter is the kind of person Charlie calls quietly smart. He never raises his voice, not even when trying to get his point across about whatever topic of the day is making him vibrate with excitement and interest. Instead, he has the most reproachful look and this barely-there huff that Raife is convinced only he hears. Dexter is also the epitome of tactful, always finding the best, most comforting words to say, even in the worst of situations.

Sometimes Raife’s ribs hurt for laughing so much when listening to some of Dexter’s more hilarious observations. His pointed, cutting assessment of other people when it’s just the two of them tucked up alone Raife is sure could make him a stand-up comedian if that was his kind of thing. Dexter does accents when he regales Raife with stories about the people he works with, or their clients, or whatever other adventures he’s had throughout the day. He even mimics their body language sometimes, leaving Raife in helpless fits of giggles that he gets under control only until he catches Dexter’s eye, and is helpless again.

Dexter is also someone who effortlessly makes friends. He can walk into a cafe for lunch, and by the time it is his turn to be served, has learned half the queue’s life stories. And where Raife struggles with getting to know people at least a little before he can easily open up to them, Dexter is unashamedly at ease with everyone he meets.

Most of all, Dexter loves Raife fiercely. He loves him wholeheartedly and for everyone to see. Dexter is the first person Raife wants to speak to about anything, and has this uncanny ability of calling the moment Raife is feeling lonely when they’re apart. He is Raife’s biggest cheerleader, supporter, and on the occasions when it is needed, also his biggest defender; Dexter has squared up to Charlie once or twice when his and Raife’s joking has been a little too intense.

Raife knows, without question, that theirs is the kind of love that is for life. Some people they know, both opinionated and uninvited, like to say they won’t last. That their relationship won’t stand every test life throws at them because they are still so young and have to learn about themselves first. They are all wrong, and that they are now celebrating two years together, Raife thinks, proves that. Raife can’t wait to see him. The thought of tonight, tomorrow, and all of Sunday to spend with Dexter once again has him fighting the urge to drive faster.

Raife is glad he doesn’t. Seconds after he eases the pressure of his foot against the pedal, he hears a screeching noise ahead. The car in front of him slams their brakes on so quickly that for Raife not to hit them, he has to do the same; the seatbelt digs into his chest as he gets thrown forward. The sound of metal on metal out of sight makes his stomach knot in fear of what could be happening. When he looks around him Raife realises he is almost at a roundabout near Cardiff Airport; one he has seen several near misses at since travelling to visit Dexter.

Should he call 999? Raife freezes with fear, glancing around him for a sign of what he should do. The traffic in the opposite direction has stopped altogether, which surely means the entire junction is now cut off? With his fingers trembling, Raife grabs his phone from the passenger seat and calls Dexter, knowing relief the moment he hears his voice.

There’s been an accident, Raife says instead of answering Dexter’s greeting, which he then feels guilty for, for the way Dexter’s voice gets immediately tense.

Where? What happened? Are you okay?

I’m okay, Raife says, slotting his fingers through the gaps in the steering wheel. It wasn’t me. It’s a little further up; I can’t see it.

Where are you?

Raife explains as best he can while listening to a siren approach in the distance. He puts Dexter on speaker as the traffic moves the few inches it can to give the emergency services room.

It’s probably not helped with the rain, Raife says when he is free to talk again.

Yeah, it looks like it’s on for the weekend.

So much for us hiking tomorrow. There is a route around the village they like when they want to get out of the house. Raife loves Dexter’s parents and adores his sister Danica, but they get so little time alone, that they take any moments away from the house that they can.

We’ll just have to hide in my room.

Well. That doesn’t sound so bad, Raife says, already picturing being cosy in Dexter’s bed watching whatever they can find on TV, or just being together. They’ll join Dexter’s family for meals, of course, and on Sunday there will be a big lunch with Dexter’s grandparents and some aunts and uncles. Raife looks forward to that because he loves them all, but right now he wants to be alone with Dexter.

No. It really doesn’t. We can go straight to bed when you get here if you want. We might have to sneak past Mum because she’s made you a chicken and vegetable pie; says you’ll need it for getting in late.

Raife can’t help smiling for Flora, mothering him as much as his own mum does—who he’ll need to call next since she’ll no doubt panic if she doesn’t hear from him. She worries as much as he does because he is new to driving. Well. I don’t know how long this will take, Raife says, his stomach giving a soft rumble at the thought of dinner.

Well. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay on the phone with you if you want?

You don’t have to do that.

I know. But if you need me?

Maybe I can... I don’t know. If I ring you in a bit, text you if it starts to clear?

I’m here, Dexter tells him, the softness in his voice making Raife wish he could climb out of the car and walk to Gileston instead. Though for the rain pounding down on his window, and the way the car shifts because of the wind rushing around it, Raife only huddles into his jacket and pleads for the traffic to move soon.

Talk to me a bit longer? he asks. He hates how dark everything is, sure the planes coming into land overhead are also being buffeted by the wind.

So I was thinking, Dexter says, his voice muffled giving Raife the impression he is adjusting the way he’s sat to get comfortable for talking to him for a while. When I come visit you next, what about watching some ice hockey? A friend at work started talking about it last week; could be something new to try?

Sounds good; tell me more? Raife asks, closing his eyes, letting Dexter’s voice soothe him. He can block out the sirens, the flashing lights, and the chaos beyond his window, so long as he can listen to Dexter talk.

Chapter Two

Was he this openly bored when he sat in his university lectures? As Raife continues to read the passage of text his students are having difficulty understanding, he sneaks glances around the blank faces in the lecture hall wondering if any of them are taking a single word in. Some are even yawning. And Michael, who has barely bothered to attend a single class this year, has the nerve to be staring up at the ceiling, drawing absent patterns with his fingertips over his desk.

Raife doesn’t blame them, really. Demographics is one of the duller sections of the programme that has bored many a person to tears, including its lecturers. Raife can even remember being in a similar lecture hall doing his best not to fall asleep. Coupled with the subject, the heat of the sun outside this hall isn’t exactly the best recipe for concentrating.

This is one of the university’s older lecture halls, with a miserable grey carpet and equally dismal blue walls. The seating is also blue, though faded and frayed in places, squeaking in protest any time students fidget, or even breathe too forcefully. Raife casts his gaze around the room again in the hope that at least some of them are listening. Though he doesn’t hold too much hope of that; a couple haven’t even noticed he’s stopped talking.

Kimberly hasn’t even bothered to get dressed this morning. She is wearing a leopard print onesie number with giant pompoms on the toes that dangle over the seat she is lounging across, distracting Raife every time she moves her foot. Which, if Dexter were here, would earn Raife the accusation that he is a cat. Kimberly is one of the more promising students in the room, and also one of the most alert, which is worrying. Now he is really looking, Raife sees there are three fast asleep with their heads resting on the cramped little desks they should be taking their notes on.

Michael calls Raife’s attention by yawning and stretching, arms up over his head in a slow, deliberate arc. Raife bites his tongue from commenting; part of him wants to yell at him to concentrate, to yell at them all to pay attention. This is the last session before a resit exam, which is four days from now. If he were them, he might be snoring already, but he can’t think like that, not with so much at stake for them all. When the clock finally ticks over to the hour, Raife isn’t sure who is more relieved that the lecture is now over. All that potential they have and all of it wasted. And of course, Raife will blame himself.

Raife has one more lecture to give today, and then the staff meeting to attend. He wants more coffee but is already jittery from the four cups he’s had, so knows he shouldn’t. He looks longingly at the vending machine in the staff lounge craving chocolate but makes his legs keep walking. Sixteen days and a perfectly fitted tuxedo won’t be all that forgiving if he crams his face with the several Twix bars he’d love to. And besides that, Raife can’t bear another snippy comment from Owain tonight. Their tailor can smell chocolate on them like some anti-treat bloodhound.

Dexter is taking that fear