No, I don’t.
I hate him.
I hate him.
When I get back to my flat I run myself a bath, and I finally get my phone out. I’m half expecting to find a text from him, maybe even an apology . . .
But . . .
Orlando’s blocked me.
His message threads are missing from WhatsApp, I can’t seem to locate his profile on IG, and when I ring his number I get a computerised auto response telling me my call cannot be connected at this time.
He fucking blocked me.
I hate him so much.
Second Half
27
Monday 3rd May 2027
Lando
By the time Harry reaches my room, he’s already missing his shoes and is in the process of discarding yet more of his clothing.
“Your dad’s home,” he says, tossing his Bath Cents hoodie onto my bed.
“Yeah.” I get up from my desk and stand beside him in the middle of the rug. “Did he say anything to you?”
“He looked me up and down, really confused, and said, ‘You’re the ex-boyfriend?’ and I said, ‘Yeah,’ and he said, ‘I hope you’ve come to fix him. He’s been self-destructive without you.’”
“Oh.”
I didn’t think he’d noticed. Or cared.
“And then he told me not to make too much noise.”
I shut my bedroom door, and Harry follows my movement, one eyebrow raised so high it’s lost in hishairline.
“The other day you mentioned you hadn’t had sex since we did in August?” I say.
Now both brows are invisible. “So?”
“We broke things off so you could go and find whatever it was you couldn’t get from me. With Lionel . . . or whoever. You were supposed to sow your wild oats and fuck around and fall in love, but . . .” I can’t seem to get my words out. “I set you free and you haven’t done anyth—”
“Wait.” Harry holds up his palm, and I pause my rambling. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait . . .”
Eventually he might stop repeating that word. Doesn’t look like it’s about to happen anytime soon, though.
“You? You . . . set me free? You. Set. Me. Free?”
“Harry, we’ve been over this a thousand fucking times. We were never going to work—”
“Shut the fuck up, Lando.”
I do.
