Freddie
Four weeks have passed since Ryker and Liam declined not only being my best men but attending my future wedding too.
It’s not just hurt feelings, it’s a physical sickness that’s prevented me from sleeping, distracted me throughout the day, and left me vomiting in the toilet from a constantly squirming gut.
The doctor diagnosed me with stress and offered to write me a sick note for work, but I dared not take a day off in case that swung Stephen into firing me.
One look at the camera footage, and I’ll be gone like Andy, but there’s no other way to complete the processes in time to finish each batch of components.
I’m doing the work of two men, the operator and the checker, and I have been for months. Right now, I’m too valuable to let go, but as soon as demand quietens, I’ll be under his scrutiny.
When I told Keegan that Ryker and Liam had backed out of any part in our wedding, she huffed, crossed her arms, and declared she knew they’d hated her from the beginning.
There are other choices to be my best man, other friends, and Keegan keeps mentioning her brother Ben, but I’ve met him a handful of times, and there’s no connection between us. Ryker, Liam, and I are family, which is why I don’t understand why they’ve hurt me like this.
It’s not just them blacklisting my wedding, it’s the lack of contact since. In the weeks since that night where I stormed out of the pub, Ryker and I have exchanged a handful of messages, and Liam hasn’t read any of our interactions let alone responded.
I miss them. It’s a pain that grows steadily each day, as does my anger and confusion.
Stephen doesn’t corner me at work, and it’s another day I manage to scrape my way through without losing my job. I slot my keys into the car ignition and just . . . stop.
My shoulders slump, and this weight of loss pressing down on me reminds me of the grief of losing my mother, which is ridiculous. Ryker and Liam aren’t dead, but they’re acting as if I am.
I wanted an apology, at the very least an explanation, but now I just want my best friends back. My phone buzzes in my pocket with a phantom vibration, but it’s not them, it’s no one.
I tap out a text to Ryker before I can change my mind.
Hey, it’s been a while. Fancy a drink Saturday?
It’s casual, maybe too casual considering there’s something going on between us, but I want to see them. I need to understand why two of the most important people in my life don’t want to be at my wedding.
I’d love to, babe, but I’ll be in Tenerife. We’ll catch up soon x
My traitorous body warms at the sight of “babe” in Ryker’s message before cooling to an arctic wind at the rest. We may not be speaking right now, but I’ve got Ryker on socials.
Every weekend he flies abroad and is photographed on beaches, in bars, and in clubs with swarms of attractive guys around him.
It’s never bothered me before. Ryker is a charmer, always has been, but he always made time for me.
Even the “we’ll catch up soon” part of the message sets my teeth on edge.
There’s no date or time, it’s just a generic thing people say when they have no intention of following through with a suggestion.
Only the “babe” gives me the comforting glow of familiarity, and I hate Ryker for giving me that piece of hope only to destroy it with the rest.
I bite my lip before tapping out another message.
What about you, Liam?
Ryker reads it, Liam predictably doesn’t. A few minutes pass of me and Ryker both online but not communicating, then he responds on Liam’s behalf.
I think he’s got plans this weekend x
Of course . . . plans. That pendulum inside me that swings between longing and hate outdoes itself with a boost of fury. I put my phone away before I message them something I’ll end up regretting and drive home.
When I stop outside my place, I frown at the unknown car parked in my usual spot.
It’s a black Ford Focus with a dented bumper.
We live in a small terrace house with one bedroom.
Keegan has drawn the curtains, but the purple fabric glows with soft light from the kitchen.
It’s almost nine, and my stomach gurgles at the thought of food while my throat twitches with the envisioned pain of throwing it up again.
But the doctor prescribed me some antacids to help with my reflux and digestive issues, and I’ve been better the past few days, but after messaging Ryker, it feels like I could be back to day one of the sickness scale.
I pop two prescription pills into my mouth before going inside.
Keegan flings herself at me while I’m hanging my jacket up in the hallway.
She’s beaming ear to ear, and it’s enough to lift my bad mood.
I breath her in, and her sweet perfume and feminine scent sooth my frazzled nerves.
When she leans back, I notice her red lipstick, her winged eyeliner, and her blonde hair secured with a claw clip.
She’s dressed for a night out, but as far as I know she hasn’t made any plans.
“You’re looking hot,” I tell her, which is as eloquent as I get. But she is, hot enough that I’ve forgotten all about dinner and just want dessert.
Keegan winks. “You’re not looking so bad yourself.”
Which is a lie, but I’ll play along to get to the bedroom. With the stress, exhaustion, and lack of sleep, I hope I can perform. She continues to beam up at me, eyes twinkling like they’re hiding a secret.
“What’s got you so happy?” I ask. She’s wearing my favourite top with the sweetheart neckline that shows off her cleavage.
I’ve joked with her that she’s only allowed to wear it in our house as it’s too sexy to wear outside, and as far as I know, she hasn’t worn it anywhere else.
It’s for my eyes only and usually indicates a good night to come.
Her expression turns coy, and she swerves a kiss from me. “I’ve got a surprise for you . . .”
“Please say it’s a Chinese takeaway.”
She swats me on the nose. “I cooked, actually.”
“Is that the surprise?”
“Nope.” She takes my hand, and hesitates on the cusp of the doorway before leading me into our living space.
It’s all open plan, with matching appliances from the TV stand to the kettle.
The pops of colour are purple and come from the curtains, scatter cushions, and the rug on the floor.
Everything else is a glossy black and modern.
I’m admiring Keegan’s arse in her tight blue jeans and at first don’t notice, but when I do, reality shifts to some alternative plane of existence.
My breath snags in my throat, and I untangle my fingers from Keegan so fast my nail catches her skin.
“Ow, Fred—”
Keegan shakes her hand, then sticks the injured finger into her mouth.
It leaves her mouth again with a pop as she notices the way we’re staring at each other—or the way I’m staring at him.
There’s something satisfied in his expression as the life drains from my face.
Can he see it? Can he see how badly he affects me after all this time?
Of course he can. My rasping breath is too loud in my ears.
If either he or Keegan speaks, I don’t hear it under the white noise of my wavering consciousness.
This is my home, my safe space, and he’s here.
He’s sitting on my chair at the table. We only have a small place, and our table only has two chairs, but Keegan’s placed a cushion on top of the clothes hamper for that to be used as a third seat.
“How did you get in?” I ask.
My words are disturbingly weak, humiliatingly so.
My cheeks flame with a forgotten shame of being me.
He’s in my house, smiling as I take him in.
He’s wearing a worn brown leather jacket, and I know if I get close enough, I’ll be able to smell it mixed in with the Old Spice aftershave he used to wear.
Wrinkles mar his brow and line his mouth, and his eyes appear smaller than I remember, rodent-like in their appearance as they study me with something similar to cunning.
They’re not blue like mine, they’re a murky brownish yellow, the colour I imagine bile would be.
Keegan laughs. “I let him in.”
“Son . . .”
My dad opens his arms, not in a gesture to invite me into an embrace, but as if he’s saying, “Here I am, this is me,” and it’s not like I’ve forgotten. How I could I ever forget?
“I know you said you’re estranged,” Keegan starts. “But I found him online, and we started messaging. He wants to make amends, and this is the perfect time.”
There is no “make amends.” Make amends implies both parties want to fix what’s broken between them, but I sure as hell don’t.
My heart struggles the longer he looks at me.
It thuds in my chest, hard and true, but it flutters at my throat and wrists.
If I stay standing here long enough like this, I’ll be able to feel it racing in the soles of my feet.
The effect this man has on my body not only makes me nauseous, but faint too.
“Is this because of the stupid wedding photos?” I say, and it comes out harsher than intended.
I asked her to marry me five weeks ago, but she’s known from the beginning that I don’t have a relationship with my dad—that I don’t want one with him. But here he is, sitting at my table after Keegan’s been complaining about wonky-looking photographs ruining the aesthetics.
Keegan widens her eyes and takes a step back from me.
“My mum’s dead and buried in the ground, unable to attend, so you go out of your way to find my dad, someone I specifically said I didn’t want at the wedding? We’ve not even set a damn date. We’re talking years in the future, and five weeks later you bring him here?”
I’ve never raised my voice in Keegan’s presence, let alone directed my frustration towards her, but this is what he does to me. He takes away the man I’ve become.
“Easy, son.” My dad raises a placating hand my way. “Your girl was doing a nice thing, no need to upset her.”