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‘Millie, I’mjoking.You do know that right?’
‘I know.’
‘And this catsuit. It’s – it’s actuallyinsane. Like – wow.’
I swallow. ‘It’s .?.?. it’s not a catsuit.’
‘Well, I’m just saying, it’s very, very—’
‘We talked,’ I cut in. A movie-cut of a subject change. ‘Chloe .?.?. Chloe and me. Just now. On the dance floor?’
‘You and Chlo?’ he asks, casually, easily, crossing his arms, slouching back. Old, wet leaves rumple in the dark, under his shoes. ‘And what did she say? I hope she wasn’t rude to you.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, she was fine. And really, I’d deserve gettingrude.I was just .?.?. trying to tell her nothing had happened. Butting my nose in where it isn’t needed but—’
‘I don’t know where her head is,’ says Owen. ‘She .?.?. I dunno.’ He lets out a long beer-scented breath. It makes an ice-blue puff in the air. ‘It all feels fucked, Millie. She’s meant to be coming over tomorrow. She – begged to, so. But who knows?’Begged.Didn’t Chloe say he asked her to go there? I don’t know. Plus, it was loud on the dance floor, wasn’t it? Maybe she didn’t say begged. ‘And my flat – it’s rammed with wedding paraphenalia. Boxes of it. These – table things she roped me into making for hours on end, some candle tree things .?.?. loads of stuff. All that craft stuff you like. We made loads of it together. I don’t know what to do with it all now. I’m surrounded by it it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ is all I say, because I don’t know whatelseto say. I feel rigid, sitting here, like a wooden soldier. I can’t stop thinking about what Chloe said too, about hearing what we said at the rugby game. The way he ‘made sure’ she heard. And her gut feeling.
‘Are you?’ he asks.
‘Am I .?.?.?’
‘Sorry?’ asks Owen. ‘Are you sorry? Because, and don’t get me wrong, my life isallover the place,’ and he stops then, a laugh of disbelief, puffing out of him, ‘but .?.?. I don’t think I am. ’Cause I’velikedseeing you again, Millie; talking to you again. And I’m, yeah, confused as shit, but I’m .?.?.enjoyingbeing in touch again. Me and you, Millie, our families. Everything was just – ready-made. Perfect. And I fucked it.’
I look out across the darkness, panic rising in my chest. A ripple widens on the surface of the black, shining lake, and upbeat dance music grows louder, flows from the open doors behind us, to the cold outside.
‘I think about our Sundays all the time. Going to see Mum, or your parents. Your dad and me by the barbecue .?.?.’
My throat tightens. I can’t breathe all of a sudden. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the .?.?. security of those old days. Mum and Dad, no lies, no bloody Easter alibis. And I miss feeling like I was bringing something to the family, too. Like something was happening for me,finally.Something to be discussed at brunches. No desperate clamour for rotisserie chickens and hollow approval.
‘I texted your dad,’ he says. ‘I hope that’s OK.’
Instinctively, I jerk back. As if the words he spoke, made a hand in the air and slapped me. I’m .?.?. surprised.Shocked.I – I don’t know if that’s okay.Is it? ‘Did – did he answer?’
‘Yeah.’ Owen nods, running a hand through his short, thick hair. He interlaces his fingers, then, in his lap, and I look at them. The scar on his thumb, the silver band on his tanned middle finger that I’d turn in slow circles as we lay talking in bed, the dark hair on his forearms that I’d smooth with my hand. The memories dry my mouth almost instantly, and I swallow.
‘I didn’t mention anything about your mum or anything, but I told him I’d been to that fishing lake that we went to once. Up in Copt Hall? Me and a mate. And I was thinking about how great your dad was to me, and how shit my own is, and – I don’t know. After you told me, I thought, this man deserves the good stuff in life. Good karma. And maybe he needed to hear it. He replied. Seemed OK.’
‘Right. Thank you,’ I say, flatly, but I still don’t know how I feel about it. Owen, texting Dad, after all this time. It feels strange. It feels like an over-step. A stride over a barrier. But then, it is thoughtful. Dad probably did need to hear that. ‘I’m glad he seemed OK,’ I say. ‘I’m .?.?. worried about them.’
‘I know,’ Owen says softly. ‘I understand. And I love your family, and they’re not even mine, so, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.’ Owen’s lips press into a sad arc. ‘I used to sit up in India, thinking about your parents sometimes, wondering if they were OK. If .?.?. you were OK. I don’t want you to think I didn’t.’ His hand lands on my back and suddenly, I feel suffocated. Like I’ve just been wrapped too tightly in a blanket, swaddled, and I can’t break my arms free. I have waited so long for this. All I wanted was for time to be turned back, tobewith Owen again. Our plans, back on track. And there’s a small, still-holding-on, part of me that wants to let him hold me. But I also want to run from it. What is it I said to Jack? I like to know what’s going to happen. And I do. That scared, small, still-holding-on part does, at least. And I know if I lean into Owen, he’ll put his arm around me, and I know already how that feels, but then .?.?. maybe it’ll escalate. And we’ll get back together. Let’s say we do. I know what that feels like too. And is that what I really want?
I scoot along the bench, inch away from him, but his hand grips my arm. ‘Holy shit,’ Owen laughs.
‘What?’
‘Listen.’
I pause, tune into the music coming from inside.
Oh, God. It’soursong. Mine and Owen’s song. Ben Folds. Who plays Ben Folds at adisco? Unless it’s been .?.?. requested?
‘We have to,’ he says, his hand still gripping my arm, tugging it gently towards him.
‘No. No, no, I’m not dancing, Owen—’
‘Ah come on, you don’t even have to dance. You just need to stand with me, move a bit—’
