Chapter 38: Xavier
If there's one thing I like talking about more than football, it's falcons. And owls. Owls are my favorite.
I announce this to the table, telling the story of how I found an owl on the side of the lane, and how Philip and I researched how to care for it. "And what's not to love? Have you ever seen an owl walk? It's the best thing ever. Really. Google it. Also, most people think an owl can turn its head one-hundred and eighty degrees, but it's actually more like one-hundred and thirty-five," I babble. Aiden is rapt with attention, and he and I talk for several minutes before I realize everyone is staring at me.
And not in the good, "oh wow, we're in the presence of greatness" kind of way. Moreso in the, "what is this freak rambling on about” way.
"Right. Sorry. Apologies for rambling." Apparently, not everyone wants to know about the life cycle of owlets.
Ophelia lets out a small, strangled noise and then Owen bursts out laughing. A loud guffaw that seems out of place in this posh home. He's laughing so hard that his face turns red. If I'm not mistaken, there are tears in his eyes.
Ophelia, on the other hand, is not laughing. She's pale. Whiter than the dinner plate pale. I put my hand on hers and she pulls it back. Leaning in, I whisper, "What's wrong?"
She shakes her head, lips pressed tightly together.
"I'm not sure where she found you, but this is the best thing I've ever heard." The brother keeps laughing. "Ophelia finally brings someone home and not only does he not even live in this country, but he's into birds. My sister really does know how to pick 'em."
"I'm sure they're just friends," the sister-in-law interjects.
I stiffen, my molars grinding. I glance over at Ophelia, whose eyes are now as wide as a barn owl's. I look around the table. The younger couples are on their phones, not paying attention. Ophelia's dad is still stuffing his gob. Her mother is tut-tutting.
Somehow, somewhere, this entire conversation has gone completely awry. It's probably because people don't expect someone like me to be passionate about something other than football. And for a long time, I think I too forgot that there's more to life than kicking a ball around a field.
Ophelia pushes back from the table, dropping her napkin over her plate as she stands. She dashes out of the dining room, I imagine upstairs.
"Well, I don't quite know what is going on," I mumble, not sure what to do with myself. "I need to go. Excuse me." I stand up as well and head upstairs to find Ophelia.
She's sitting on the bathroom floor, knees to chest, back to the bathtub. Her hair is again in plaits, cascading over her shoulders as her forehead rests on her knees, and she looks young and sweet.
And sad.
Like someone broke her favorite doll.
That someone is me, but I don't know how or why. And it occurs to me that the mere thought of causing Ophelia pain causes me as much distress as my football career ending.
As if Ophelia means as much to me as football does.
I slide down next to her, wrapping my arms around my knees. There's a lot more of me than of her, and I don't compact as well. "I feel as if I should be apologizing, but I don't know what for."
Her head shakes back and forth.
I wait a moment before continuing. "No, really. I don't know what I said or did, but I'm sorry. I thought I used the correct fork."
"I don't know you at all." Her voice is so hushed I can barely hear it.
I'm in a stranger's house, eating dinner with people whose names I can’t even remember. I'm not even sure what state I'm in. "True. We didn't get the time we thought we would, I guess."
Ophelia sniffs and finally looks at me. "We … I don't think we should have slept together. It was a mistake."
Ouch.
Rather than let her know her words hurt, I shrug it off like I would if I were in the middle of a game and just received a cleat to the shin. "Probably not. Obviously, this whole thing was quite foolish."
"Quite," she murmurs quietly.
Now it's my turn to bury my head in my hands. "This whole thing has gone off the rails. Tony …" The mere mention of his name fills me with rage. "If I ever see that wanker again …" I clench my fists. I'm not a violent man, but thoughts of pummeling him into the ground are soothing.
"Xavier, this is serious. Birds? Like actual birds? With feathers and everything?"
