Seb looks at Eddy, his face frozen, greedy for whatever bombshell is next. Seb realizes that Eddy is only impatient for the explosion; he doesn’t care what damage it may cause. Seb had thought, with Eddy’s arms around him, when their breath felt like the same breath, that he’d tell Eddy everything. That he’d chosen her from hundreds of profiles, that she’d moved to Waverly, that he’d come back with a takeaway to find her drinking wine with his wife. But now he knows it’s not safe. It’s not safe to tell Eddy any more, so when Seb rolls on to his knee to stand, dusting grit from his legs, Eddy follows his lead and says, ‘What were you going to say, Seb – where did she turn up?’
‘It was just a message, that was all, a text she sent. I’ve blocked her number. I won’t ever see her again, I can promise you that.’
Eddy looks numbly at Seb, disappointed, like he knows he’s being lied to.
‘Look, mate, I’m sorry to lay all this on you. I’ve been stressed, with the new job, tensions at home. I suppose it just got too much.’
Eddy nods. ‘Are you going to find someone else?’
‘No!’ Seb shakes his head, appalled. ‘No. I don’t want anyone else; I’ve only ever wanted Rosie. I want to fix my marriage.’
He should never have told Eddy; it was a mistake, a huge mistake. He’d thought he’d feel better for sharing, that his brotherly camaraderie with Eddy would relieve some guilt, but Eddy’s clumsiness has only made him feel grubbier than ever. Thank God he didn’t tell him everything.
Eddy looks like he’s about to ask another question but thinks better of it and shuts his mouth.
Seb looks towards the tennis club building. They usually play until they’re kicked off by the next booking, but even though no one’s walking towards them, swinging racquets, he says, ‘We’re probably running out of time.’
Eddy nods; he wants this to be over, too.
‘Eddy, I can trust you, can’t I? With what I’ve just shared.’
‘Of course you can, mate, of course.’ But Eddy can’t quite meet Seb’s eye as he says, ‘Listen, Seb, trust me on this one. You’ve got to tell Rosie.’
Now Seb’s shaking his head; he needs Eddy to shut up. Eddy doesn’t understand, doesn’t know the real reason why he can never tell Rosie, but Eddy keeps talking, ignoring Seb. ‘The only thing that convinced Anna to give me another chance was the fact that I came clean, that I told her as soon as I walked through the front door. I told her. Really. It’s a way of showing respect, proving you want to work on your marriage.’
Eddy cups his palm around Seb’s shoulder. ‘You’re my best friend, Seb, always have been. I only want to help. You know you can trust me, don’t you?’
Seb nods without saying anything and Eddy pats him on the back. Seb has to resist the urge to shrug his warm palm off him.
‘You’ll tell her, right?’ Eddy asks and Seb still doesn’t need to say anything, just nods before he starts to pack their balls and racquets away in silence and they walk side by side back towards the pavilion. Usually, at the end of a game, Eddy opens his arms to commiserate or to congratulate Seb, but tonight he looks unsure. Instead, he holds Seb’s upper arm. ‘Well done for telling me, mate, and good luck with Rosie. Call me anytime, yeah?’
Seb slings his tennis bag over his shoulder and starts walking home, the night closing in around him. He has the urge to keep walking, to never stop, to walk until his body – his stupid, needy, traitorous body – dissolves into the human sludge it really is. A car passes him, the driver waving, and even though he doesn’t know who it is, he automatically waves back, because it’ll be a parent or one of his mum’s friends, someone he’s known for years. As he walks, he feels like he’s carrying all the people he loves on his shoulders. They’re all stacked in a precarious pyramid with Seb wobbling and straining at the bottom, trying to keep them all up. But tonight, by telling Eddy, he’s started to tremble under the weight, and Seb knows he’s not strong enough to keep them all from falling.
Chapter 6
Eddy can’t wait to get home from tennis; he wants to feel Anna, his soft, warm, loving Anna, in his arms. Blake’s staying at a friend’s tonight and Albie will be upstairs in bed already. Anna’s sat at the kitchen table, a bottle of wine open before her, and the radio’s on so she doesn’t hear him come in straight away. After his party, she’d stuck a few of the printed photos of his stupid, grinning face in different places around the kitchen: one on the fridge, another one on the corkboard with the takeaway menus and old appointment reminders. It’s disconcerting, accidentally making eye contact with himself constantly. When Anna does turn to him, her eyes are swollen, bloodshot. What is it with tonight?
‘Anna, love, why are you crying?’
He hates it when she cries. It makes him feel so useless.