Riley
Two years earlier
Ian loads the dishes into the dishwasher. He cooked for me, and we ate on the sofa. I told him a bit about my life, and I don’t know where the words came from.
I never talk to anyone about the past; Jamie and I keep it secret. We don’t want any little part of our life with him to become public knowledge.
Jamie has his career, has made a name for himself in the world of sports, and the last thing I want is for the past to come back and screw everything up. It’s something we need to protect ourselves from, and it’s my responsibility to do so for as long as I can.
And that’s the reason I try to stay on the sidelines and not interfere in Jamie's world, even though he so desperately wants me to be a part of it. I know it’s better for both of us this way.
The best thing would be for me not to be associated with him as Jamie Murray’s sister and for just a few trusted people to know who I am. You never know when an extra ear, someone a little too interested in other people’s business, could be lurking around the corner.
And yet tonight, instead of locking that door, I left it ajar to let him make his way in. It seemed like the natural thing for me to do, maybe because Ian isn’t just what he shows people; he’s much more than that, I’m sure of it. And I’d like to be the one granted permission to discover everything that Ian hides from everyone else. Ian is discreet and loyal: Jamie trusts him unquestionably, which means I do too.
I don’t know what he saw, how he processed what I told him, or how he feels about it, but he’s still here.
I’m sitting on the counter in the kitchen, watching him, completely mesmerized, unable to do or say anything. His sure, purposeful way of moving has consumed all of my attention.
“Another glass?” he asks, suddenly waving a bottle in front of me.
“Why not.” I turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard behind me. He opens the bottle and comes towards me. I set the glasses on the counter, and he pours for both of us. He offers me one and draws his hand in to clink his glass against mine in a toast.
“What are we toasting?” I ask, looking him in the eyes.
“To friendship,” he says.
And my heart starts bleeding.
“To friendship,” I repeat.
It’s a lie.
Enormous. Dangerous. Senseless.
His.
Mine too.
When did this happen? When did we become friends? Who drew this stupid boundary between us, prohibiting us from thinking of something more than that? To understand, to hope that for us, there could be something more?
When did I become aware that my heart had stopped crying and started trembling?
When did I realise that he’s the only one who knows where and how to look for me?
When did I start seeing him as the only man I could trust?
When did I realise that my life would always be unhappy and incomplete?
I take a sip of my wine, but I can’t stop looking at him. His deep blue eyes pass over me.
They heat everything up. They set everything alight.
They setmealight.
Why, Ian? Why are we friends?
Why didn’t you dance with me that night?
