Ryker #2
Freddie slides along in the booth, putting distance between us. “Cut the crap. If this is a joke, Ryker, it’s a shit one. Even shitter than usual.”
That stuns me silent. Freddie rarely loses his temper, but I know he’s angry from how he glares at his drink and flexes his fingers around it like he’s contemplating crushing the glass or throwing the contents at me.
“You don’t want to be my best men.” he says, nodding to himself. It’s as if he needs to say it for the idea to sink in, and I fight the urge to call this whole thing off, tell him of course we do, but I can’t.
“Why?” he asks.
He looks at me, and he doesn’t want excuses or jokes, he wants the real reason. It’s there. I could tell him we’re in love with him and seeing him getting married to Keegan will be too painful for us, but it’s a selfish reason and would change our friendship forever.
He waits, and I falter. I crumble and avert my gaze.
“She isn’t right for you,” Liam says.
My jaw drops open.
“Excuse me?” Freddie shakes his head. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I said.” Liam offers no other explanation and takes a gulp of beer, leaving me to come up with something to say.
My brain is spinning out, firing up useless neurons that don’t help with this situation whatsoever.
Freddie is waiting for me to speak, to make sense of Liam’s blunt words.
“He means you haven’t been together long,” I say, and it’s bullshit. Freddie is ready with his counteroffensive.
“Almost two years,” he hisses. “You haven’t had a relationship that’s lasted longer than a night, and you’re telling me I’m rushing it?”
“I don’t do relationships,” I say. “I do—”
“Quickies in bathroom stalls. I know.”
I do.
What’s the point in denying it?
But Freddie said it with a sneer, which is so unlike him.
“Hey,” Liam snaps. “Lower than tone.”
Which is ironic considering he’s practically frothing at the mouth when he speaks.
Freddie coils like a snake. He may be smaller than us, but he doesn’t back down, and he’s cornered, trapped between me and Liam in the booth.
It does something to me, makes me shift closer to him, and I notice Liam doing the same.
We want to reach for him, contain his rage, capture it while it consumes him, then defuse it with our touch.
But from the outside it looks like we’re gearing up for a physical fight.
“No. I will not lower my tone,” Freddie says slowly, and I hear Liam’s teeth click in his mouth. They tap together as he hunches over ready to leap. “You’ve been with for Keiron for six years—”
“On and off,” Liam interrupts.
Freddie powers on. “It’s not my fault you don’t want to take it any further.”
Liam narrows his eyes to slits. “By choice.”
“Fine, by choice. This is my choice. I’m going to marry the love of my life.”
“She isn’t the love of your life,” Liam growls. “She’s nobody.”
“Fuck you.” Freddie slams his fist down on the table.
Our glasses jump, but we’re all quick enough to steady them.
Freddie’s outburst has attracted some curious customers who peer over to see the unfolding argument.
Liam sits upright again, and I shuffle back to where I was originally seated, and that weird tension building between us changes into something more sombre.
“What the hell has happened?” Freddie asks. “Why are you being like this?”
“Look,” I say, placing my hands flat on the tabletop. “We love you—”
“And I love you too, but you’re being pricks right now.”
I said it. I spoke the words, I told Freddie the truth, but of course in his head it’s been assigned a category—the love between friends—and he loves us too, but it’s not romantic love.
It’s not what we want, and we’re at a point now, a horrible point where Freddie’s love isn’t enough. We want more of it. We want all of it.
“We can’t be your best men,” Liam says. “And . . . and I doubt we’ll be at your wedding.”
My heart skips a beat. We’d not discussed those extremes. Backing out as best men, yes, but boycotting the wedding?
“You doubt you’ll be at my wedding?” Freddie whispers.
Liam doesn’t look away from him. “That’s what I said.”
He picks up his beer and leaves the booth to stand beside me.
Freddie eyes the space he’s vacated, the exit that’s suddenly available to him, and he doesn’t wait.
He slides around the horseshoe booth, bumping into the table as he goes, and he keeps his gaze low, not letting us see his eyes.
I fear they’re swimming with confused tears.
Fuck, I know they are.
Mine are stinging in response to this situation, and our awful handling of it. We’ve blindsided him.
“Freddie,” I whisper.
But I don’t know what I’m going to follow it up with, and he doesn’t stop to find out. He yanks open the door of the pub with enough force I worry for his shoulder, then he’s gone.
“Fuck,” I say, dropping my head into my hands. I groan against my palms. Liam doesn’t say anything.
“How are you so calm?” I ask.
“It had to be done,” Liam murmurs. “I can’t live like this anymore.”
I drop my hands into my lap. “He might not talk to us again.”
“I know.” Liam stiffens his jaw. “I hope he doesn’t.”
And I know he’s lying. I know his calm persona hides an avalanche of emotion beneath. But there’s nothing left to say, so we finish our drinks in silence then leave the pub, not knowing when or if we’ll next speak to Freddie.