Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
WILL
Day Two
My hands shake as I button up my linen shirt and then as I pull on my trousers. Sitting on the bed, I keep picking up my phone, hoping to see a text.
I take three deep breaths, trying to recall my yoga practice in an attempt to do anything to stop my brain from reaching for the worst-case scenarios.
I try to sort out my ruffled brown hair, which doesn’t tame no matter how many times I pull the comb through. There’s a small pang inside of me whenever I study other guys, their hair perfectly cropped, perfectly faded, exquisitely styled. A reminder of my own unfortunate thin hair.
Which is receding.
That’s a conversation I’m not ready for.
But despite my ruffled hair, I look fine. Adequate. Good enough. I think. I leave my room with affirmations in my head.
At the rooftop bar, waiting at a table dressed with candles, the lit-up, golden-yellow Parthenon visible in the distance, I realise that this is more like a date setting.
Thankfully, the hotel has insisted that the evening meals outdoors are to be clothed. I’m not sure why. Maybe the mosquitoes. People in evening attire surround me, desperate to get their kit off again at the next opportunity.
It eases my anxiety to know that Ollie won’t need to face naked people.
Not yet, anyway. Because as I sip my white wine, I’m ready to make this night as perfect as can be.
This is my chance to show Ollie the new me.
The one who is trying his damned hardest to think about ethics, and not about taking him back.
The one who is trying to convince himself that it’s finally time to move on.
My breath is snatched away when he arrives in a brown shirt, unbuttoned enough to allow me a glimpse of chest hair.
His hair is slicked back, effortlessly cool.
He’s got one hand in his cream trouser pockets, and the other holds his phone, sleeves rolled up, revealing a brown leather-strapped watch on his wrist.
He walks over in his loafers, spotlessly clean, and all I can focus on is how tanned his arms are. It must be fake. There’s no way he’s tanned like that already.
‘Hey, Will.’ He sits opposite me, and before either of us can say anything, a waitress appears. ‘I’ll have a Moshofilero.’
‘Sounds posh,’ I say, as the waitress walks away.
‘A gorgeous white wine,’ Ollie replies. ‘Peach and apricot.’
‘You always liked your peaches.’
‘I still do.’
At that moment, I’m back in Cardiff, in Bute Park, Ollie by my side. Cardiff Castle in front of us, a hot summer’s day. Sitting on a picnic blanket, a wicker basket next to us. We shared peaches, tasting the sweet juice.
Now, a peach wine before him, a sweet aroma between us, and the Acropolis behind him. It could almost be like that again. How I wish it could be.
‘This is nice,’ I say to him, after a moment of silence.
‘It’s nice to see you.’ I think he means it.
‘Yeah.’ There’s lots I could say, want to say, but I shouldn’t. So, we both sip our drinks at the same time and listen to nearby conversations.
‘I wasn’t sure if you were going to come,’ Ollie says. ‘To the wedding.’
Me neither.
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘It’s just…’
But before he can continue, the waitress comes for the food order. Chicken souvlaki for Ollie, and grilled salmon for me.
Jazz music plays around us, an upbeat tempo that in any other situation would relax me. But my heartbeat is fast and the palm holding my wine glass, sweating.
‘Just what?’ I ask, breathlessly.
‘Well, we haven’t talked in so long, despite me trying after we saw each other in Cardiff,’ Ollie says. ‘Which was fucking awkward, by the way. I’d begun to think you didn’t want me as a friend anymore.’
‘Oh.’
Ollie gives me a sheepish look. ‘Do you?’
‘Do I what?’
‘Want to be friends?’
I know he doesn’t mean it as a challenge, but why does it feel like the hardest question? Like an elaborate mathematical question?
‘I didn’t realise we needed to text every night to be friends.’
Ollie chuckles, breaking out into a smile, the first thing I ever noticed about him. ‘You know it doesn’t, but it’s a little more than that, Will. You haven’t replied to any of my texts, and when you do they’re short. You’d always put off us meeting up for a coffee.’
‘You haven’t texted me in ages.’ Before seeing him in Waterstones, or even after. At least, not as much as I would have liked.
Ollie murmurs his agreement. ‘Because you stopped replying. There was nothing from your end. It always felt like I had to try.’
The waitress materialises again, cutting off his exasperation by supplying bread for the table. We speak again when she leaves.
‘You were busy. With Alec. I didn’t want to be texting you when you’ve got an Alec.’
‘He’s not like that.’
‘Then why doesn’t he know about me, Ol?’
Ollie averts his eyes. And my God, it hurts. Where is the honesty? The openness we used to have?
‘We have this rule not to talk about past lovers.’
‘But we spent years together.’ I worry I sound pathetic. ‘We were best friends.’
‘And yet you ignore me.’
It feels like a jab, one that hurts because it’s true.
Speaking to Ollie hurt.
Every time we interacted post-break-up, it was like taking a knife to healing scars. Holding on hurts.
I sip my wine, before answering. ‘I thought not speaking would be better, but it was worse.’
‘You could have reached out any time.’
‘I know.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
His eyes meet mine.
‘It’s changed now, hasn’t it?’ I give a defeated shrug.
The food arrives with mouth-watering scents. The salmon almost looks too good to eat.
‘Why Greece?’ I ask, attempting to keep my tone carefree.
‘Look at it,’ he says.
With the jazz music playing and the glowing amber lights of the restaurant, it’s difficult to deny the appeal. History like crisscrossing veins of memories. This interaction of ours, another addition to the energy of the stone, replayed for millennia by those who tuned in to our emotions.
‘We always said we’d come to Greece.’
‘We did.’
‘And here we are.’
The urge to reach out and touch him, to feel his skin once more, is almost too much to resist. What would it feel like? Would it be like my memories, soft skin, the warmth that was always so comforting?
‘This isn’t how I imagined it,’ Ollie says.
‘You imagined us in Greece?’
‘A few times.’ He flashes that perfect smile. My stomach drops, as though I’m on a rollercoaster.
‘Now you’re getting married.’
It hangs between us like a guillotine. One swipe and everything would go dark, nothing would exist. No going back. I would lose him forever.
‘There’s something on your mind,’ he says to me.
He always knew. To him, I’m a well-read book. A classic. One with its imperfections.
He studies me like he needs me for a thesis.
No one can read me like Ollie.
No one ever will.
‘Why did you invite me?’
‘I’ve missed you. I can’t imagine you not being there.’
He may as well have hit me with a hammer. My head feels as though it has split in two. The guillotine swipes down and misses the fatal arteries, leaving me with a pain that can never heal.
‘Missed me?’
The food speared on my fork is no longer appetising. Nothing matters now but this moment, his next words. Even the jazz music fades to oblivion.
‘I miss you a lot,’ Ollie says.
‘I miss you, Ollie.’
Fuck ethics. Fuck my moral compass. This is Ollie. I’d risk it all for Ollie.
The look we share stretches like elastic, and I swear if I could I would let it last all night. We finish our food, our wine, pay the bill, mostly in silence, only speaking when we rise from the table.
‘How’re your parents?’ I ask.
His hands slip in his pocket as he laughs. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Hey, they may not have liked me, but I care.’ Kind of.
His laughter is stunning. Not even the Acropolis on the hill is as beautiful as this moment.
A familiar dread that I could fuck all of this up lingers. I need to move slow. My intention isn’t to startle Ollie, like one of the stray, skittish cats.
I could take Ollie back to my hotel room.
Privacy, all barriers dropped.
But the idea remains on the rooftop as the elevator descends.
Instead, we head out of the hotel, Lydia seeing it all, and we walk.
We sit on a wall, tucked away from the world. Our own little sanctuary in the city’s heart.
He’s close. He smells the same.
‘I’m glad we can be friends,’ Ollie finally says.
‘Friends?’
Ollie doesn’t look at me, but I can see the muscles of his jaw tense. ‘Friends. I’m glad I can have you here.’
‘As your friend.’
‘Right.’
My hands cover my stomach, and for one horrible moment I think I might throw up. But it’s just queasiness. It’s just the death of my hope. It’s the feeling of guilt about everything I’m willing to do, if he’d just give me a sign that I could.
‘Do you want to help me with some of the wedding planning?’
I could think of nothing worse. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we were lucky to get the date when we did. Alec knows the right people.’
‘Why is it happening so fast?’
‘Because we want it to. Our relationship has felt like a whirlwind, and why slow down now?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe to savour it?’
Ollie laughs. ‘I’ll savour it later. No, Alec likes to make things happen, and he’s influential enough to do that.
But it has meant we’ve got lots to do in a short amount of time.
’ He turns his wide eyes to me, as warm as ever.
His eyelashes flutter in my direction. All sorts of thoughts rush through my head, some more appropriate than others.
I bite my lip as he says, ‘And as my friend, I’d value your help with it all. ’
Shit.
Hope crushed, leaving only dread.
‘Oh, um, isn’t there anyone else who can help?’
‘Nobody is coming till much closer to the date.’
Maybe I should have done that after all. ‘Oh, right.’
‘Think about it,’ Ollie says, swaying to the side and nudging my shoulder with his. It’s enough to almost send me into anaphylactic shock. ‘Who is Sam?’ Ollie peers at me, his lips thin.
Sam.
I almost blew this fledgling charade.
But something in Ollie’s tone makes me think, brings me back to my senses.
‘My boyfriend.’ The lie grows, but what of it? It’s only temporary.
‘Are you guys serious?’
‘Not as serious as you and Alec.’
This feels like a safe option. Ambiguous enough that I don’t have to go into detail.
Shamefully elusive enough to tell Ollie there’s hope, but he doesn’t pick up on it.
‘I’ve never seen you post anything about Sam online.’
‘Social media isn’t real. We prefer to keep it private.’
‘Social media is the only link I have to you these days.’
Screaming would not be appropriate. But shouting that he needs to let me know where I stand, so I can play this game right, feels like a necessity.
With just a few words, he could lead me in the right direction. He could spare me the pain by simply speaking his mind.
But what’s on his mind? I was never as good as he was at understanding what he was feeling.
I could read him, yes. But knowing what he felt was another thing altogether.
We were always on different pages, different chapters.
He was a sequel, and I a prequel. He could be regretting seeing me tonight, lost in thought about wedding details, or maybe even thinking about his day tomorrow.
There are a million things he could be thinking right now, but for me, there’s only one thing.
He missed me.