The American guy chuckles. “Mm, what a gentleman.”
I go completely still, as if my body’s turned to ice.
That... didn’t sound like something a trainer would say.
Their footsteps are getting quieter as they head downstairs. Numb and slightly dazed, I follow them. Travis says something I don’t quite catch, and the guy laughs again.
“Are you going to be at Hunter’s party this weekend?”
“Yeah, should be,” Travis answers.
“Perfect. Ah, hang on—” There’s a faint beep, like Travis has opened the security door. “Wait a sec.” Some scuffling, a quiet laugh. “We won’t be able to say goodbye at the tube station.”
No.
No, no, no, no.
They’re kissing.
Travis and this guy—this fucking random American asshole—they’re making out, right below me. I can hear them. A soft noise, the rustle of clothing.
I feel like my ribs are splintering apart. I feelsick.
I honestly feel like I might throw up.
I don’t know how long it goes on. Finally, the guy sighs and says, “Alright, you can walk me to the damn tube now. Unless you want me to come back to your place...”
Travis laughs. “I told you, I have to get up really early.”
“Yeah, yeah. But you know—”
The door swings shut behind them and I don’t hear anything else. The stairwell is completely silent now. I sit down on the stairs with my heart torn open in my chest, and the word “no” running circles in my mind.
No, no, no.
Sector Three
Travis and Jacob
29
Party
My birthday falls on March third, two days before Hunter’s, so Heather insists on having a party on March fourth for both of us. It’s a small, laid-back thing, twenty or thirty people drinking beer and eating barbecue in Heather’s backyard. She’s baked two cakes for us. Mine is in the shape of an F1 car, as if I’m about six years old, and Hunter’s is in the shape of a man talking too much about veganism. (That’s what Heather says, anyway. It just looks like a man waving, to me.)
I don’t know everyone here, but I know enough of them that I don’t feel awkward. Matty shows up a bit late with presents that he pretends he bought himself, though we all know his girlfriend, Erin, did it for him. He definitely bought the cards himself, though. Mine says “Our deepest condolences” on the front, but he’s scratched a line through that and written “HAPPY BIRTHDAY ROBOT” instead. Typical Matty. After I won the championship, he gave me one that said “Sorry for your loss,” but he’d scratched out “sorry” and “loss” to change it to “HAPPY for your WIN.”
“Thank Erin for me,” I say as I unwrap the gift. It’s a case for the new iPhone Heather and Hunter gave me yesterday, fancy black leather with my racing number stitched on in black thread. “Where is she today?”
“Some swanky shoot in South Africa,” Matty says. Erin is a wildlife photographer. A pretty successful one, too, I think. There are prints in their house of photos she took for big magazines likeNational GeographicandBBC Wildlife. “I’m headed there tomorrow for the rest of the break.”
“Nice.”
“What about you? Going anywhere?”
“Ah, I’ll probably just stick around here. Have to train Morocco more.” Morocco is the name Heather gave to my new dog. They called her Sprinkles in the shelter, which Heather said was the stupidest dog name she’d ever heard.
I kind of agree, to be honest.
