Chapter 20
Dafne
Phoebe and I treat ourselves to takeaway since we’ve both been bursting our arses off at our respective rehearsals, and I promptly text Ollie to let him know he’s missing out on the delicious sushi piled on our small desk.
About two minutes later he sends me a selfie of him and Devon clinking their glasses, big, goofy smiles on their faces. I laugh softly and show the photo to Phoebe, whose eyes grow wide as she raises a hand in front of her mouth so that her food doesn’t spill out when she says, “Devon is cuuute!”
I’d never thought about it, but I suppose he is. I find that my parameters in whether I’m attracted to someone or not have drastically shifted in the past few weeks, and I’m perfectly aware of whose fault that is.
“Oh, that reminds me, I need to show you the romance books I downloaded today,” she huffs as she grabs her ebook reader from the floor with her chopsticks-free hand. I make an affirmative sound as I chew on my salmon roll. I wonder how Theodore’s doing after this morning. I haven’t told Phoebe about that, and this time it’s because it’s not my place to do so. But if I don’t talk about what he said before … it’s not going to bode well for my peace of mind.
“Phoebs, before you tell me all about those books,” I start, setting my food aside, “can I tell you something?”
She shoots me a curious look, and probably sensing an important topic coming up she all but throws her device on the pillow. “I’m all ears.”
“I had a chat with Theodore today,” I sigh.
“What kind of chat?” she wiggles her eyebrows.
“Not the kind you’d like to hear about, but … he said some things that got me thinking. This whole speech about how he didn’t actually think he’d get Romeo.”
Phoebe’s face scrunches up. “That doesn’t sound like the bloke you’ve been having verbal boxing matches with for the past three years,” she says.
“I know, right?” He sounded so insecure it was like speaking to a completely different person. And I was just shocked, because how does he seriously not know how good he is?”
“Daf,” the corners of Phoebe’s mouth lift, her eyes twinkling. “You actually care about him, don’t you?”
That catches me off guard. Do I care about him?
If I’m being honest, and I am, it’s a rhetorical ques-tion. Instead of saying that out loud, though, I ask her, pointing towards her reading device with my chopsticks, “ Come on. What trope are you reading about this week?”
Theodore
I decide to take a short walk after dinner. I tell my friends it’s because it helps digestion, which earns me numerous eye rolls, but the truth is I need space to just think . My mind is reeling with all sorts of catastrophic scenarios, but mostly, with the knowledge that there’s something wrong with me, and I can’t ignore it anymore. I also can’t believe Dafne’s not losing her shite over what happened, because I am. Maybe she’s just better at hiding it.
I take the gravel path that leads to APDAS’ garden, which is dimly lit at night, the ash trees’ branches swaying gently in the evening breeze. It’s cold, the tip of my nose starting to turn red as I shove a hand in my coat’s pocket to retrieve the gloves my grandmother crocheted for me–one of the four pairs with a slightly different percentage of wool in them, because ‘ One degree can change everything, darling’ . I sit on one of the few benches scattered in the garden, next to one of the ever-intermittent lampposts under the biggest sycamore. I unlock my phone, tap to recent calls, and press the green phone icon. Barely two rings go by when a bright voiceanswers. “Theo! My precious,” Grandma Mary says, the affection in her words so obvious it tugs at my heart. “Did you eat already, love? Do they feed you at all in that school?”
She continues, a shuffling sound in the background meaning she moved to get more comfortable in her favorite armchair.
“Hi Gran, yes, I’ve been adequately fed,” I say, unable to keep a smile off my face. “Not that the canteen’s food compares to yours.”
She makes a knowing sound, then yells a Robert, quit fooling around and come say hello to your grandson, making me laugh out loud, huffing out the crisp air.
“So,” she resumes in a less deafening volume, “you don’t usually call at this hour. Is everything alright?” Sudden guilt gnaws at me for making her worry even for a second.
“Yes, Gran,” I say quietly, “I just wanted to hear your voice.” Grandma sighs and I hear the clinking of her glass being placed on a table. I must have interrupted her evening soft drink time.
“Has your mother called?” she asks, her voice gentler than when she picked up the call.
“No, she hasn’t,” I say honestly. If she had, it would’ve been one more thing to stress over, and I think I’ve had quite enough for now. “Really, I’m fine. There’s just a lot on my plate right now, and I would very much appreciate some reassuring words from my favorite grandmother.”
She snorts. “Your only living grandmother, child,” a wave of relief at her playfulness washing over me .
“Are they working you–” she’s interrupted by the deep, husky voice belonging to my other favorite person.
“Son!” Grandpa says, brimming with wonder as if he were about to hear me speak for the first time all over again. “This old lady right here made some weird signs at me, and you know I’m not good at charades, so do me the favour of telling me what is going on yourself,” he adds, sounding like he’s moving around the room with my grandma probably trying to pry the phone back from his hands or slap his arm for calling her old.
I could keep deflecting, but who am I going to open up to if not them? They have been with me every step of the way without a doubt, without faltering. Even when my parents dropped me at my grandparents’ house like I was never even theirs to keep. Maybe someone should have told them that if you bring a child into the world, you’re not supposed to discard them like a used toy.
“There are two things, really. Something happened today–well, not just today, but it happened again,” I say, scratching a piece of moss off the bench.
“I had an anxiety attack. I mean, that’s what I figure it was, since it’s happened before under the same circumstances. The … anxious kind.”
He must be wondering what he’s put me through school for if this is how poorly I express my thoughts.
“Honestly, Theo?” Grandpa murmurs gently, but firmly.
“I’ve had my suspicions you weren’t always telling the truth when you said you were fine, given the pressure you put on yourself. But I’m afraid you get your pride from me, so I understand why you didn’t tell us. Either way, thank you for telling me now.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“ I’m sorry we can’t be there with you.” We’re both quiet for a beat, then he adds, “I can look up someone for you to see about it, would that be fine?”
Would it be fine? Because if I see someone about this, it means it’s real. I don’t have time for it to be real. “I’ll think about it,” I offer weakly.
“It’s your decision, Theo,” he says, and sensing what a massive feat opening up like this has been for me, he mercifully changes the topic by asking what the other thing that’s bothering me is.
“Well, opening night is coming up, and rehearsals are going fine, I suppose, but … I’m distracted. Unfocused. This isn’t me,” and it really isn’t. It feels like confessing to a heinous crime, something much worse than suffering from anxiety and not being straightforward about it. Feeling myself fall short in what should be the one thing I do better than everyone. Except, even three years later, I know that’s not true. And it cuts me open, because it’s all they’ve ever asked of me, and I’m letting them down. They don’t know it now, they would never say it, but throwing their enormous sacrifices to shite be-cause I can’t think straight because I’m feeling irrational things all over–for the one girl that has now seen my at my weakest, no less. What a pig’s ear of a situation .
As if he just peeked inside my thick skull, Grandpa asks, “What’s the young lady’s name?”
I groan. “Seriously? Have you been watching those mentalist videos again?” I ask, half-joking, half-concerned whether I’m related to an actual mind reader.
He chuckles, the sound reverberating through the phone, then says to my grandmother, “The boy’s got the hots for a girl.”
I hear Grandma make a surprised sound and chant a string of who is she is she gorgeous I bet she’s positively stunning will we meet her when we come see you oh Theo, darling.
“ The hots? I didn’t know you were a fifteen-year-old skater from Los Angeles,” I say, uselessly trying to shove the achingly true piece of information he’s provided Grandma somewhere I won’t be able to retrieve it from. “Her name’s Dafne,” I admit after a bit, passing a hand over my face. “And I got myself into a big, bloody mess.”