‘Shit, shit, shit! You need to see this.’
It’s hard not to see it when Johannes thrusts his phone straight in front of my face. The fact that it’s morning catches me off guard, but not as much as the newsflash there in black and white on his screen.
Pop legend, Chastity Walker, dies aged 59 after a four-year battle with Parkinson’s.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ I reach for my own phone, heading straight for his name in my contacts. I hit the call button but it doesn’t even ring. I don’t even get a dial tone. Which can mean only one thing.
‘Maybe his phone’s off?’ Johannes suggests and I want to believe that, but he didn’t see how angry Kian was when I told him he couldn’t like me.
‘He’s blocked me. I need to go back to the hotel and make sure he’s okay. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! I can’t believe I abandon?—’
‘You didn’t know his mum was going to die, Harper. You couldn’t have known. But youwerea fucking idiot for going out when you should have been talking to him and being honest with yourself.’
I want to glare at him, to tell him he’s wrong, but I can’t. He’s so right it hurts. I screwed up and now Kian’s going through this on his own. There’s no way I can fix things right now without making his grief worse. He’s got to do what’s best for him and his family, and that doesn’t include me. I can’t imagine he’ll be competing this weekend, so I’m guessing I’ll be racing London. I’ve barely spoken a single word to him all season. Free practice today is going to be interesting.
‘I should, uh, probably – definitely – go back to my hotel. I’ll check on him. Do you think that’s the right thing to do?’
‘Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe just go and offer your condolences and leave it at that for now.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’
‘Always am, man. Things will be okay, Harp. I promise, it’ll all be okay.’
I decide to walk back to the hotel instead of taking a car. I need the fresh air to clear my head, and the walk will give me a chance to think about how I’m going to approach him and what I’m going to say. Maybe he’ll shut the door in my face, but I have to try.
I barely start thinking when my phone begins ringing. My heart leaps for a moment at the thought it might be Kian, but of course it’s Anders. I’ve already deleted the Insta stories I put up last night, but it’s probably too late and I’m probably going to be dropped next season.
‘Good morning,’ I croak out, my throat suddenly drier than the Sahara Desert.
‘Harper, hey, sorry it’s early. I know you have a free practice later this afternoon but I wanted to give you a heads-up that London will be racing this weekend. As I’m sure you’ve heard, Kian has returned to the UK to be with his family and won’t be racing this weekend.’
Kian’s gone?
‘Uh, yes, thank you for letting me know, sir.’ The call’s short and sweet and I’m just grateful not to be getting the bollocking I deserve right now. Somehow, though, it feels worse.
Kian’s gone.
And I’m blocked.
I can’t even try to be there for him.
I was a mess last night. How could I do this to him? How could I hurt him like this? How could I hurt someone I love like this?
Why has it only just hit me thatI love him?
Why has it only just occurred to me that I don’t have to repeat the patterns of my past, the patterns that hurt me, by hurting others? I could choose to let him love me without throwing it back in his face. And I could love him, too, couldn’t I?
I feel sick to my stomach.
Is it fear? Adrenaline? Hope?
I honestly don’t know.
I get up and go to his room. I know it’s pointless but I want to be amongst his things. Trying the handle, I almost burst into tears upon finding it open.
Everything’s gone, but you can tell he left in a rush because his bed isn’t made and the bathroom’s a state. Not that I care, because I just want to feel close to him for a moment. I throw myself down on his bed. Oh, God, it still smells like him, and I let myself just inhale him, duvet tucked right up under my chin. I sit up and see the plastic bag by the door with my hoodie spilling out of the top.
Oh, God, it really is over.
