Page 72 of Game Point
‘Yeah?’ I said, cutting the engine, the house to my left. It should be a comfort, to be home, but if anything, I was more afraid than ever. There was something, the look on his face I could still see and his heavy sighs that told me this was all about to be over.
And I couldn’t fucking bear it.
‘It won’t be me.’ His voice was hollowed out, cutting me right down the middle.
‘I don’t understand.’ I looked at him.Big mistake.He looked miserable, his eyes puppy-dog sad, his face paler than I’d ever seen it. ‘That’s why you’re here isn’t it?’
I watch his mouth say the words, his throat bobbing with the depth of feeling. ‘I’m going back.’
‘Back?’ I repeated. His eyes pressed close as if I was causing him more pain.
‘I’m going back to London.’ My eyes searched his face for a sign of a joke. Maybe a sign that said ‘Oliver Anderson – Part Time Comedian for hire’. ‘I booked my ticket yesterday.’
I spent a moment trying to remember what my therapist had said about keeping my anger under control. Before, I vented my rage playing against a wall until I or the strings broke – whatever came first. The past few months, all I’d managed to do was furiously sob in toilet stalls, all my fight extinguished. Now, however, I found myself wanting to put my fist through the dashboard.
‘When do you leave?’ I asked, somehow keeping my voice level and free of the torment that was tearing me apart.
He’s only a friend. He’s only a friend.Nothing more.
I’d known I couldn’t keep him here in Australia. He wasn’t even supposed to be here in the first place. He’d grown bored of me, of waiting. I was too late.
This is fine. It’s fine. It’s not the end of the fucking world because he’s just a friend.
‘Tomorrow,’ Oliver answered, my heart stopping in my chest.
‘What? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It didn’t seem like a good time.’ he replied, and I couldn’t stop the gasp of annoyance that left me, the roll of my eyes.
‘Whenwasgoing to be a good time?’ I snapped, a sour taste lacing my words. ‘Were you even going to tell me? Or leave a note and disappear.’
‘Of course I was going to tell you.’
‘When?’ I could feel the tears stinging as they reached my burning cheeks. I wiped them away, not wanting to acknowledge how badly this hurt. ‘When were you going to tell me I had less than a day left with you.’
‘I wanted to get home first.’
Home.The word itself stung.
‘Why? Why even come here at all if you’re going to leave when –’
‘When what?’ He cut me off, shaking his head, while I looked at him as if he’d lost his goddamn mind. ‘You still can’t come out and tell me that you want to play, Dylan. You’ve been talking in circles. If you want to go back, have the courage to admit it.’
‘Of course I want to fucking play.’ I turned to him, hands splayed out wide. ‘And I wanted to do it with you. I thought you wanted that too.’ My voice broke at the end of the sentence, my throat closing up. ‘I didn’t realize I took too long.’
‘It’s not you.’
All I could do was let out a sad laugh. ‘Bullshit.’
A single raindrop hit the windshield, my eyes tracking it as it rolled down the glass, watching as another splattered beside it, a light drizzle starting.
‘I can’t stay,’ he said, his mind made up. I wondered if his bags were already packed.
‘Why not?’ I pinched my arm, concentrating on the sharp pain rather than the desperation in my voice. ‘It’s not you, it’s me?Are we really trying that shit? I thought we were friends.’
‘We are.’ His words left me unconvinced, a hesitation I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
‘Did I say something?’
