Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the man I spent my entire life not being good enough for extends a hand in my direction and motions for me to join him, grinning ear to ear.
I move on autopilot through my worst nightmare. My movements are slow and measured, careful not to fall, desperate to keep my limp in check. I picture tripping on my way to him. God, that would make him so happy.
And then I’m face to face with the man/monster. We shake hands, his squeeze so tight it’s almost painful.
“Good to see you, Arty.” He smiles up at me with nicotine-stained teeth.
“You too.” The lie feels bitter on my tongue.
He puts his arm around me as we pose for more pictures. I haven’t seen the man in years, he seems a lot smaller than Iremember. Flash after flash blinds me as I stand still, not blinking, hoping this will be over soon.
His head tilts closer to mine, and I can smell the sour whiskey scent on his breath. I step away the moment I can, but not before he offers me his hand for one more shake.
His dead eyes lock on mine as he utters, without moving his lips “I can’t wait to watch you lose.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
ARTHUR
Elliot: How are you doing?
Arthur: Fine.
Elliot: Well, I know you’re fiiiine. But how are you holding up?
Arthur: Fine.
Elliot: …
Arthur: Looking forward to coming home.
Elliot: About that. Do you want me to see if Sam can stay at Rhett’s tonight? I could meet you at your place, or you could come here?
Arthur: No. It’ll be late. And I want to be at the office first thingtomorrow.
Elliot: Of course.
Elliot: Good luck tonight!
Arthur: Thanks.
Elliot: Text me after the game?
Arthur: Sure.
I’m notsure how long I’ve been sitting at my desk staring at last night’s messages to Elliot. Long enough that the crappy cup of coffee I bought on my way in has gone cold.
I didn’t text her after the game. The game we lost. Just like the one before that. Two games into the series and we’re down by two.Off to a great start, I think bitterly.
I can’t wait to watch you lose.Well, at least I’m not disappointing the old man, for once in my life.
I scroll through our messages again. Elliot’s are like her; full of sweetness and humour. Cheeky at times, concerned at others. Whereas mine are all doom and gloom. One word answers. Cold. Clinical. Dismissive.
When I got home last night, I read the messages again. I had “home” typed out but deleted it. What’s the point? She would have asked how I was. My options would have been to lie to her like I’ve been doing since I left Boston, or tell her the truth and bring her down with me.
So I chose to spare us the whole song and dance.
I tell myself I’m protecting her, but that’s bullshit too. Like everything else.
