Something tells me Miles Callahan did too
Seven
THE LIGHT IN the fridge case flickered like it was getting sick of me staring. It had been warm at the court, but two minutes standing in the meat section of the supermarket had turned my sweat to ice. And my brain to sludge.
We’d stopped for groceries on the way back since we couldn’t live off chocolate mousse cake however tempting it was, but while Miles searched up recipes on his phone, I was trying to do math and failing.
“This sucks,” Miles said, glancing up as someone brushed past behind us. “We could avoid this if you gave me permission to order in again.”
“I am not letting you keep buying food for me. But go ahead and do it for yourself if you like, I’m not your prison guard. Damn it, what’s seven hundred and seventy times five?”
“Three thousand eight hundred and fifty. You’re taking this way too seriously.”
Ignoring that last part, I said, “Is it? That’s a lot.”
“Of meat or money?”
“Both.” I gnawed my lip, staring at the neat little packages of meat with their neat little price tags. And because the decision was impossible, I put it off by throwing him a look. “Did you do that sum in your head?”
He’d gone back to scowling at a recipe for what looked like some kind of fried rice. “It wasn’t hard,” he said. “Just seventy-seven times five and add an extra zero.”
“That doesn’t make it easier. Damn it.”
“Just buy the meat, Mat.” Miles sighed and shoved his phone into his pocket. “Screw living on beans or whatever if you don’t want to.”
“Yeah, well, you can say that because you don’t have to worry about running out of money,” I said, picking up one of the plastic trays as though staring at the price closer up would change the numbers.
“Neither do you right now.”
I dropped the tray back and shot him a glare. “If you mean because I can rely on you to help me if I get—”
“No! I mean, yes, you can, but that’s not what I meant. I’ve seen your budget. You sent it to me, remember?”
“Vividly.”
“Right, so I know what numbers you’re working from and unless I’m missing something, your total is based on losing in the third qualifying round at Roland Garros, not the second round of themaindraw. That’s a huge difference in cash.”
“Yes, but the last time I got main-draw-of-a-grand-slam money—the year you knocked me out of Wimbledon, thank you for that—”
He nodded graciously. “You’re welcome.”
“—I got too far ahead of myself and ended up in massive debt when I couldn’t back it up, and I refuse to do that again. If I do okayhere then maybe I can use that money when I hit the US, otherwise it’s my security in case I lose in the first round of qualifying next week.”
A beat of silence met this, filled only by the hum of the meat fridge and the tinny strains of terrible store music. Then Miles set a heavy hand on my shoulder, his dark gaze catching me like a hook. “Mat.”
“What?” I said, hating the way my stomach lurched the moment he got serious.
“I think you—” He broke off as a middle-aged woman strolled by with a squeaky cart, throwing us a curious glance. Removing his hand, Miles shoved it deep into his pocket. “Look, Mat, this is your decision and I respect that,” he said once she’d gone. “And I’m genuinely grateful for the opportunity to see firsthand what this is like for you, but I need you to listen for a moment, all right?”
“All right,” I said, a squirm of discomfort wriggling in my gut. He had such an intense stare when he chose to use it.
“I get that you’ve got your plans and your budget and your rules for a reason,” he said, shoulders hunching like a six-foot-five man trying not to be. “They protect you, right? They make sure you’ll never have to feel that fear again. But the fear doesn’t actually go away, because there’s always a chance the protections you put in place will fail.”
He spoke like he understood how it had felt, like he’d been there while I kept tightening the budget and still trying to find a way to play. I’d been so close to giving up, but I hadn’t after the accident, so to quit over money would have made a mockery of all that hard work.
“And because the fear doesn’t go away,” he went on, “sometimes you have to take risks. Even just small ones.” Pulling a handfrom his pocket, he lifted it to my temple to brush aside a loose strand of hair, fingers ghosting over my skin. “Just to say ‘fuck you’ to the fear, right? So it knows you can see it. Knows you refuse to be ruled by it.”
He traced my cheek with one fingertip before letting his hand fall. And in the aftermath of such words, the hum of the refrigerator units was like a roar.
