It’s a plot twist I don’t see coming. My jaw nearly unhinges it drops so quickly. Clementine’s eyes shoot up when I gasp.
I reach out and grab her hand because, above everything, it’s clear how distressed she is. “Does anyone know?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never told a soul. I’ve tried to forget him, I’ve tried to sleep with other guys, but I can’t bring myself to. I can’t do it, Story. I still love him. We shared things we never shared with anyone.”
I’ll say one thing, Clementine’s story is putting my marginally fucked-up situation with Hendricks into a much more flattering light. I also wrote the book on men you shouldn’t be in love with.
“Clem. I . . . um . . .” I’m actually lost for words.
Picking up the bottle, she tops up our glasses, emptying it. We’re definitely going to need another one.
“I saw him today.”
“Who?”
“Santi, he was at the match?—”
I blink, not sure I heard correctly. Because this Torres guy being at Foxleigh Park where Miles plays isn’t just crazy, it’s a death wish.
“Sorry,what?”
“His letters, flowers, emails . . . I can ignore them, but since his suspension ended last summer, he’s popped up at tournaments when I’m least expecting. Alwayswhen Miles is playing.”
“He’s still contacting you?”
“All the time. Begging me to speak to him.”
“Jesus, Clem.”
“I finally gave in today, said I’d listen if he agreed to leave me alone after, but then Hendricks caught us. He was so mad, and I don’t blame him?—”
“This was this afternoon?”
She nods. I could likely time it down to the minute. Directly before he came to find me in the champagne tent. I knew something wasn’t right with him, even considering his dislike for Sam Pelling.
Poor Hendricks. Poor Clementine. Poorme.
“Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. He and Miles share everything, but this . . . might do more damage.”
“We’re in uncharted territory.”
The pair of us look up to find Eddie with a new bottle of wine. “How’re things going? Working on the list of who’s caused this?”
Clementine grins at him through bloodshot eyes. “Sure are.”
“Good, good,” he gruffs, and trudges back to the bar with the empty bottle.
Clementine tops up our glasses and wipes a hand under her nose. “Anyway, tell me what’s happening with you and Hendricks? Are things better?”
I shake my head and follow it with a shrug. It’s hard to find the words.
“Not really . . . I don’t know . . . I thought it was okay, then it wasn’t. . . I was looking for him when I foundyou.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. We can go?—”
“No. I’m glad we’re here.”
