Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next morning I haul myself off of Amina’s couch, embraced by the gentle crush of a rosé hangover.
I toss on the clean gym clothes from my bag, but all I want is to go home and shower.
I look at my phone: no texts from Lachlan.
Was he too tired from an all-night boinkfest to text me and tell me he’s getting back together with his wife?
I choke down a tiny bit of bile (tinged with deeper fruit notes of cherries and delicate hues of melon) and scribble Amina a note before slipping into the still-dark morning to begin my commute back into Liverpool.
It’s cold and rainy today, and I’m in a foul mood by the time I get to my office, which makes what’s waiting for me there even worse: Matthew Fletcher.
I greet him with an appropriate level of enthusiasm (roughly the same as I’d give to an IRS auditor) and plop down behind my desk, steeling myself for whatever drama he’s bringing me this morning.
He pitches himself forward in the chair, legs spread, hands on knees. It makes me feel like I’m about to get coached through some tactics for beating the offside trap. “I just wanted to say thanks again for helping to organize Lockie’s birthday dinner. I know he really appreciated it.”
Oh. That’s not so bad. “My pleasure. I hope the restaurant was good.”
He scratches the back of his head—it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look nervous, or something even approaching it.
“Sorry if Claire threw a spanner in the works. Evie basically begged her to come. They got really close when Lockie played here the first time, and I’m sure he was happy to have his wife there for his birthday. ”
“I’m sure,” I say in a way I hope conveys something more along the lines of “That is your opinion, no matter how incorrect it is. Also, kindly jump off a cliff.”
Matty narrows his eyes and scans me, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m close enough to Lachlan to know Claire wasn’t necessarily a good surprise or stupid enough not to have noticed their estrangement.
“Right,” he starts, drawing out the word.
“Listen, you know Lockie well enough at this point to know that things have been a bit rocky with them, yeah?”
Well, I guess I’m glad he doesn’t think I’m stupid.
He continues. “It’s for sure a rough patch, but Evie and I are confident they can pull through this. They’ve been through worse—they almost didn’t get married, actually, but Evie and I got them back on track.”
The bottom drops out of my chest, and for a moment my heart is in freefall. I pretend to focus intently on my laptop booting up, gripping my mouse to stop my hand from shaking. I muster every ounce of control to keep my voice even. “Really? What happened?”
“He wanted to call it off. Said they were only getting married because they were moving to Madrid. I told him I couldn’t live this life if I didn’t have Evie and the kids waiting for me at home. They keep me focused on what’s important. I told him he needed that stability.”
Maybe he sees the incredulity in my face, because Lord knows I am not able to conceal the gathering rage in my soul that this man, this fucking dipshit, meddled in Lachlan’s life like that.
Matty puts his hand on my desk, kicking his intensity up a notch.
“It was the right call and I’d do it again.
Claire’s really good for him. I know you might not believe that, based on what you’ve heard, but trust me. ”
I dig my fingernails into my palms.
“You’ve been such a good friend to him, and I know he’d appreciate your support and space as he works to fix his marriage.”
I nod, because I can’t openly disagree with the team captain, Lachlan’s best friend, a man he’s known for two decades—at least, not within earshot of Charlotte’s office.
“He can’t afford any distractions at the moment,” he says, as if I haven’t gotten the message loud and clear at this point.
That’s it, though. That’s the one that pushes me over the edge.
“Yeah, I’d hate to be as distracting as a wife who refuses to live in the same country as him.
” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself—Charlotte’s proximity be damned.
I’m so tired of dancing around everything, and I owe Matt Fletcher exactly fuck all.
It turns out that’s it for Matty, too, as he tips straight into Aggro Mode. “You don’t know a thing about it. He loves her.”
“He’s in hell, Matt.”
“And I suppose you want them to break up so that you can be with him?”
My face is red hot, but for once I know it’s from anger, not embarrassment. Who the fuck does he think he is to say that to me in my own office? “That’s unbelievably inappropriate.”
“And yet, you don’t deny it.”
“Sorry, didn’t realize we were in court, Your Honor. The only thing I want is for Lachlan to be happy.”
“Happiness comes from stability. Every day that he and Claire haven’t figured out their situation is a day his head isn’t fully in the game.”
“I agree.”
“Okay, so you want them to reconcile.”
“I want them to figure out what they are to each other; it’s not my place to say what shape that takes. And frankly, Matt, it’s not yours either.”
At this, he stands up and actually sneers at me. “Mate, I’ve known him since we were kids. I think I’m a little more qualified to push him in a direction than you are.”
I let out a long, frustrated sigh. I need to be sitting alone in a dark room to process all this, not screaming into the boundless void of Matt Fletcher’s ego. “We’re going in circles here. I care about Lachlan, you care about Lachlan. We both want the situation resolved. That’s all that matters.”
“So you’re going to back off?”
“I’m going to continue being a supportive friend.”
He opens his mouth and then closes it, flares his nostrils.
I can see the gears turning in his head, and wish he’d just come out and say whatever he’s thinking.
Then, to my surprise, he does: “You’re free to do whatever you want, of course.
All I’m saying is it would be a shame if all this interfered with your work.
I’m sure Charlotte Collins wouldn’t want that to happen. ”
There it is. The trump card, the threat of last resort.
It’s true, a little shock of fear courses through me when he says this.
But more than anything else, I feel pity.
I feel sorry for Matt having to watch his friend go through this and be powerless to help.
I’m sure he’s devastated that he and his wife are losing one of their closest couple friends, the splintering of the little foursome they’ve had for years and years.
I understand. Matt and I are not at war with each other, and it does me no good to aggravate him further.
At the same time, I’m done being a pushover.
“You’re free to tell her whatever you want, Matt. But I have a lot of work to do, so if you’ll please leave my office, that’d be great.” I gesture to the door.
Matt scowls, but says nothing more, just skulks out and shuffles off down the hall. I pinch the bridge of my nose and wonder what other hells this day will bring.
As someone who has actually called off a wedding, I can say with certainty that it was the right decision and not one I took lightly.
What went through Lachlan’s mind six years ago, and does he regret Matty’s intervention?
Does he wish he would have called it off?
I have too much to do to think about this, and my endless speculation is never productive.
However, I’m definitely capable of devoting a portion of my brain to a simmering, bubbling anger directed at Matt Fletcher.
Sure, it means that I’ll have to redraft all the content I’m writing for the Mersey website (I’m sure the fans would not take kindly to me calling the team captain a “stupid meddling asshole”), but it feels good to vent my anger and angst in a particular direction.
By late morning, I’ve calmed down…a bit. I make myself a tea in the staff canteen and sip on it while staring out onto the empty training pitches, the rain falling in sheets. It’s there that Lachlan finds me.
His head is down and his shoulders are up; he’s almost bashful, like a naughty schoolboy just coming back from time-out. “Hey,” he says.
I’m not sure there’s anyone whose face I can read better than Lachlan’s at this point, but the questions I need answered are far too complicated to be hidden in his somewhat dimmed eyes or skirting around his shy smile. So I start with a simple one: “How was dinner?”
“The restaurant was fantastic, and I’m going to take you back there as a thank-you for falling on your sword.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “The dinner was…tense, despite Evie’s attempts to keep everything lighthearted.”
I chew on my lip. “When was the last time you saw Claire?”
“In person? Months ago. Early June, right before I left Madrid. Right before I met you.” He clears his throat. “So, uh, yeah, it was weird.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He slumps into a chair. “I don’t know what she was expecting coming up here without telling me.
We barely spoke at dinner, and then she wanted to go straight back to Madrid but the last flight had gone, so we went home and immediately got into this massive row.
It was all the greatest hits, over and over again, everything we’ve been fighting about for months.
Years, really. We finally exhausted ourselves at three in the morning and she got into my bed but I just had this feeling of…
” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, repulsion is too strong a word, but it was this overwhelming sense that I did not want to sleep next to her. ”
“I’m so sorry, Lachlan.”
“Well, hold on to that pity for a wee second, because you might take it right back. I waited until she fell asleep and then I, um…Well, I went into your room. The pillow smelled like your shampoo and it was so comforting to lie there and think about what you would say if you were there with me, if you had seen it all go down. And I know that’s a massive violation of your space and I should have gone to the guest room, but I really wished you were there, and sniffing your pillow like a weird little freak was unfortunately the best substitute. ”
His words are a shot of adrenaline straight to my heart, a giant needle through my sternum.
His bashfulness is so endearing, but it’s the thought of him in my bed while his wife is asleep down the hall that sends several parts of me into overdrive.
It’s hard not to imagine us there together, his long fingers curled around the blanket, his mouth curled into a wicked smile as he lifts the duvet over our heads and we disappear into each other underneath, quietly, so as not to wake her.
My mouth falls open as I imagine what comes next, but I think Lachlan reads it as shock, rather than naked, blatant lust. He’s got worry in his eyes; he’s taking my silence as anger.
I blink a few times, as if that could turn off the tap of filthy images streaming into my mind, then put on a sad smile and shake my head slowly, like a disappointed schoolmarm.
“Unacceptable, Ramsay. And you should be especially ashamed of yourself given my traumatic history of people being in my bed without my permission.”
“I promise the only lopsided tits flopping around were mine.” His smile is tentative, hopeful.
“Well, that’s some consolation. I suppose I can forgive you, but in response to this flagrant violation of my rights, I won’t be paying rent this month.”
His eyelids flutter closed and the relief rolls off of him in a wave. He puts his hands over mine and squeezes them. “I’m so sorry I turfed you out like that.”
I try not to concentrate on how warm his hands are, how soft, what they’re doing to me under the dream duvet.
“It’s not your fault; you didn’t know she was coming.
” Then I ask him something I’ve been wondering about since Amina brought it up.
“But does she know about us? That I’m crashing with you, I mean. ”
The tips of his ears go bright red. “Uh, no. Not as such. Is that a problem?”
My heart does a quick little tap dance and I shake my head.
“I thought it would make everything more complicated,” he says.
So he feels he has something to hide. In Amina’s view, that should thrill me; in reality, I’m greeted by the slow creep of guilt.
Seeing how Lachlan interacted with Claire, hearing about their fight—those things give me hope that their marriage is really over.
But if I’m a secret he feels he has to keep, what does that say?
After all, I know what it’s like to be the one from whom such a secret is kept.
I fidget and pull my hands away from his.
He doesn’t seem to notice, because he just sighs. “Anyway. I feel like shit. Did you make it to Amina’s okay? Is she good, is the parasite good?”
“Yes, yes, all good, despite the fact that she’s in the peanut butter and pickles phase of pregnancy.”
He laughs. “Okay, I’m glad. But will you…” He runs his hands through his hair again. “I mean, I know you might not want to because of how I’ve acted, but will you please think about coming home?”
I know I’m going to say yes, because it is home—he is home. But for a split second, my mind just screams, “DON’T!”
To drown out this brief klaxon, I adopt an overly light air. I cross my arms and tap a finger against my lips. “Now that I know you’ve been rolling around in my sheets, I may as well just go back to Fiona’s…but yes, I suppose.”
“Thank God.” He stands up and nods at the door. “Come on, I’ll drive.”
“Lachlan, it’s eleven a.m. On a Wednesday.”
He blinks, confused, but then my old favorite grin spreads across his face, and all the hand-wringing and hangdog expressions of a minute ago have vanished.
“Right, well, enjoy your time in the salt mines, peon. I’m off to bathe myself in hundred-pound notes.
” And he skips—actually skips—out of the cafeteria, leaving me laughing into my mug.
Yes, the road ahead is confusing and possibly dangerous, but if he’s what’s waiting at the end of it, isn’t it worth walking?