#sb4

Once the plates had been cleared, people began to move around the room, squeezing in between tables and chairs. The people on your table, mainly your colleagues and their guests began to disperse around the room to greet old friends and network with other attendees. Bidding a quick goodbye, talk to you later to the few remaining people at your table, you stand at head towards the bar in search of a new drink. Your heels now aching under your feet, you’re thankful when you arrive at the bar and have a support to lean on to alleviate some of the pressure from the balls of your feet. The space is cramped, a large group of guys congregating next to you loudly discussing their training sessions this week and how their next game should go. Footballers. There were always footballers at events like these; their team sponsoring the event to show they were “giving back to the community”.

You haven’t even had a chance to order when it happens. In a split second, he’s turning around, two pints of beer in his hands, and bumping into you. Beer flowing out of the glasses and down your dress. Black fabric now covered in liquid, you step back in shock.

“Jesus Christ watch where you’re going,” You yell, grabbing at the cloth that’s immediately being held out in front of you. You begin dabbing at your dress, attempting to soak up some of the moisture, a whole spiel of apologies coming from the figure stood opposite you.

“Shit. Fuck. I am so sorry.” He says, his tone panicked. His hands move about in any attempt to help, but you bat him away. All chances of solving the mess already out of the window, you throw the cloth back on the bar, shaking your head in annoyance. “Is there anything I can do to fix this?” He asks, causing you to look up at him, taking in his perfectly clean suit and tie, eyes looking at you apologetically.

“It’s, ah. It’s fine.” You breathe, “I’m going to go try wash this out in the bathroom.” You say, turning away from the bar and stalking down the corridor, frustration and annoyance flowing through your veins. You hear footsteps following you, dress shoes on wooden tiles. A series of hold on, wait a minutes echoing behind you. Rather than turn back, you push through the door to ladies’ room and lean against the sinks, taking a breath to calm yourself. Dabbing at your dress with a wet cloth, you consider your options. The idea of spending the rest of the night in a beer coated dress seems unpleasant, so you settle for calling it an early night and heading home on the tube, the three glasses of wine you’d consumed making your brain feel a little hazy, far too hazy too drive. Having come straight from work, you had your clothes from earlier in the day in your car parked across the street, so you make a mental note to run across and change back into them before heading for a train home. Pushing back through the door of the bathroom, you almost run into a familiar figure once more.

“Did you sort it?” He asks, stopping you in your tracks on your journey back to your car. You shake your head, noticing his expression sadden.

“No, it’s pretty unsalvageable…” You trail off, “I’m just gonna head back to my car and then go home.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ruined your night. Where’s your car?”

“In the multi-story across the street. Not all of us can afford the valet service.” You joke, trying to crack a smile.

“Excuse me?” He questions, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re a footballer, right? Those guys you were with at the bar, you were all discussing your training and the game next week.” You say, happy to have stumped him a little.

“Oh right, yeah… At least let me walk you back to your car, I can’t have you going in a multi-story car park alone at this time of night,” He pleads, eyes showing a desperation to make this up to you. You smile lightly in agreement, too tired to argue. The two of you walk together side by side, not bothering to make conversation. When you exit the building, the air is a lot colder than it was earlier causing you to shiver slightly and combined with the alcohol in your body, the motion makes you stumble a little; your heels giving way under your feet.

“You sure you’re safe to drive like that?” He asks teasing, an arm reaching out to help steady you and dropping immediately once you’ve regained your balance.

“I’m not. I’m getting the tube.” He looks confused at your response, so you continue not allowing him to ask any more questions. “I have clothes in my car, so I’m going to change and then I’m going to get the tube home.” He just nods, taking in your rambling. You reach your car and grab your clothes out of the boot – jeans and a white t-shirt from a dress down Friday, with an old pair of converse that you always keep in your car. He stands there quietly, only attempting to protest when head into the sketchy bathroom of the parking garage to change. And he’s still there when you return, standing by your car, waiting. Waiting whilst your put the dress out on the backseat, ready to be taken to the dry cleaners in the morning. Waiting whilst you grab your purse and lock up your car. And then he follows you when you head towards the exit in search of the tube, silent all the while.  

“Okay so where’s the tube station?” He asks as you descend into the street.

“It’s just down the road,” You say factually, turning to look at him quickly. “You don’t have to come with me, I can do it alone.”

“Look, it’s the least I could do, given the hell I caused.” He jokes slightly in attempt to get you to warm up to him. Once again, rather than protest or agree, you just smile and nod ever so slightly.

The city is still alive, neon lights hanging from the buildings and traffic flying past in a constant stream. Together, you push your way through the small crowds on the street towards the tube station, no attempts to make conversation of the bustle of the crowds.

“Dele.” He yells over the noise of a bus passing by.

“What?” You question, turning to look at him.

“My name. Dele. That’s my name.”

“Oh,” is all you say, before introducing yourself in return, swivelling on your feet to continue your journey.

“Do you wanna maybe go for a drink?” He proposes, walking slightly faster to catch up with you. You hesitate in your response, mind questioning if this was a sensible decision. He speaks again before you can think any further, “It’s not even that late, and I kinda turned your night to shit, so I kinda owe you.” He smiles. “Just one drink, it’s on me.” Before your mind can even begin to object, you’re nodding slowly in confirmation, following him into a pub off the street.

He buys as promised, a beer for himself and a gin and tonic for you. It’s awkward and silent at first until he asks about your job and why you were attending the gala. A conversation begins to form naturally, him sharing what he knows of your industry, and you discussing your brief knowledge of football. He tells you about his childhood and how he got into playing, how much of a dream it is to play for Spurs.

“You’re a spurs player?” You ask, and he nods and grins like a child in response. “My dad would have loved you…”

“He’s a fan?” He says proudly.

“He was, yeah.” His eyes deepen slightly at your use of the past tense, but you continue anyway. “My mum was born in Manchester, so she’s United for life. I was kinda raised on a dual allegiance though. But I haven’t really followed the football in a while…”

“Was?” He asks, ignoring the latter half of your sentence. His word stops your heart for a minute, the panic of this conversation getting way too serious way too quickly.

“He, um, he passed away a few years ago…” You trail off, “it’s why I don’t really follow football anymore. It was always something we did together, yknow.”

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about this anymore, if you don’t want.” He mutters, apologetically and you smile at him weakly in response. The people at the pool table next to you finish their game so you eye up the free table. Desperate to get your mind on to something other than its current thought track, you suggest playing a game, causing him to give you a competitive smirk.

The game goes by quickly, him breaking and instantly potting a ball, gaining himself a healthy lead. You catch up easily and it comes down to both of you having a single ball left on the table. You line up your shot, taking a breath to steady your hand. Years of practice in your local pub back home paying off when you hit the white at the perfect angle and power to pot your ball and position it perfectly for your final shot. Aligning your queue ready to hit the black, you smirk at him in victory and he looks at you in disbelief. The ball rolls easily into the hole, white sitting just on the edge of the pocket, and you grin at him in triumph.

“I can’t believe you made a comeback like that.” He says in shock, half joking, half amazed.

“I worked in a really small country pub for a few years and we hardly had any customers, so I got to spent most my time playing pool,” You reply, matter-of-factly. “And I’m like really competitive, so I usually win,”

“Being competitive doesn’t mean you just instantly win. It means that you just brag when you do or get annoyed when you don’t.” He states.

“No, I’m serious. I win at like everything, I just do.”

“Care to prove it?” His lips smirk at you as he asks, pointing towards the all-night arcade across the street. Electricity runs through the air between you as you stand on opposite sides of the table. It’s on, is all you say in response, finishing your drink quickly and following him across the street.

You beat him at air hockey and a shoot ‘em up game, but he wins on the basketball machine and table football, a ‘it’s what I do for a living, babe, I was bound to win’ thrown in when he does so. Upon noticing the “mini golf this way sign” you grab his hand in excitement, dragging him in the direction of the arrows, insisting that you were about to thrash him. You wind your way through the arcade machines, grinning like a child. You face only falling when you notice the lack of lighting in the room and a no entry barrier across the door way.

“I can’t believe it’s closed” You say in annoyance. His thumb rubs your hand in comfort and you suddenly become aware that your fingers were still laced together.

“Well maybe I’ll just have to take you another time?” He poses, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yeah maybe, but who says there will be another time?” You mirror his actions.

“Promise there will be.” Is all he responds before he pulls you closer and dips his head slowly. He breath ghosts your lips before they connect slightly. Your brain instantly sober as you push away, uttering a no, I can’t do this. His hand drops yours, leaving your palm cold and empty.

“What? You got a boyfriend or something?” He says, no bitterness in his voice, only a hint of surprise.

“No boyfriend.” You reply, causing him to look at you confusingly. “I’m sort of seeing someone. It’s still new and there’s no real labels on it yet. But I don’t do the two people at once thing and I don’t wanna be that girl.” You spiel out quickly, hardly pausing to take a breath.

“Oh,” He responds, his eyes disappointed and low.

“But we can be friends, though? I mean you did just promise to take me mini golfing, and you’re one for one on keeping your promises, so you wouldn’t wanna ruin that now, would you?” You say lightly, attempting to regain the happy atmosphere you had established earlier.

He takes your number, insisting that he is a man of his word, also calling you a taxi to take you home, rather than allowing you to take the tube alone. You walk out into the street together, his suit jacket now slung around your shoulders to protect you from the cold night air. He opens the door to the taxi, bidding you a final farewell with a “see you at mini golf.”

  Instead, he invites you to the cinema the next Wednesday and brunch the following Sunday. You never even make it to mini golf, a date with your boyfriend getting in the way of the plans you had originally made. He takes the cancellation lightly, saying he’s proud of you for “locking down a man with such a good jaw” but you know it’s a joke, based on something he’d previously overheard your friend saying on the phone. Despite the failed plans and your new relationship, your friendship manages to grow, brunch on Sunday mornings becoming a tradition, Wednesday night movies after work at his house an integral part of your weekly schedule. He reignites your love for football, getting you tickets to his games and even offering to provide one for Tom, which he declines due to his loyalty to Arsenal. You give him advice on his love life, offering to set him up on dates with girls from your work, and you’re happy for him when he says he’s met someone. And you’re happy for him when he calls you at 9:59 on a Sunday morning, cancelling your 10am brunch date because he’s tied up. And even though you eat alone, you’re happy for him.

  They’re six weeks in when you finally meet her, in the stands at one of his games, Spurs shirt on your back, Gucci on hers. It’s Eric’s girlfriend who introduces you, the two of them having already met on a double date. It’s awkward and tense and you feel oddly second class. Her lips spend most their time pursed together, hands holding her phone and fingers scrolling through Instagram, your hands in the air, yelling about an incorrectly called foul. He scores a second goal in the 82nd minute, securing spurs the 4-0 win, yourself and Eric’s girlfriend jumping of your seats in celebration. Afterwards, he greets you in the tunnel, running into your arms and spinning your round like a little child, a rambling a chorus of “did you my goals? How insane was that second one though?”

“Yeah, I’m really glad I taught you how to cartwheel,” You reply, referencing his celebration. You congratulate him like always, and it feels normal until her eyes fall on yours from down the corridor, a sour look on her face. Muttering a quiet “You should go say hello to your girlfriend”, you move onto Eric, who’s wrapped up in his girlfriend’s arms.

  The months go by and your relationships and friendships all grow. Double dates on weekends, attending fancy dinner parties together. Everything going wonderfully. And it’s not until one and a half years into your relationship that you’re coming home early for a week-long business trip and heading straight to your boyfriend’s house in search of comfort. Except what you find isn’t comfort, it’s an unfamiliar car parked in his drive way and your spare key opening his door to a pair of women’s heels in the hallway. It’s two plates abandoned on the table and a “shit that might be my girlfriend” from upstairs.

You stumble out of the door, fingers fumbling for your phone to find the only contact you want right now, dialling immediately. When he picks up you barely let out a breath, words coming out as stream of “TherewassomeoneelsethereIthinkhe’scheatingthereweretwoplatesandapairofheelsand-” before he stops you, asking you to slow down and explain what was going on. He tells you to get your car off the drive and go to the car park down the road, that he’ll meet you there as soon as he can. Behind the wheel your hands shake, tears already falling down your face, but you try you best to compose yourself, slowing lifting your foot off the clutch and reversing out into the street. Pulling into the car park you turn on the radio loudly in an attempt to drown out your thoughts and its not long before a black car is pulling up and he’s bundling out of it. He opens the driver’s side door and pulls you from your seat, immediately folding you into his arms, a series of hushes whispered into your ear.

He drives you back to his place, tears in your eyes making all the street lights a blur. When you get inside, he leads you into the kitchen before running upstairs to get you a pair of sweats to change into. The way he moves around you signifies how much you’ve learned about each other in the many months of your friendship. Giving you your favourite style of sweats and a pair of long socks to keep your feet warm, making a cup of tea just the way you like it, turning on the classical music your mother raised you on to help calm you down. And he knows that you don’t want to talk about it just yet, so he tells you about training and Eric, about the new coaches at the club, anything to get your mind to run onto a different thought track. His heart aches at the sight of your red eyes and teared stained cheeks.

It’s working – his attempt at distracting you - one of his stories almost causing you to crack a smile. But then you spy the dinner table over his shoulder, two plates full of food now gone cold, two glasses of wine, one untouched, one half empty. The scene confuses you. Why would he have two plates of food set out if he wasn’t doing anything? Surely, he hadn’t been doing anything if he was able to come pick you up? Unless –

“Was she here?” You ask before your brain can even tell you to stop. “Is she still here? Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your evening.” You ramble, rushing out of your seat at the breakfast bar, scurrying to grab your things in preparation to leave.

“No, it’s okay. I told her I had to cancel.” He pauses as you look at him inquisitively. “She was here, yes. But you called and I told her we’d have to take a rain check. So she left.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” You say in disbelief. In return he protests that he did have to do that. That you’re his best friend, and the he cares about you. That he wasn’t going to leave you crying in a car park. That he loves you.

And the last thing he says sends your heart into overdrive. You know he doesn’t mean it like that. But hearing him say it causes you to think of a life where things had been different. A life where you had kissed him that first night you met. A life that you stopped from happening because of Tom. Tom the boyfriend you thought you loved, Tom the boyfriend you heard in bed with someone else, Tom the boyfriend who had shattered your heart.

But even after you rejected him, Dele is still here in front of you, your best friend. Taking care of you and picking up your broken pieces to help you put yourself back together. Making cream crackers with butter just in case you manage to eat, putting on your favourite tv show, knowing you.

He carries you up to bed after you fall asleep on the couch, careful not to wake you as he places you in the spare bed, a kiss on your forehead as he bids you goodnight.

When you wake in the morning, he’s left a note on the kitchen counter.

I’ve called your work to say you’re too sick to go in. There’s food in the fridge if you manage to eat anything. You’re welcome to stay here all day – movie marathon later? I hope you’re okay, love. Dele x

His hand writing a scribbled mess, you smile at the note. You make breakfast from the items in his fridge, moving around his house easily and comfortably. The day passes by effortlessly, watching tv in his living room and reading in the sun room, taking up any task possible to distract you from the thought of your inevitable break up. The idea of staying here all day comforts you, knowing that his presence later will put you at ease. And you’re passing through the hallway aimlessly when you see it and it stops you for a minute. Her photo on the sideboard. A reminder that he has a girlfriend, and as much as you wanted to spend all your time clinging to him for comfort, his time was not yours to take. So you force yourself to grab your belongings and drive home, leaving him a simple reply to his note, your phone still off in your bag, untouched from last night.

Going home, gonna go talk to him and say my piece while I know what I want to say. Thanks for everything Dele, will call you this weekend x

  “So did Ruby tell you we ran into each other in the mall this week?”

“Oh yeah, um, she kinda mentioned she’d seen you,” he says from across the table, your regular brunch orders in front of you in your regular restaurant. Avoiding your eye contact, he concentrates on cutting up his avocado on toast.

“What are you not telling me?” you ask, knowing his tells.

“Nothing. Nothing. She said she saw you and that you still looked like crap from your break up.” His eyes meet yours to see you in shock. “Sorry.” Pause. “And then you know we got on to talking about it…”

“And?” you pry further.

“And then, I don’t know. We sort of got in an argument about it. I didn’t want to tell you because I don’t want to make you feel bad.” He confesses, shifting his eyes again to avoid looking at you.

“Why would you be arguing about me?” You ask, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

“She thinks we’re spending too much time together. Maybe she’s jealous, I don’t know. But I explained to her that I’m just helping you out, because you know, you were cheated on and you’re going through a break up. You need people, and I’m your person.” He stops for a second. “I told her she has nothing to worry about. It’s not like you’re in love with me or anything…” He trails off without a light chuckle.

“Yeah. Right. Exactly. But if she has a problem with it, we don’t have to spend as much time together,” your tone is low and sadden. “I like spending time with you and I’m really thankful for all you’ve done lately, but I don’t want to get in the way of your relationship. I don’t want to do anything that could make you sad.”

  And so you don’t see him for a few weeks, ignoring his calls and replying to his texts in short, blunt sentences. Forcing yourself to spend all your time with your friends, cocktails after work and shopping trips on Sundays. You even miss Sunday brunch three weeks in a row, throwing out a casual excuse in apology, causing your heart to ache at the thought of purposefully pushing him away. From what you see on Instagram, it appears that his relationship is doing better than ever, and you’re happy for him. The distances seems to be good for the both of you, your heart now slowly feeling from your break up, work going better than ever.  That is until he turns up on your door step at 3am one night, eyes red from crying. You let him in without questioning it, knowing something seriously up for him to come here like this, unannounced. He walks himself into the kitchen, head hanging low.

“We got in another fight. About you. Which is so fucking dumb because you’ve been ignoring me for weeks.” He rants, quickly. You try to interject but he continues. “And I come home in a bad mood and she’s also in a pissy mood and she goes ‘well why don’t you go talk to your wife about it’” He mimics in a high-pitched voice.

“Your wife?” You question, asking him to confirm what you were assuming.

“You. She means you.” He pauses to look at you, stopping his head from whirling round the kitchen as he paces. “And I so I said that I haven’t even seen you in ages, she asks why I’m so upset about it so then yet again, we end up having the same stupid fight that we always end up having.”

You take in his words slowly. Brain wracked with thoughts of why was he here? How did the fighting lead him to your door step? If you were in his position, the first place you’d drive after having an argument over a third party would not be directly to that third party’s house.

“Why are you- Why are you here?” You mumble, forcing yourself to get the words out. Forcing yourself to confront what was happening. Forcing yourself to stop everything that could happen.

“I just.” He pauses to breathe, steadying himself. “I just need to know so I can go home and be with her and not having all these thoughts that she keeps putting in my mind.”

“Need to know what?”

“I just need you to look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not in love with me.” Eyes pleading, he makes no attempt to move closer to you. His words form a canyon between the two of you across the kitchen.

“I’m not.” You reply, quietly, hand brushing your hair away from your face so your eyes can look into his fully. “I’m not in love with you.” You lie.