‘Look, I don’t want you to think that I don’t respect your choices. Your . . .orientations. I’ve been reading about asexuality online and it’s perfectly norm . . . well, it’s more common than you think. The point is, you are who you are: a wonderful person, in your own way. Far be it from me to ask you to change.’
A breath is released from somewhere in my chest. ‘Gavin. It’s not that I don’t think you’re a very handsome man—’
‘Oh, I knowthat,’ he reassures me.
‘I mean, your physique alone—’
‘I know. I know!’ he laughs, shaking his head. ‘Look, you don’t need to worry, Jules. I do know this is about you not me.’
‘It is!’ I exclaim, happily. ‘I have issues! I must have, to not fancy someone like you!’
His smile falters.
‘Obviously, I fancy you a bit. Who wouldn’t? I’m just saying: you hit the nail on the head. This is all aboutme.’
He pats my hand, like the granddad in a Werther’s Originals advert. ‘I’m so glad you understand. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you.’
‘You absolutely haven’t, Gavin,’ I say, a little too emphatically. ‘I mean, you havea bit. Not too much though. Just the right amount, I’d say.’
I feel like going onto Reddit right this second and telling all those know-alls that they’re completely wrong about how to break up with someone. You don’t have to make speeches. You don’t have to say, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ You don’t have to undertake any preparation whatsoever. All you have to do is go for coffee and repeat the following words: ‘Here’s the thing . . .’ and the rest will be done for you.
‘Well, I am going to miss you,’ he says, ruefully. ‘That goes without saying. But I’m sure we’ll both move on.’
‘Oh, I agree. And maybe we can stay in touch?’ I suggest.
He makes a ‘hmm’ noise and scrunches up his nose as if this is a terrible idea. Then he smiles again. ‘You’re not going to stop working on those lats, though, are you?’
‘These babies?’ I give my arm a Popeye-style flex. ‘Not a chance.’
‘Good!’ he laughs. ‘Though . . . you do know those are your biceps, don’t you?’
‘Ah!’ I laugh again, because I don’t really know what else to say.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ he says, slapping his hands on his thighs as he stands up. ‘One last arms day, for old time’s sake?’
It’s my turn to scrunch up my nose.
He nods philosophically.
‘Take it easy, Jules,’ he says.
‘And you, Gavin.’
He goes to leave but then turns back to me at the last minute. ‘I almost forgot. You don’t mind if I keep those tickets, do you? I mean it’s not something I ever would have chosen to go to myself but . . . I’ve sort of come around to the idea.’
The relief that I don’t have to get on the phone to the All England Club tomorrow to beg for a refund for Gavin isimmense.
‘Absolutely not. And you never know, you might end up being a tennis fan, after all.’
He looks confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The tickets. I assume you’re using them yourself ?’
‘Absolutely. I mean . . . Mold is quite a long way to go for a tribute act but that guy you were going on about got such rave reviews for Phil Collins that he’s decided to do Bon Jovi now. I’ll be honest, I can’t wait.’
Chapter 42
Over the next couple of days, Sam and I can’t seem to stop texting one another. It’s always him who messages first, occasionally to ask when I’m next playing a league match, or when he’ll next get to see me. Mainly, our exchanges are about something and nothing, any excuse to strike up conversation.
