Chapter Five #2
My mouth is bone fucking dry. I'm going to have to tell them. Say it out loud. Admit it. Or something close to the truth, anyway. Fuck my fucking life.
I swallow hard. "Louth."
Cam peers at me. "No way. The Hardy twins were from Louth too."
"I knew him." Oscar suddenly bursts. "James. I knew him fairly well. He was dating this girl, Bonnie. She was friends with my ex-girlfriend, Harriet. We'd hang out sometimes but I’m sure he was going to Oxford."
My hands go cold, my vision blurs, and I start to feel woozy. He’s wrong though. Bonnie was my girlfriend. James and Bonnie shouldn't have been hanging out at all—let alone forming fucking friendship circles together.
Every day since he left, I find out something else that guts me.
My chest tightens so fast I feel winded. I can't look at Oscar. I can't look at Cam. I can't look at anyone.
I would rather chew my own fucking arm off than ever talk about any of this. But it's not realistic. James was popular; he was liked. He was so fucking loved. Everyone who met him liked him, remembered him. Adored him.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to get it over with. There's no avoiding it. Not with Bonnie here. Not when they knew James. "It's me. He was my twin."
Cam's eyes widen. "No shit. How is he? It’s been ages."
Dead and buried, mate.
Six feet under.
No longer with us.
“He’s—uh—” I cut myself off, scratching the back of my neck and wishing the world would take me here and now.
Oscar frowns. “What do you mean was?”
“Hm?”
“You said he was your twin.”
I force myself to look Oscar straight in the eye. They’re brown and nothing like his sisters. The cold wind blows against my hot neck, and my body shivers. "He's dead."
After nearly three years, it hasn’t gotten any less alien to hear myself speak it.
A lot of the time, my grief feels exactly like fear. Every phone call sounds like bad news. Every knock at the door turns my stomach. Every person I love feels one heartbeat away from disappearing too.
Oscar's face drops and Cam's mouth falls open.
I try to take another breath through the steel lodged in my windpipe. "I don't like talking about it.” Anything else will break me. I gesture to the field. “Can we, uh, play?"
There’s a silence that goes on long enough I have no choice but to look at their aghast faces.
Then they shoot each other this weird, almost knowing look.
Oscar's whole expression changes quickly.
He's looking at me with some kind of understanding of what I must be feeling, which is crazy because I just had coffee with his very alive twin who is bursting with personality.
Cam's arms fall to his sides. The jokes and the manic energy—it all evaporates. "Shit, mate. We didn't know."
"Why would you? You're not from our town."
Oscar clears his throat; eyes soft with sincerity. "I'm really fucking sorry.”
"Yeah," Cam echoes quietly. "I'm sorry too. That's... yeah. That's rough."
Rough doesn't even begin to cover it.
I shrug with one shoulder, looking at the ground and feeling an array of emotions. "It's fine."
"It's not fine," Oscar insists.
"It doesn't matter.”
"It does," he replies, steady but not lecturing. "I know how it feels—"
"Doubt it, mate." I quickly interject, needing this shit and their pity to be over. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it, alright?”
I hate when people say that; they know how it feels.
They can’t, because my twin was the better half of me and now, he’s gone.
The only person who knows this grief is me.
That’s not to say Oscar hasn’t suffered in his own way.
I’m sure he has; everyone has their own shit to deal with. But he doesn’t know my grief. He can’t.
Oscar doesn't stiffen or snap back. He watches me, taking it in, taking me in. I realise there’s a warmth to him and his sister. A niceness. "Alright," he nods after a moment. "We won't talk about it."
Some of the pressure in my chest eases. "Thanks."
He gives me space without making a show of it, blows his whistle and starts gathering everyone in front of him and Cam.
I’m grateful that both times the Hollis’ haven’t made a big deal about the trauma that follows me, but I can’t go on living my life like this, in fear of being forced to talk about something that very nearly destroyed me.
As the team gathers in a circle, I stand to the side contemplating turning around and walking away. Maybe I should leave Uni altogether. Go travelling or whatever the fuck other people do when they’re grieving.
I read a book once about a woman who went to live with some monks after her mum died. Maybe that would suit me?
“Alright, lads.” Oscar calls for order with a booming voice.
“It’s almost the end of Freshers’ week, so I appreciate you all coming out.
We won’t be here long. A few drills, and a quick match.
” He eyes each of us, dripping authority and commanding respect.
“Show me energy, show me effort, and we’ll see where you fit with the teams.”
Cam raises both arms like he’s presenting a circus act. “WELCOME TO HELL, BOYS!”
Oscar tilts his head toward him. “Ignore him.” I mentally note that this is apparently the baseline dynamic between them. Oscar runs the session, Cam acts like a feral dog on drugs. “Pairs for warm-up.” Oscar instructs. “Quick passes.”
Everyone spreads out across the pitch. Oscar stays where he is, whistle hanging around his neck while he watches us organise ourselves, occasionally pointing someone in a different direction or calling out a quick instruction whenever two lads end up standing around looking lost.
They all seem to know each other, and I don’t get how. Most of us only arrived a few days ago, some were even arriving today. Brooke got here two days ago, and even she’s managed to make friends with Ruby. What if without James I’m incapable of forging a life for myself?
Cam ignores the chaos of the field heads straight for me, tapping my arm with the back of his hand when he’s close. “Joshie, you’re with me.”
“Why?” I give him a sceptical look. “Shouldn’t I be with another first year?”
“Nah,” he rolls his wrist lazily. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll be playing with us.”
“With you?”
He grins. “On the Firsts.”
“Cam,” Oscar calls across the pitch, voice flat.
Cam pulls a face at him before sticking his tongue out. “Fine, I won’t talk to him, you boring sod.” Then he nudges the ball toward me with his toe. “Go on. Show me.”
My nerves flare, but the second my foot connects with the ball, something steadier takes over. The pass I return to him is firm.
Cam lets out a low whistle. “Alright. Nice.”
I feel the anxiety and heaviness start to wear off, and then I let myself fall into the freedom of playing the sport I love.
Once the passing drills are done, Oscar splits us into two teams before stepping back out of the game altogether.
He spends the match wandering the touchline and halfway line, stopping play every so often to swap players around or shout instructions, while Cam ends up on my side after announcing we needed "someone who actually knows how to score".
Judging by the grin he throws me, I guess he thinks that’s me.
The rest of the trial is… fun. My team ends up winning, mostly because Cam and I keep hammering goals past their painfully useless keeper.
I can tell I’ve done well because a few of the other trialists keep shooting me dirty looks, while the lads already on the squad thump me on the back as we regroup.
For the first time since summer started, I feel something close to alright.