It was on the tip of my tongue to demand to know why hiding mattered so much, but the whole point was that he wasnotmy boyfriend and it was none of my damned business. If he felt he needed to keep his straight-boy image for his sponsors, who was I to tell him otherwise? It wasn’t like I could point to my many endorsements and prove him wrong.
I needed to breathe and let it go. So, I drew a breath and let it go because I wasn’t ready to let him go. “You’re lucky to have a sister who looks out for you,” I said. “I’m heading out for a practice hit soon if you want to join me.”
Miles looked to Katie, who was frowning at this exchange. “You coming?” he asked, like he needed a fucking chaperone.
“Not today,” she said. “I have plans.”
He considered this, silently weighing his options like the decision was momentous. “Sure,” he said at last, shrugging one shoulder. “I could do with the hit.”
WE WALKED IN silence, something I realised we hadn’t done since that first walk to the laundromat. Talking to Miles had fast become as easy as breathing. Until it wasn’t.
The tennis, at least, was straight forward. We didn’t talk as much as we usually did and appreciative grins were few and far between, but tennis was tennis and this was thankfully no match. We didn’t play points, just drilled our shots and set up hits for one another, and though I could have kept going for hours, rain blew in by early afternoon.
I had been sure he would disappear back to his own apartment then, our usual spark wholly lacking, yet when I said I was heading to the laundromat, he surprised me with, “I’ll join you. I’m running out of shirts.”
Rainy Friday afternoons were not busy at laundromats, and we once again took the machines in the back corner we had first used two weeks earlier. That it had only been two weeks felt as wrong as two weeks having passed at all, although whatever else had changed, Miles still hadn’t gotten any coins.
“How do you feel about your first-round match?” I asked, deciding to break the silence after our machines had been rumbling away for a full five minutes.
“Pretty good,” he said, leaning against the narrow bench and folding his arms. “Arthur’s good, but he’s not as dangerous in England as he is in France, on clay with his home crowd. I’ll go practise on site tomorrow though. Every player is dangerous if I’m not prepared.”
Almost I asked about his team, only to think of the calls from his father he’d been ignoring, and keep my mouth shut. Not his boyfriend, just the gay player across the hall he could safely fuck without causing a stir.
That had been true from the beginning and I’d been careful toshow nothing more than friendship in public. Yet now this man who had playfully elbowed me on walks to the court, taken me to dinner and brushed my cheek in a Tescos, was standing as far from me as he could, hands tucked under his arms, and my anger was mounting.
He could have asked how I felt about my upcoming match, could have talked about what preparations he planned or what he expected from Wimbledon this year. Instead, he turned a wary stare at a woman who walked in and hunched his shoulders a little more.
“Just go,” I said.
Miles frowned at me. “What?”
“Just go,” I repeated, gesturing to the door. “I’ll finish your laundry and bring it back.”
“Why? This is fine.”
“No, it’s not, this is really fucking painful. I haven’t had this little fun doing my laundry since the time in Lincoln when half the ceiling fell in.”
He rolled his eyes, folding his arms tightly enough that his hoodie bunched. “I’m not asking you to do my laundry for me.”
“Why not?” I said. “Too gay?”
“What’s your problem?”
“You’re boring!” I snapped. “I’m bored. This?” I gestured at the space between us, trying to encompass a whole mood. “This narrative is dull and exhausting. I don’t need anyone treating me like I’m diseased.”
In the drawn-out beats of silence that followed, rain pelted the windows in a perfect mirror of my mood. Outside, people darted by clutching umbrellas, while Miles scowled. “I’m just standing here.”
“Right, and your sister just called for a friendly chat.”
“If you’ve got a complaint about Tina—”
“I don’t give a shit about Tina! You’ve hardly looked at me since we left for the courts. Hardly said a word. A stranger would expect more, let alone a friend, but then I’m a dangerous friend, aren’t I? Even standing near me might lead to questions.”
His scowl didn’t shift, and for a few long seconds he just stared at me while the washing machines rumbled on. “I still came with you, didn’t I?” he said eventually. “I just need to be more careful.”
“And that means treating me like a disease at the centre of a fucking exclusion zone?”
“Mat—” He swallowed hard, running his hand down his face. Then with a look around at the mostly empty laundromat, he lowered his voice and went on, “You know I’m not out. That isn’t news.”
