After Ryker had fallen asleep, I found Liam downstairs in the conservatory sitting in the dark. Heavy Handed played from his phone in his lap, and from his scrunched expression I knew he wasn’t enjoying their tracks. I think he was trying to make himself at least tolerate them, but I came into the room, sat down beside him, and took his phone. I put on his favourite music, which at the time happened to be David Bowie, and I told him I liked it too. Listening to a quiet version of “Moonage Daydream” and sitting with Liam in the dark made me as happy as bouncing up and down in the stadium with Ryker did. Despite being twins, they’re very different, and each attract part of me to them like a moth to a flame.
I’m a moth without a flame now. I’m on my own. A moth in the dark.
No, I tell myself, I’ve got Keegan. She’s my flame, and I’m flying—or more accurately, driving—back to her.
I arrive home before four, and school children walk the paths. I wonder if they saw Ryker today, whether they had to sit through his speech while he tried to terrify them away from arson as a hobby. It’s ironic in a way. Ryker loved to detonate deodorant cans as a kid, and he loved tearing open fireworks to get the gunpowder inside too. He’d collect it to make a bigger one with a super-duper bang that Liam would always shield me from despite my protests.
I don’t notice the car I park behind—well, I do, I notice it’snotmy dad’s Ford but an old-looking mini—then spare it no further consideration. It’s no threat to me. It’s a random car that could belong to anyone.
I unlock the front door, and trip over the trainers on the mat.
They’re not mine.
Neither are they Keegan’s.
They’re men’s trainers, and I frown down at them stupidly. There’s also a man’s coat hanging off the banister, and it smells strongly of Lynx Africa. I part my lips, poised to shout out to Keegan, tell her I’m home, but I stop myself.
I wasn’t being quiet when I came inside, but now I make a deliberate decision to be. There are voices upstairs, one giggling and sweet, and the other a baseline rumble. There are two rooms upstairs, our bedroom and our en-suite bathroom. There’s no reason Keegan should be up there with someone else. I creep up the stairs, gaze locked on the bedroom door. There’s no reason it should be shut either, while she’s in there with someone else.
Iknowbefore I know.
I only open the door to confirm it for myself.
Keegan screams, and yanks the duvet up to cover herself, as if I’m the one who shouldn’t be seeing her naked. And Ben, fucking Ben her stepbrother, shoots from the bed—our bed—and runs naked into the bathroom. The lock turns with a clunk. Keegan’seyes dart, and her lips wobble, and I know she’s thinking of something to say, but what can she say?
What can she possibly say to bleach the image of her and him from my retinas?
What words can she wield to save my pride?
What can she do to stop that cracking sensation in my chest?
“I wasn’t expecting you home until later.”
That’s what she goes with. It’s almost an accusation. What she really means to say is,“Why didn’t you tell me you’d be home early?”If I’d told her, she could’ve hurried Ben out of the house, kept me in the dark for longer, enjoyed her illicit tryst while I continued to grovel and wait on her after my outburst over my dad.
There are questions that go through my head, like the most obvious,“Whyandhow long?”And other ones, like“Did he use condoms? Was it always in our bed?”And even the typical masculine doubt,“Was he better than me? Bigger than me? Did he last longer than me?”
A glint on the bedside table catches my eye. It’s the ring I proposed with, and I laugh. I laugh until my lungs ache, and I bow over while spittle runs over my lips. At least she took it off before fucking her brother. She had some kind of morals about being engaged. Oh, she can justify betraying me, as long as the commitment I made to her and she to me is gone from her finger for however long it takes Ben to finish inside her.
“Freddie,” she says, standing from the bed. She pulls the duvet with her, keeping herself covered from me. I wonder why she’s so adamant about it. Has he marked her skin? Is his release over her belly or snaking down her legs as her eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry. It’s not . . .” She stops, biting her lip. They’re plumper than usual, and the lipstick she put on for him has smeared. It’s on the tip of her nose. I imagine it all over his chest too, leading south. Maybe I should’ve shouted by now, or burst into tears, or turnedaround to vomit in the corner of the room, but my reaction to walking in on my fiancée in bed with her stepbrother is to laugh hysterically while dribbling, followed by . . . nothing.
A big fat nothing. That probably means I’m in some kind of shock.
“Say something,” she whispers, as if I’m the one who needs to explain.
I don’t say anything, not even the cliche“How could you?”while breaking down at the betrayal.
What I do is turn around and walk out the room. I rush down the stairs, and pause to grab the vase I bought her, the overpriced purple one with gold leaf, then leave the door wide open behind me.
I stroll as casually as I can up to Ben’s car and slam the vase down on the windscreen. It goes opaque with a spider web of cracks, and I nod at the pattern, satisfied with the destruction. Keegan calls my name from the doorstep, no longer wrapped up in the duvet. She’s managed to hastily tug on her dressing gown, and is securing the belt as she watches me.
She’s crying.
Why the hell isshecrying?
I ignore her, get back into my car, and drive away with no idea where I’m going.
10
