He’s even more violently handsome than I remember. His skin is a beautiful soft bronze colour, like he’s spent a month in Greece, and he’s pulled his dark hair into a high ponytail bun thing. There are streaks of silver running into his hair tie—they’re new—and his arms bear a whole host of tattoos that weren’t there the last time I saw him.
Lionel slots himself in beside Mum. “Donna has been so excited for today. That was a stellar performance, by the way. I don’t know much about rugby, but wow, that was so intense to watch. I’m Lionel. I work with your mum.”
It feels like I’ve swallowed a molten rugby ball. He doesn’t remember me. After all these years, he doesn’t remember me.
“We’ve met, actually,” I say, trying to keep my voice from breaking, even though the warmth is rising in my cheeks and flushing my face already.
Lionel doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve even spoken. “She’s very proud of you. And rightly so.”
Mum is nodding along beside Lionel like her head is attached with a spring.
“And . . . is that your little friend?”
My little friend? Little?
At my no doubt confused expression, Lionel points over my shoulder to Lando, who’s busy getting squeezed to death by Daisy. Doesn’t she know not to press too hard on his abdomen?
“Donna said you’ve been talking nonstop about him. You two played fantastic together. It’s great when you find a friend you can be yourself with,” Lionel says.
The next words slip out of my mouth with no cognitive input from my brain. I don’t know why I say it, only that I do, and now it’s too late to take it back. “We’re actually more than just friends.”
Why? Why? Why, Jesus, why?
“Ah, even better,” Lionel says, with his stupid grown-up suaveness. “Oh, please excuse me, I’d like to pay my felicitations to Mathias Jones. It was nice to meet you, Harry.”
“We’ve met before,” I reply, but he’s already fucked off. “I thought he didn’t know much about rugby. Why the fuck does he want to pay hisfelicitationsto Mathias Jones?” I can’t help but put on a whiny voice when I say the word “felicitations.”
Who even says that anyway? What a stupid jerk thing to say.
“Honey, why didn’t you tell me about you and Orlando? How long has it been going on? How long has it been official?” Mum says, ignoring everything else that was said and focusing intensely on my accidental lie.
“God, no, we’re not actually together. I didn’t mean to say that.” My face is on fire. It’s literally aflame. Look up the word inferno in the dictionary and you’d see a picture of my abject humiliation.
Mum tilts her head to the side. “Oh, is it one of those newfangled situationships?”
I scratch my ear. Even that feels feverish. “Uh . . . yeah, I guess so. Don’t . . . uh . . . say anything, though.”
“Of course not, honey.” She taps her nose, then waves to someone over my shoulder, checks her watch, and mouths, “Five minutes!”
“My king!” It’s Lando.
As if I couldn’t suffer any more mortification, Lando slides up next to me, wraps an arm over my shoulder, and kisses me on the cheek.
Mum smiles and winks in an exaggerated panto-style way, like she’s in on this huge secret. I feel the banana and protein bar I ate during halftime surging back up my oesophagus.
I hide my face behind my palms. “Mum, this is Lando. Lando, this is my mum.”
“Mrs Ellis, finally we meet. Congratulations on raising such a beautiful, considerate, and compassionate boy.”
I know Lando is being a sarcastic little shit, but Mum doesn’t see it. She flushes as red as I am.
“It’s so good to meet you at last, Orlando. Harry has talked about nothing but you for weeks now,” she says.
I stare wide-eyed at her while I try to mind-control her mouth shut.
“That’s because he’s obsessed with me,” Lando says.
Mum wiggles her finger into the spot on my cheek where my dimple would be if I were smiling, which I am most decidedly not. “You know, I think he might be a little bit.”
