Page 81 of Textbook Romance

‘Have you ever thought about going back into botany?’ she asks.

The question comes out of nowhere. I don’t think it comes from a place of judgment and I’m not sure it’s one of those statements that questions my direction, pushing me towards different goals. Maybe she is concerned about my age, maybe my line of work isn’t worthy enough. The truth is, I’m studiously avoiding thinking about how there is an offer to return to that line of work, trying to gauge if it’s right for me.

‘Why do you ask?’

She bites at her thumb nail. ‘I guess I’m just thinking about what ifs. Like, if life had been kinder to your brother, maybe you’d have tried a different line of work.’

‘Possibly. One day. I don’t think too much about that. If the right job came along, then maybe I guess I’d take it up?’

She’s quiet and looks down at her shoes.

‘I hope you would. I really do.’ She takes one of my hands and does that thing where she wraps her hands around it, shaking it so it can appear civil, like a gesture between colleagues. It makes my chest ache and I think about Sarah’s messages before and my response. I can’t go now. I want to stay. I want to be here. With her.

SIXTEEN

Zoe

‘YOU’RE TOO DEEP!’

‘STAY IN POSITION!’

‘FINISH! FINISH! WHY DIDN’T YOU HEAD IT?’

I’ve stood on the sidelines of many a football pitch, ever since Dylan was a tiny little thing and his jersey used to look like a dress, but I’m not quite sure why everything seems to sound lewd to me at the moment. I stand there and pull my scarf over my mouth to hide my grin. It’s not a sexy look, football sideline clothing: a big, padded coat, a bright beanie, scarf and insulated wellies – anything to keep warm, dry and pretend you enjoy being there.

‘This tea smells like wee. The number fifteen on the other side is fit. Smell my tea, this smells like wee, doesn’t it?’ Lottie pushes a Styrofoam cup in my face.

‘It doesn’t. Maybe that smell of wee is you. What will the fit number fifteen think?’ I tell her. I joke with her, but this talk of boys has become a more recent development and all it does is compound on all the other worries I carry as a parent. Pick a nice boy. Please. I know too many kids in my school that are your age, and I would stab some of them through the nads before I’d let them near you and I’m the ultimate pacifist.

‘Number fifteen has a mullet,’ I observe.

‘Everyone has a mullet at the moment. Get with the programme, Mother.’

‘If you brought that home, I would point and laugh.’

She shakes her head at me and threads an arm through mine. ‘I’m so cold.’

‘You should have a worn a coat… perhaps, just maybe…’ I tell her, absolutely no sarcasm in my tones at all. It’s a sentence I repeat to these kids ad nauseum – I bet they’d listen to me if it went viral on TikTok or it came out of the mouth of someone cool like Zendaya, though. It’s nice to have Lottie out with us today. She used to stay in on football mornings but since everything has happened, she tends to stay close. I think she still feels some residual guilt for having abandoned Dylan in Manchester, so this is her sisterly way of making it up to him.

‘GOOD KICK, DYLS!’ she screams. A man a few feet away from us turns around and sneers at her. Naturally, Lottie doesn’t respond to this well. ‘He can wind his ugly old man turkey neck in.’

I pull her closer before she has a chance to throw her cup of wee-smelling tea at him.

‘Talking of ugly old men,’ she says, looking past me. I follow her gaze, watching as Brian makes his way up the pitch, shaking hands with a few of the dads he knows and engaging in conversation with them. This will always be the messy part – there are so many threads of our lives that are entwined, that I will never be able to unravel. We’ve been friends with some of these parents for years. We’ve had dinners together, drunk in pubs and traded messages on WhatsApp groups and, naturally, what’s happened has frayed those threads. I mean, it’s not about taking sides, but I feel there are different versions of our story that have been made available and I don’t think I have the energy to let people know which one is the most accurate. Brian turns to us, and I put a hand up to greet him without smiling. Lottie ignores him. I am not sure what to say. Please acknowledge your father? They’ve spent a few evenings together since Manchester, but the trust is still lacking. Dylan tells me she comes at him with a battering ram of sarcasm. Does that secretly please me? Possibly, but I’ll never say that out loud.

‘He should have said he was coming,’ she says, side-eyeing him, her nostrils flared.

‘And there was me thinking you were here for Dylan to show him what a good sister you are.’

‘You’re mistaken, I’m here for the post-match McDonald’s,’ she tells me, fake smiling.

Brian and I have not drawn up arrangements or battle lines when it comes to the kids yet. There are talks of co-parenting, doing what’s best and investing a shared interest in things like parents’ evenings, concerts and sports matches but it’s ensuring the kids are open to this arrangement, too. Ever since Manchester a few weeks ago, he’s learned that being their father is a privilege, not so much a right, and he has to start rebuilding after all the damage he’s caused.

‘EDGE OF THE D! EDGE OF THE D!’ one dad shouts.

Lottie giggles from behind her tea. ‘Did that man just shout at him to go edging on his D?’

I pull a shocked face. ‘Lottie! Yes, he did. Can I ask how you know what that is?’

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