Page 28 of Win You Over
“Hi boys, dinner will be ready in a couple of hours. Do you want something to snack on in the meantime?” She opens a large cupboard and I get a peek inside at the immaculately organised shelves. Before either of us can answer, Charlene has a tub of pretzels in one hand and rice crackers in another. “Take these down to the den with you, and I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”
I’m definitely not hungry after our stop at the diner, but because neither Remington nor I are going to tell her we ate earlier and because he’s holding the drinks, I reach towards Charlene’s outstretched hands, accepting both containers.
My mouth opens, and it’s like the muscles in my throat constrict, narrowing my airways as I try to thank her. My heart pounds and my stomach turns like I’m on a rollercoaster. I fucking hate this. I fucking hate that my voice is trapped in a prison I never chose to put it in and that I’m so close to panicking simply because I wanted to do something that comes naturally to millions of others.I fucking hate this.
Small wrinkles appear at the corner of Charlene’s warm eyes when she smiles. Just like her son, she doesn’t expect me to say anything and that small gesture has my throat easing. Not enough to speak, but enough to feel the telltale signs of an impending panic attack recede.
“Thanks Mom,” Remington says. ”You putting bacon in the mac and cheese?”
Charlene ruffles her son’s hair. “Ja, myseuntjie. Now go, I’m cooking and I like my kitchen empty when I’m busy.”
We head down to the den and I take a moment to take it all in, halting on the bottom step while I do.
The space is the equivalent of half a level of their house, mostly open plan, with a few support pillars and two rooms off to oneside. In the furthest corner from the stairs, there’s a pool table, dartboard and a bar, along with four high stools. On the longest wall, there are three large black and white canvas prints of lions.
At the opposite end, closer to where I’m standing, there’s a long sectional sofa that could fit at least seven people, below a large screen television, complete with two gaming consoles. Behind the pillars to my right, I can make out a fully kitted out gym including a rowing machine, weights and treadmill.
“Welcome to The Lion’s Den.” Remington gestures towards the canvas pictures on the wall. “Technically, lions don’t live in dens, but my mother designed this room – as she did the rest of the house – and lions are her favourite animal.”
Walking over to the sectional, I pick up one of the plush cushions. It has the face of a lioness and her cub printed in black and white, in a similar style to the art on the walls. A monochrome carpet finishes the decor in the seating area.
The room smells like fresh linen and something floral, and I decide that this is possibly the nicest room I’ve ever been in.
“I li-” I cough to clear the gravel from my throat. “I like your mom.”
Remington flops onto the couch, his legs spread wide, and tips his head towards the open seat next to him.
“She’s spoken for, I’m afraid,” he says jokingly.
I pinch my lips together to stop myself from smiling. Taking the seat next to him, I pick up an Xbox controller and Remington does the same before turning on the giant television and firing up the console.
The sombre, eerie music of the zombie game Remington selected fills the room and I force myself to focus on my next words, each one coming out scratchy and quiet as I ask the question I’ve had on my mind for a while now.
“How will this trip work?”
On the screen, Remington selects his character and I do the same, opting for a guy wearing a backward cap and holding a baseball bat.
“We have a villa there and I’ll pay for the flights. You’ll just need something to wear for the wedding, a swimsuit and…” He looks at me, his eyes wide. “Fuck. You have a passport, right?”
I roll my eyes at his question and he drops the controller to raise his hands, palms upwards.
“What? Not everyone has a passport,” he retorts.
“I have-” I pause. Something that happens frequently when I do speak. Unwanted, unnecessary pauses that most times feel awkward. Not with Remington, though. No, he continues on with the game, giving me all the time I need. “A passport,” I finally manage to say.
My heart thumps heavily and my mind travels back to a time when speaking was no different to breathing. When I didn’t have these visceral reactions to words.
Leaning the controller on my knee, I rub a hand over my chest while taking my phone out of my pocket, hating that I’m reverting back to typing because talking has become a tiresome battle once again.
I was born and grew up in London.I pass my phone to Remington, who takes it with his free hand. He reads the message while on the screen his character is eaten by a zombie. My character hides behind a car while a hoard rushes towards him.
“Well, that’s fucking cool,” he replies, handing me my phone. “I thought you had an English accent! Learning something new about you every day,leeutjie.”
Flip flop goes my heart.
We both fall silent, but like earlier, it’s not awkward as we engage with the game. Remington throws his controller like an angry toddler, swearing every time he gets killed. He is no lesscompetitive at video games than he is in real life, only he is surprisingly bad at this game, which makes me incredibly smug.
During the game, I’ve adjusted in my seat, so that my legs are crossed beneath me, and I’m angled in such a way that I’m facing Remington but can still see the television. When he’s had enough, he throws the controller on the table, then takes a final swig of his drink before resting his head on the back of the sofa so he’s looking up at the open ceiling.
