First of all, happy belated birthday. Months ago, you said that since the lads sing “Mr. Brightside” so much, you thought it would be fun to see the Killers perform. As fate would have it, they were playing in London this weekend, so I got tickets and backstage passes and planned this massive night out for us. I thought it was a sign from the universe, and I was so excited to keep that secret from you and couldn’t wait to see the look onyour face as I drove us down. I didn’t think for one minute that you might have other plans, I just assumed that we would be together on your big day. I assumed we would be together on all our big days, because that’s what I wanted.
I made a lot of assumptions like that. Selfish assumptions about you and me and what we meant to each other.
I fucked up. I can’t put it any clearer than that. Not a day goes by where I don’t think of what I said to you that night at the club and regret every single word.
I’ve always known deep down that I’m a coward. I was too scared to figure out what I really wanted in my life, beyond football. Too scared to do the right thing for everyone and end it with Claire. I shoved it all down under layers of aggression on the pitch and loads of shit banter off of it and thought that would be enough. But I was wrong, and now it’s hurt someone I care deeply about, which is the worst thing that can happen to a coward. (Sorry, this is turning into a therapy session. There’s a reason I earn my living with my feet and not with my brain—this letter is absolute dogshite.)
I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know how to convince you how sorry I am, and I’m aware that a container of lobster risotto and a few scribbled paragraphs is not even close to being enough. You have changed my life, so much and in such a short amount of time, and I hate that you’re not in it anymore, though I understand why. I hate that you’re not on the coach with the lads with your carefully chosen shirt and your wee hoodie. I don’t want to live without you, and I know I fucked up any chance of that. But still, I miss you. We miss you. The boys are dying from lack of banter. And it’s my fault.
I don’t know where we go from here, because I totally get it if you never want to speak to me again. But I hope that’s not thecase. I’ll do whatever you want to get us back to where we were, or to some other acceptable future.
So let me leave you with one final truth or dare: I dare you to forgive me.
Please.
Lach xx
P.S. The biscuits are from Moira, who sends her love. Because who wouldn’t love you, if given the chance?
I dab away my tears with the sleeve of my shirt and try to get my breathing back to normal. I don’t know what the world would dictate I do in this situation. Am I an antifeminist pushover if I forgive him immediately? Am I a heartless bitch if I don’t? Am I a psychopath if I pretend I never got the note but still eat the risotto? I reread it, taking in his horrible handwriting, the scratched-out bits, the heartfelt apologies. And, God, I don’t know what the world wants me to do, but I know what I want to do: It’s what I’ve wanted to do since Kieran scraped me off of that bathroom floor. I want to see Lachlan. I want to talk to him. Yes, I might want to give him a good smack or two, but mostly I want my friend back. There’s no Abby in Liverpool without Lachlan; even when I think I can build something here without him in it, I know he’ll always be a looming presence, an unanswered question. I can’t ignore him forever, and I don’t want to.
I push my chair back to go try to find him, but as I look up, he’s there, loitering nervously at the door. “I’ve been hovering here for an hour debating whether to grab that risotto and get it into the fridge before it goes off.”
I could never have predicted this, not in a million years, but…I just laugh. Against all odds, I laugh. It rolls out of me in waves,laughter and relief, but it’s tinged with anger. Real anger. Because I am furious at this man, despite also being so happy to have him here. And my body can’t process these conflicting emotions, making the sound coming out of me confusing at best, maniacal at worst. He stands back and lets it happen, and when I’ve finally finished, I just look at him.
“So. Where do we go from here?”
Chapter Forty
It turns out the answerto “where do we go from here” is shockingly simple for Lachlan and me: our favorite café, the one we took Josh to when he was in town. Our orders haven’t changed since then, but our behavior sure has. I wonder if Lachlan notices that I don’t lovingly feed him my pickle. I wonder if he’s fighting the urge to fish the lemon slice out of my Diet Coke. We’re both stiff, deliberate in our movements, conspicuously not touching each other. The air is thick with questions, but it’s so unclear to me how this proceeds. I haven’t had enough time to process a possible reconciliation, to sketch out the various forms it could take. How do I navigate this—how do I get satisfaction, relief, absolution? And what does Lachlan get—or, perhaps more terrifyingly, what does he want?
When we’ve covered every Brit’s favorite bit of small talk (the weather), Lachlan clears his throat. “I have some things I’d like to say, if that’s okay. Couldn’t exactly fit it all in the letter.”
I just nod.
He fiddles with the wrapper from his straw, twisting it around his fingers. “I’ve been with Claire pretty much my entire life.”
I blanch at these words.I’ve been with Claire—the presentperfect tense, used to express a past event that has present consequences. In layman’s terms: They’re still together. My heart is pounding now, and I can think of a present perfect sentence to describe my presentimperfect mood:I’ve been a fool.
Lachlan doesn’t notice that all the blood has drained from my face. “We got married because that’s what footballers do: They have a family so there’s a little unit that goes with them when they move from team to team, country to country, so they’re not starting over every time. Since everyone around me was doing it, I figured I needed to do it too. A few weeks beforehand, I almost called it off. I thought we were getting married for the wrong reasons, or that maybe we shouldn’t even be together at all. But Matty talked me off the ledge, and what he said made a lot of sense. So we got married, and it was good, for a while. We really supported each other. But somewhere along the way, our little unit fractured.”
Oh.Past tense.
Lachlan sighs. “We started living separate lives a couple years after we got to Spain, because I resented her for pressuring me to leave Mersey and she resented me for never fully committing to our life in Madrid or her ambitions beyond football. On paper we were still married, and there were times when it was like it had always been, but…” He pauses, looks away, and his eyes water. “But we both changed somewhere along the way. All the things we used to be on the same page about had shifted, because who’s the same person at thirty that they were at thirteen? And I’m scared that I broke it, and I hate being bad at things. It’s why I’m a footballer instead of an astronaut or a fireman or whatever the hell I actually wanted to be as a kid, because football was the thing I was best at and I was too scared to try anything else. So Ialways had this thought in my head: I vowed to love this woman till death do us part, no matter what. If we split up, I would have failed.”
He finally looks at me, but I can’t interpret what’s going on behind his eyes. Is this an apology? Does he require comfort? Am I supposed to fix it?
“Maybe it would be helpful to reframe it,” I say. “You had an incredibly happy and successful partnership for many, many years. You helped each other grow into the people you were supposed to be. None of that sounds like failure to me; it sounds like two people who had one kind of love for a very long time and who now are transitioning into a different kind.”
His smile is rueful, its edges tugged down by the gravity of sorrow. “You should work in communications.”
“I’ll consider it.” I take a sip of Diet Coke, giving me time to build up the courage to ask the questions that most need answering. “So what are you guys going to do?”
“We’ve been trying counseling for a few months—well, I guess you know that, since you talked to Claire. Sorry, I can’t imagine how uncomfortable that must have been.”
“It was okay, actually. I think I’d really like her, if I weren’t abjectly terrified of her.”
He lets out a sharp little burst of a laugh. “Yeah. I think she would really like you too. And the counseling has helped. Or at least, it’s helped us be able to articulate what’s wrong: She backed out of our deal that Spain was temporary and that returning to Liverpool was always the plan. I never prioritized her career above mine. She resents me for being the one who gets to make the decisions. I’m too ashamed to admit that we’ve failed. On and on and on. It’s hard to hear your faults queued up like that, week after week.” He sighs. “But then there will be moments whenwe’re together where it feels like the old us. When we were thirteen, giggling in the back of my dad’s car. Or when we were twenty-one, on the edge of something big and scary and exciting, holding hands on the cliff and promising each other it would be okay if we jumped. Just two people sitting together and trying to figure out how to navigate the world. Moments when it’s felt like we could make it.”
