Chapter Nineteen
The following weekend, I don’t ride the team bus to the match for the first time since opening day. While I’m sad to miss it, the upside is that it’s for a very good reason: Josh is coming to visit.
On the way to pick him up from the airport, I’m struck with a fit of nerves.
I haven’t been talking to Josh very much lately, as the job—and, yes, Lachlan—have taken up more and more of my time.
Josh knows Lachlan and I have become very good friends, but I haven’t yet told him that we’re living together—a realization that comes with a fun twist of guilt in my gut.
Sure, it’s only been a week and it’s temporary, but the rumbling panic in my stomach confirms what I haven’t allowed myself to admit: It’s weird.
It’s weird that I’m living with a married man whom I’ve only known for a few months who is also a coworker and is also an internationally famous footballer.
The problem is that it’s also awesome. The past week I’ve been happier than I’ve been since coming to Liverpool, since Steven.
It’s like I’ve finally found equilibrium after months of vertigo.
My life revitalization plan had been proceeding slowly but steadily, thanks to the progress I’ve made on Erica’s List, but living with Lachlan has turbocharged it.
There was a bit of awkwardness the first few days as we figured out each other’s routines, but since then it’s been smooth sailing.
We carpool to and from work (though I make him drop me off a block from the training center).
We make each other dinner—well, he makes me dinner and I occasionally help him load the dishwasher.
We play video games, we eat Wotsits, we watch endless hours of football.
It’s bliss—since apparently my version of bliss is the same as a thirteen-year-old boy’s.
And while Josh will be happy that I’m happy, I know he’s going to have a few things to say about the arrangement.
At the airport, I lean on the barrier outside of Arrivals with my sign.
It’s a play on Erica’s List, where I’ve written “MOVE SPIRIT” at the top with only one box to check off: “Leap into best friend’s arms.” I see Josh’s curls first, his head bobbing along above the wave of people shuffling out of Duty Free.
Then the crowds part and I see the rest of him, and as he rushes toward me, my heart splits in two: pure joy at seeing him again, and pure terror at disappointing him with my news.
As soon as his arms are around me, I’m sobbing. He laughs and squeezes me tighter. “Oh, Abby, I missed you too.”
And I can’t tell him that the tears are more than happiness at seeing him, because I can’t identify what exactly they’re for.
Nostalgia, maybe, at seeing this relic from my past. Guilt, for being a bad friend, for not keeping in better touch.
A strong dash of homesickness and doubt about whether I’ve done the right thing by running away from Boston. And hunger, because always.
I pull myself together and dab the mascara from underneath my eyes. “Okay, well, I know I don’t have to apologize to you of all people for my volatile emotional state.”
“It would please me greatly if we could make it through the entire weekend without you saying the word sorry,” he says. I tilt my head like, “Uh, yeah right,” which makes him laugh again. “Okay, fine, you can have one ‘sorry’ per day.”
“Deal.” I shake his hand.
We cover all the bases in the taxi to the stadium: work, family, Erica, et cetera.
Josh has brought a care package from home that includes some drawings from my nieces and nephews, and that threatens to start the waterworks again.
Thankfully, before I can properly blubber, we’re on the approach to Knowsley, and I waylay my sadness by narrating a history of the club.
Josh has never been big into sports and has spent decades listening to me discuss teams he couldn’t care less about, but as we make our way into the throng at the stadium I can tell he’s impressed.
It’s the first time I’ve seen my job through someone else’s eyes, and I allow myself a moment of pride at how skillfully I navigate us through the crowds, clapping familiar security guards on the back as we make our way up to the Comms team box.
I got my first job out of college thanks to my brother Kyle’s connections; he’s a big sports agent and reps a ton of players for the Patriots, Celtics, and Red Sox.
Everything I ever did in the Boston sports world felt like it came with an asterisk: Oh, she’s Kyle McIntyre’s little sister.
But this, now, at Mersey? This is all me.
That sense of equilibrium washes over me again: I’m grounded here in this stadium, with these people. I know what I’m doing.
Two hours later, we cram ourselves into a bus with dozens of jubilant Mersey fans, boisterous with victory songs, as we inch back into the city center.
Josh’s face is a mix of giddiness at the spectacle and confusion every time a local says something to him—and, yes, I may feel like I’m starting to belong here, but I am still working on understanding that accent.
The crowd thins as the bus lets off crimson-clad supporters in various states of inebriation, and as we get closer to the waterfront, Josh turns to me.
“Wait, I don’t even know where we’re going.
You said you were staying with a friend? ”
I push the stop request button and nod.
“Pretty cool neighborhood,” he says as we hop off the bus and walk past the gaggle of gastropubs and museums near Lachlan’s building.
I don’t think the suspicion starts to grow until we’re through the lobby and I’ve waved hello to Security Joe and hit the PH button.
But as the lift zooms up to the top floor, Josh’s brow furrows. “Which friend?”
“Umm…”
“Abby.” He has deployed his Teacher Voice. “Abby,” he repeats as I stick my key into the door, usher us in, and turn off the alarm.
I’m too chickenshit to say anything. Instead, I simply watch as Josh takes it all in: the twenty-foot ceilings, the top-of-the-line kitchen, the stunning deck where the light glinting off the Mersey River nearly blinds us.
His piercing stare when he turns to me is nearly as sharp. “Are you living with Lachlan?”
My excuses tumble over each other in their haste to spill forth: Fiona’s lopsided boobs and Oliver’s hairy ass, money, loneliness, comfort, carpooling, and on and on and on.
I watch my best friend absorb the barely concealed panic in my voice, and I fear we’re heading for an “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” situation.
Instead, he sighs and holds up a hand to stop me.
“Okay. It’s fine. You don’t have to twist yourself into knots anymore. I understand.”
And I know I should be relieved to hear him say it, but I can see the taut line of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils. He grips the handle of his bag. “Can I take a shower? I assume there are half a dozen bathrooms in this place.”
I show him to the guest room, then pace off my nerves doing laps around the apartment.
Lachlan comes home ten minutes later, and though his appearance usually calms me down, today it spikes my heart rate.
That is, until he riffles through his bag and pulls out a book entitled Teaching for Dummies.
He holds it up like a Mormon missionary, and I wonder if he’s about to ask me if I have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“I’ve been reading about pedagogy so I can ask Josh intelligent questions about his job.” His smile is so pure, so eager. It’s entirely without pretense, just a genuine reflection of the kindness and curiosity and humor of the man behind it.
“That is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, as they say, the friend of my friend is my friend. I want him to like me.”
“He will like you. Everyone likes you.”
“Hmm, I seem to remember you spent the first several weeks of our friendship begging me to hang out with other people.”
“Yeah, and I’m still not convinced you don’t have some ulterior motive.”
“All I wanted was to lure you into my wee gingerbread house so I could eat you, what’s so wrong with that?”
I laugh and shove him on the shoulder and he hunches over like the Gingerbread Hag herself, chasing me around the room in an exaggerated wobble.
That’s how Josh finds us. My breath hitches in my chest as Lachlan straightens up and I watch the two most important men in my life meet each other.
Lachlan is all smiles and peak charm, but Josh wears the guarded expression that was common in the last few months of Steven—he’s like a dog sussing out a potential threat to his owner, hackles gently raised.
Then Lachlan asks if Josh uses structured inquiry or if he prefers a more contextualized learning approach, Josh’s shoulders relax, and I let out a long, slow breath of gratitude.
They keep up a stream of conversation in the lift downstairs, in Lachlan’s car, on the whole drive to the restaurant.
We’re heading to one of our favorite spots, right on the water with a beautiful view over the river.
Josh seems to have calmed down; he’s genuinely laughing at Lachlan’s jokes.
For the umpteenth time today, I teeter on the verge of tears—but this time in relief.
As we wait for the waitress to take our order, Lachlan pushes his chair back. “I’m just going to nip to the loo. If she comes, will you get me that chicken thing?”
“Sure,” I say. “Do you want it with the—”
“No, just the one I liked last time. And also a—”
“Yeah, yeah, oat milk. I’m on it.” I wave him away and ignore Josh’s pointed clearing of his throat, his raised eyebrows.