Chapter 3 #3
Clearing my throat and trying to ignore the fact that Sloan fits perfectly in this space in all her womanly glory, I reply, “We’re playing Arsenal for the first time since my brother Camden signed with them as a striker.”
“So?” She jerks her chin, shoving back a few loose strands of glossy hair that are glowing in the blue rope lighting that lines the ceiling of my see-through closet. “Brothers have played against brothers in soccer before, I’m sure.”
“It’s called football, Sloan,” I correct with a cheeky wink.
She gives me a wry smile, and seeing her face slip back into her old self makes me feel like a fucking champion.
This is a fight we have almost every time we see each other, and I’m pleased it’s helping her feel better.
“And you’re correct. Brothers have played against brothers. But not the Harris Brothers.”
“What’s so special about the Harris Brothers?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, looking me up and down once more.
My smile wavers. “I guess it’s because there are four of us and we all play.”
“You all play soccer?” Her brows lift in genuine surprise.
“Yes,” I reply with a laugh. I love that after two years of working together, she has never Googled me.
“My three brothers all played together for Bethnal Green—the championship league club our dad manages. But Camden signed with Arsenal, so he’s joined me on the Premiership, and the media are having a heyday with that. ”
She sighs heavily with a shake of her head. “Wow. Four boys, all professional athletes. Your mom must be exhausted.”
Her offhanded comment cuts through me harsher than I would have anticipated.
They say grief gets better with time. Eventually, the parts of you that broke will mend.
That’s not been the case for me. Maybe it is because I was with my mum when she drew her last breath.
I’ve never been able to shake the sensation of her body going limp in my arms.
For me, grief is a lot like the ankle injury I suffered years ago.
The doctors said it was a really bad sprain, but I’d get back to one hundred percent with solid physio and training.
I never did get everything back that I lost, though.
I’ll always feel that tendon a little more.
I’ll always step a little differently wherever I go.
Be a bit more aware of my surroundings. And if I close my eyes, I can remember the feeling of the horrid popping sensation in my bones, and the nausea pummels me like the weight of an entire football team.
My jaw ticks as I attempt to conceal the fresh stab of pain Sloan’s words have caused. Clearing my throat, I reply, “My mum died when I was eight.”
Sloan’s face falls, and the look that casts over her features is like kicking a person when they’re down. “Oh my God, Gareth. I am so sorry. I’m such a puke!” She covers her cheeks with her hands, her head shaking back and forth in horror.
“You’re not a puke.” The word sounds odd coming from me. “You didn’t know. It’s fine.”
“God, you were eight?” Her mind seems to have drifted somewhere else. “You were eight and without your mother. Only your brothers and dad…I’m so sorry.”
“My sister, Vi, was there. She’s younger than me but an old soul. She held us all together.” My words don’t seem to be helping her calm down, so I add, “We had Vi and football. We didn’t need much else.”
Her lips are downcast. “Still. Five kids and no mom. I’m so sorry, Gareth.”
“Stop saying sorry. I’m fine.” My jaw clenches, fighting back feelings I normally keep locked up tightly. This is why I keep people at a distance. Surface level relationships are easier. Safer.
And I hate talking about my mum.
I hate thinking about her. I hate remembering her. When the media try to bring her up to me, I instantly shut down. My agent prefaces all of my interviews with that information, and I am desperate to change the subject entirely right now.
“How’s the husband?” I ask, knowing it’s a dick thing to ask. She’s clearly upset, but she’s managed to slice into my personal life with very little effort. It’ll be easier to have the tables turned.
Her eyes flash to mine like a zap of electricity has been shot through her veins. “Why do you ask?”
She looks just as confused as I feel about this entire conversation. Dead mothers and secret husbands. Tonight is blurring every single one of our once cosy personal boundaries.
I look down at her hand. “I noticed you’re missing some hardware.”
She pulls her hand up in front of her chest, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip as she looks down at the floor. Her thumb strokes the inside of her ring finger that shows a faint tan line. “We’re not together anymore. It’s kind of new,” she adds with a sad look on her face.
Silence falls over us. I should say something. Something respectful. Something proper. Something meaningful. Something to cheer her up. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Or something painfully generic.
“Yeah, thanks.” She gazes up at me, her eyes squinting with question. “I suppose that’s the proper response, right?”
“I guess so?” I respond with a question because I’m not sure what she’s getting at.
She looks around the room, searching for her answer. “I should be sorry. I should be concerned. I should be sad, right?” She looks back at me for my response.
I can only shrug. She looks sad enough to me. Although, perhaps sad isn’t exactly the look I see in her red-rimmed eyes. More lost. “I think you should feel how you want to feel,” I reply sternly.
“That’s the thing, though!” she peals, her eyes wide and anxious.
“I don’t know how I want to feel. My marriage is over and I don’t know how I should feel.
I thought about it the entire drive over here, and it’s making me crazy that I don’t just know.
” She tugs nervously on a strand of hair that’s fallen loose from her ponytail. “Can you tell me how to feel? Please?”
“No,” I state quickly, taking a step back.
If I tell her how I want her to feel, it’s happy.
Turned on. Liberated. I’d tell her to feel fucking euphoric to be free to do whatever she wants with whomever she wants.
But telling her that would only serve me, not her.
“It’s your life. A life I’m just learning about.
So it’s certainly not my place to tell you your feelings. They should just…come naturally.”
“Well, they’re not.” Her tone is exasperated. She looks like she’s going to lose it again.
“They have to be there,” I retort, stepping closer to her, loathing the lost look in her eyes. “Fuck, I’m an unfeeling prick nine times out of ten, but even I’d have some sort of reaction to not being with the person I loved anymore.”
“That’s the thing!” she exclaims, her voice rising in pitch. “I don’t think I love him! I was just existing with him! So now that I’ve told you that, how do you think I should feel?”
This is the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had, and that’s saying a lot because my brothers have spoken to me for hours about the size of their balls. But in all the visions I’ve had of Sloan and her husband, I never considered her not even loving him.
Swallowing hard, I reply, “Try saying the first thing that comes to your mind. I’ve split with my husband and I feel…”
“Out of control!” she exclaims, her eyes wide and watery.
She moves closer to me, an urgency causing her hands to shake in front of her body.
“I feel like I’ve been out of control through the entirety of my marriage and getting divorced doesn’t change a damn thing.
He will still have all the power, and I’ll still have zero control of my own damn life. ”
“That can’t be true,” I argue. “You won’t be with him anymore. That’s the ultimate freedom. And you have an incredible business you’ve built. You work for some of the wealthiest people in England.”
“He pushed me into this job! And those people just tell me what to do!” she replies with a laugh I don’t entirely trust.
“They ask for your opinion,” I scoff. “You tell them what to wear.”
She smiles, but it looks like it hurts. “I’m a glorified order-filler. I shop and make thoughtful selections, then they send me back to get them something else. You’re my only client who wears what I tell you to wear. Why is that, Gareth?”
She steps even closer to me and grips the sides of my arms with her long, delicate fingers. I flex in response because her hands on me normally feel strong and reassured. But with the crazy look on her face, I’m not sure how to feel right now. “I don’t know. I guess I just tr-trust you,” I falter.
“You’re the only one.” She sniffles and swallows down a lump in her throat while staring at my chest. “You’re the only one who listens.”
She presses her forehead to my chest and her body trembles against mine.
Instinctively, I wrap my arms around her.
One hand cups her neck while the other wraps around the small of her back.
We’ve never embraced like this, but she fits perfectly beneath my chin and I can tell she needs this.
I squeeze her tightly in a vain attempt to take her pain away.
Then I envision punching her fucking husband for turning her into this out of control, emotionally tortured mess before me. Sloan deserves so much better.
“How can I fix this for you?” I ask, wanting to kiss the top of her head but holding back because I don’t know if she’d welcome the touch. “I fix things, so just name what you need.”
Her head lifts, her eyes rising to my face, zeroing in on my lips.
My gaze falls to her mouth in response. Her lips are pink and wet and open just enough for me to see the tip of her tongue.
A shift in the air has me pulling in a deep, cleansing breath.
She looks tearful like before, but there’s a spark in her eyes that I’ve never seen. It’s electric. Mesmerising. Meaningful.