“No, it’s not news and it’s not my business. You choosing not to come out is your problem, but this here? This is you making it my problem.”
Those dark eyes shuttered. “Mat . . .” He let my name hang there a few seconds, only for a pained notch to cut between his brows as he buried whatever words he couldn’t or wouldn’t say. By the tension in his jaw, he might have been chewing them.
“Look,” I said, relenting a little. “I can keep being the safe, secret fuck you chose because I wouldn’t go to the press,”—his gaze snapped up—“but I’m not doing this, all right? I didn’t ask you to take me out for dinner. Didn’t ask you to risk anything.Youkissedme.”
He flinched, and for a moment seemed on the verge of movement, more words caught unspoken on the tip of his tongue. Whatever they were, he swallowed them again and said, “You heard what I said this morning.”
“Yeah, I heard what you said. None of it was news either,although for someone who assured his sister everything was fine, you’re sure not acting like it.”
Miles folded his arms tighter and denied nothing. And I realised that was all I really wanted him to do. To tell me I was wrong, to defend himself or apologise – something, anything but this quiet acquiescence, like I wasn’t even worth fighting for.
“Just go,” I repeated, clenching my teeth as furious tears threatened. “I don’t need this.”
“Mat . . .”
More words begun only to be taken away. I let the silence stretch, hoping that if it grew tight enough it might tug the words back up his throat.
It didn’t.
I shook my head, tears beginning to fall. “Don’t ‘Mat’ me and then say nothing!” I cried, my voice cracking. “Do you know what people said when I got hit by that car? They said good riddance! They said it was for the best! For the sake of the sport! Said they were glad they wouldn’t have to hear about my dick anymore. Some even told me I’d deserved it for my wickedness, that it had been the will of god.” I brushed a sleeve furiously across my eyes, his face blurring. “They made me want to give up, Miles! Made me wish I’d died!”
The choked admission was out—my greatest shame spilled to the flickering grey light of the laundromat—yet in its wake the washing machines still droned on, absurdly mundane. Miles had turned away, lips pressed together hard, though whether he was holding in words or emotion, I couldn’t tell.
“Do you think,” I went on when his silence dragged, “that I survived that just so you could treat me like a bomb that might go off in your face? Please. Go.”
Despite my plea, what I wanted most was for him to refuse. Tosay ‘fuck it’ to our surroundings and take me in his arms because I was worth that small risk. Not pathetic to hope, perhaps, but pathetic how long I went on clinging to that hope in the face of his stillness. His silence.
And how much I wanted to run after him when he spun on his heel and walked out into the rain, pulling up his hood as he went.
Fourteen
MILES HAD BEEN posting all day. With the start of Wimbledon fast approaching, he seemed to have taken the day off to enjoy London’s high life. A week ago, he’d spent his Saturday wandering around Hyde Park with a pair of nobodies, but now he was back being Miles Callahan. After a single photo of the grass courts at the All England Club, his social feed had become a torrent of fancy venues, boats on the Thames, and snaps where Miles had stretched out one long arm to fit both himself and Emily Rose Johnson into selfies.
According to the gossip sites—which I absolutely had not scoured—she was a well-known American influencer, although what she seemed to be best known for was being Miles Callahan’s on-again, off-again date, or girlfriend, or box warmer, depending on the opinion of the author. She was a pretty blonde, perfectly made up, with nothing to distinguish her from dozens of others in the same mould, like she’d just stepped off the blonde influencer production line – a mean thought, I knew, but I wasn’t in the mood for being charitable. Especially not when she was clinging possessively to Miles’s arm.
Later, when Miles had posted a snap of them both at some party or other, I’d discovered her social feed too – a veritable treasure trove of suffering. Pictures of them holding hands in front of a sponsorship board, of him with his arm around her waist, of her head resting on his shoulder, and pressing her lips to his cheek. In every photo, he looked gorgeous. Freshly shaven, yet with his hair left to do its tortured poet thing, he was the perfect balance between tailored and wild. The stylist had even dressed him in perfectly-pressed slacks, while leaving the top few buttons of his shirt undone – a shirt against which Emily Rose Johnson kept possessively laying her hand. Too well could I imagine how soft it felt.
“Mat?” Katie snatched the phone from my hand, and taking one glance at the screen, rolled her eyes. “Really?”
“I know, it’s stupid,” I said, pressing my hands over my face. “I play on Monday and I really should be focussing on that.”
She sighed and started scrolling slowly. “You know what surprised me most the other day?” she said, eyes on the passing pictures of Miles. “When you called him a convenient fuck who understood tennis? How much you didn’t sound like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . .” Another sigh. “Look, I know you’ve picked up random guys in the past and there’s nothing wrong with casual fucks, you’re just usually more honest. I don’t care if you lie to me, that’s fine. Just don’t lie to yourself.” She dropped my phone onto the couch beside me. From the screen, Miles and Emily Rose Johnson stared back. “You might feel better if you admit how you feel.”
With a pained groan, I squeezed my eyes shut like that would block out her words. “What do you want me to say? That I let this get out of hand? That I fucked up? Caught a few feelings? Sure. I caught enough that I wanted this to keep going, but we seem to bedone so it’s time for me to get over it. After wallowing in a bit of self-pity first,” I added, gesturing to my phone.
Katie leaned on the back of the couch, frowning. “What happened?”
My turn to sigh. “We went out. He kissed me. Some girls saw us and posted about it so his sister had to do damage control. Then he freaked out and started keeping five metres between us at all times.”
“Ohhh,” she dragged the syllable out in distaste. “Like when Laura found out I was a lesbian and was suddenly too busy for practice sessions.”
“Exactly! So I got mad about it, but fuck, it’s not like I didn’t know this was the deal from the beginning. He’d have gotten over it in a day or two, instead I got shitty like my past was somehow his responsibility. He just wanted to be a casual fuck and I made it messy.”
She held an admonishing finger in front of my face. “Okay, hold on, we’re going to skip the lecture about how we don’t have to put up with shit just because we’re queer, and jump right to what the fuck are you talking about? Casual fucks don’t spend every moment they can with you. Casual fucks don’t try to fix your career. Casual fucks don’t buy youflowers.” She jabbed an accusing finger at the vase sitting beside the TV, more of its lilies having opened since he’d brought them, spilling their scent into the room.
