Page 6 of Dream On, Liar

I’d known she’d done it to flaunt it in front of my father, but even when he spent the rest of the evening ignoring her, she hadn’t taken a single minute to say anything to me. I hadn’t been expecting an apology. No. By then, I’d learned not to expect those from her. But I had expected her version of something close to it, the conversation that always seemed to follow, with the same rehearsed and predictable words. I’d replayed it in my head a thousand times that day, mentally preparing, or maybe just bracing for impact.

‘Did you have to do it then?’

‘Yes. Everyone from our circle was there. Holding a whole new event just to make a two-minute announcement would’ve been a waste of time and money.’

But it never came.

The truth was, she wasn’t stingy. She came from money. She had money. And time. She’d quit her job when she started dating James, who was, unsurprisingly, a tycoon.

Still, the silence that followed, that night and in the days after, had acted like its own kind of balm. Not the kind that healed, but the kind that numbed just enough to make things bearable.

She simply didn’t care, and I needed to get on board with that.

On the days I managed to, I reminded myself that at least one of my parents hadn’t completely exonerated me from their life. After I refused to reach out to my mother unless she extended a hand first, days slipped into months. By the time I took a part-time job at the Lancashire Cricket County Club while finishing my post-grad, it had only cemented what our relationship had become, something I’d never quite imagined, but somehow wasn’t surprised by.

Even then, my relationship with my father consisted of scattered check-ins and the occasional Christmas he tried to include me in, usually once any sense of obligation had worn thin, and always depending on his relationship status and his schedule.

Still, it was something.

But I was sure that was all about to change.

At least, in the next forty minutes.

Glancing at the sat-nav again, the urge to switch lanes tempted me once more. All it would have taken was one turn, and I could have gone to Heathrow instead. Maybe I would have bought a ticket to a place where no one knew me, or my father. A place where they associated the word cricket with insects.

I could go to Sweden.

The thought flashed in my head like a bulb switching on. Admittedly, it was probably screwed on to the wrong connection, but for a minute I let myself entertain the idea.

At how easy it would be.

I'd only needed to call Matt and take him up on his offer to join the CHL, the Champions Hockey League. Years ago, he'd made the offer to bring me into the EIHL, but back then that hadn’t been enough, because I hadn't wanted to leave my best friend. Now, I was desperate enough to leave the country that the change felt less like a leap and more like an exit.

And also, this time I knew Samyra would at least understand.

Granted, I would have had to beg Matt to teach me the basics of ice hockey so I wouldn't walk into the job completely clueless. He would give me endless shit for not learning a single thing during all the times he'd forced me to watch his games when I'd crashed at his place as a kid. And at some point, I knew I would have to remind him that the only reason I'd ever let him put those games on while we hung out was so I could quietly spend time with his older brother.

Because even though Felix was supposed to keep an eye on us, he'd only ever paid attention when it gave him the chance to point out Matt's mistakes. Wins, on the other hand, would barely have earned more than a passing glance.

Looking back, it was easy to conclude that Felix Slater only cared about the sport he loved, and the fact that it was cruel to only spend time with his younger brother when he was reminding him of his weak game play, but Matt never cared. He devoured Felix’s words like they were scripture. And did the same, even now. I guess both brothers would say it was justified, now that both had gained so much in that sport.

Continue on the M4 to arrive at your destination.

SPERM DONOR’S HOUSE.

The robotic voice faded as I drove straight on, past the left turn into Heathrow, and with it, my chance to take the road to a new life slipped away.

I wasn’t a runner.

I reminded myself, gripping the steering wheel tighter. In fact, I hated running.

Metaphorically and physically.

And, I wasn’t a planner, and the fact that I’d already run through the entire scenario in my head only made me trust the idea less.

I just wished the pit in my stomach didn’t make it feel like it was my last resort anyway.

FIFTY SEVEN MINUTES LATER, I was pulling up to my father’s house.