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But there’s also a voice that reminds me he intentionally deceived me, and that’s a pretty big red flag. And then there’s the part where he’s an actual celebrity, and I have to consider everything—photos, articles, publicity—that comes with that. It’s a huge risk even to be seen with him, and I wish I’d known that from the start. It only takes one photo for the facial recognition software to ping and—
Don’t think about it, I tell myself.You can’t keep living your life like this.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to untangle my thoughts. Why am I getting in over my head like we’re star-crossed lovers? We aren’t. Gabriel didn’t try to kiss me last night; he was just opening the door. He stood close to me to get out of the rain. Every sign can be explained away, but my brain went ahead and constructed its own romance because I’m just that sad and desperate.
I resolve just to go to the tennis and try to have a good time.
After washing my hair, I then spendfartoo long wondering what one wears to the tennis. Eventually I settle on a pair of black shorts, a white t-shirt and a bright geometric eighties button-down I thrifted last month. Pulling on a pair of socks and my white sneakers, I check my appearance in the mirror before heading down to the kitchen to make coffee.
Margie’s reading the newspaper on the dining table. She folds it down as I enter. ‘Sorry about your date last night, Noah.’
‘It wasn’t a date,’ I assure her. ‘Does the door need to be replaced?’
Margie shakes her head. ‘I should have had those rusty hinges replaced ages ago. I’ll have someone do it this week.’ She looks me up and down. ‘You look very nice. Are you going out?’
‘I’m meeting up with Gabriel.’
‘Gabriel,’ Margie says in a slightly singsong way. ‘Looking very nice for your friend who wasn’t a date.’
I give her adrop itlook as my toast pops up. ‘So,’ I announce, changing the subject. ‘The university open day is soon. I’m thinking about asking about their music program.’
Margie’s face lights up and she puts down the newspaper. I sit down opposite her with my coffee and munch on toast. ‘Really? I had no idea you played an instrument.’
‘I used to play the piano in high school,’ I say. ‘I want to go in with a bit of an idea of what I could study, but I’m not sure music is the best idea.’ Maybe I should focus on doing something real, something serious that will make me steady money. Like marketing or dentistry.
Margie reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘It’s agreatidea, Noah. If you’re serious, I have an old piano in storage I could bring around. It’d be tight, but it might fit in your room.’
‘Really?’ I ask.
‘I’d love to have music around the house again, but it’ll need tuning. I think the last time it was played was around ten years ago.’ She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘So, tell me about this Gabriel. What’s his story?’
A bald man stands outside the gates near Richmond Station holding a sign with my name on it.
‘Are you Victor?’ I ask as I step off the tram.
He looks me up and down. ‘I am. Are you Noah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Prove it.’
‘What?’
He nods to my pocket. ‘ID. Prove you’re Noah.’
Pulling out my wallet, I flash him my old driver’s licence. It’s expired, but that doesn’t matter. He nods and hands me a lanyard with a pass that saysPlayer Guest. ‘Nice to meet you, Noah.’
‘You too,’ I reply. Truthfully, I’m not sure if his demeanour is prickly or just French.
It’s late morning on the third day of the Australian Open and the crowds are thick. Victor leads me around the queues to turnstiles on the far side of the gate, where we flash our passes at a staff member.
Like me, Victor’s tall and lanky, so he’s easy to follow through the crowds. He has a port-wine stain that travels down the nape of his neck and disappears under his grey polo shirt, and a rather fascinating habit of talking with his hands.
‘So, you’re the bartender,’ he says as we make our way towards Evonne Goolagong Arena, bypassing the lines of people waiting to get inside. ‘How did you meet Gabriel?’
‘Online,’ I reply, keeping it vague, just like Gabriel wanted.
‘Online,’ Victor echoes in a particular tone. If he thinks I’m lying, he doesn’t say so. Instead, he opens the door to a narrow hallway, and I walk down it apprehensively, unsure of where I’m going.
