An hour and twenty-two minutes. That meant he’d been finished for at least two hours, stealing any hope I might run into him in the locker room.Hey you ok?I messaged. After I’d gone through my cool-down, I added,Miles?And when there was still nothing by the time I fled the press room, I asked,Where are you?
Still no answer came, so I went up to his room, only to find the door open and a cleaner running through a post check-out clean. I snatched out my phone.
Have you already left?
Miles?
Fuck, please message back
Hoping I might catch up with him, I returned to the foyer. It was late afternoon and the place was abuzz with new arrivals waiting to check in, though they were all stuck in a line behind Mrs Callahan, who leaned on the desk smiling brightly upon a harried receptionist. There was no sign of Miles, so I made my way over before I could stop myself.
“Mrs Callahan?”
She turned, faint surprise becoming faint disdain as recognition dawned. “Ah, you. Actually, perhaps you can help me since this young lady will not. Come, walk with me.”
Before I could object, her fingers bit into my elbow hard enough to bruise and she guided me in the direction of the lounge, garnering a few curious glances. “I’m looking for my son,” she said, letting go once we were a little way from the desk. “I seem to have missed him after his match and neither the tournament nor the hotel can tell me where he is.”
“Oh, I think he checked out,” I said. “His room was being cleaned when I went up.”
Annoyance swept her face, hastily smothered with a brittle laugh that left her glare untouched. “How silly of me, I must have misunderstood him,” she said, sounding for a moment like the ditzy mother on an American sitcom. “Then I suppose I am no longer in need of your services after all.” She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Mr . . .?”
I took it. “Russo.”
“Ah, I should have guessed. The gay player.”
“You mean one of them,” I said.
A humourless smile hardened like glass on her thin lips. “Indeed. Good day, Mr Russo.”
Before she could turn and walk away, I said, “Wait, do you know where he’s gone?”
Her sharp brows rose and there was something all too like Miles in that faintly disbelieving look. “Why, I imagine he’s gone home, Mr Russo, but then if he’d wanted you to know that, he would have told you so.”
I’d been trying so hard not to dislike her, because despite everything, she was still Miles’s mother. But utterly failing, I said, “Yeah? And maybe he would have told you he was leaving if he’d wanted you to know, too.”
And before I could say more words I might regret, I spun away, pulling out my phone.
You don’t have to reply, but I’m going to keep messaging anyway
And you don’t need to tell me where you are and we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, just tell me you’re ok
And then because I couldn’t text him how I felt but needed to say something, I added:
But Miles? This morning, I didn’t want to be saved
Back in my room, Macca was waiting with the massage table, because somehow life and tennis went on even when Miles wasn’t replying. We were halfway through our session when my phone finally buzzed, and I launched myself off the table to the tune of Macca’s cursing.
hey, i’m ok. just had to get out of there
we can still talk if you like
come visit when you’re done
