Page 31 of The Fly-Half

“A lot? Yeah, I know.”

“I’m guessing this is all pretty new?” West asked. “Both the jealousy and the potential queerness?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” I let out a hoarse chuckle and groaned. “Like I said, I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever.The strong emotions you all talk about feeling for your partners, even your exes? I’ve never had that. I thought maybe one day it might happen, but it never really bothered me, you know? And now, it feels like I’ve had a fuck ton of feelings dumped on top of me without warning, and I have no fucking idea how to deal with them.”

“You’re not going to like the answer,” Ryan said with another smile that radiated patience. But not pity. More like an understanding and a sad acknowledgement that they were about to suggest more pain. “You have to talk to him.”

“Can’t I just pretend this isn’t happening and wait for it to go away?” It was another bad attempt at a joke that fell flatter than a pancake. Deep down, I already knew the answer. It didn’t mean I had to like it, though.

“Not if you’re thinking about putting holes in our wall,” Mason said. “I’m not paying more money for this place than I have to, and we don’t know any builders to fix it for cheap. You can grow up and talk to him.”

“Doesn’t have to be tonight,” West said quickly. “In fact, I think it might be better if you give yourself a night to calm down and process. Think about what you’re going to say. Being impulsive sounds good but it doesn’t always end well, and if you’re both tired and frustrated…”

“We want this to end well,” Mason said with a nod. “Have some food, do some stretching, watch a film with us, play some games, just get out of your head for a bit.”

“And if you want to talk, we can do that,” Ryan said. “You said it yourself—this is a lot but you don’t have to go through it alone.”

“Thanks.” I shot him a brief smile and nodded. They’d made a lot of good points, and I had to agree that going now probably wouldn’t end well. There was a buzzing under my skin and I felt like I was two seconds away from being shocked, my pulse racinglike I was in some sort of horror movie. How was I supposed to talk to Devon when all I could feel was fear? If he said no…

“Come and help me make dinner,” Ryan said, their words cutting through my spiralling emotions. “West, are you staying?”

“Are you sure? Aren’t you at The Court tonight?”

“Not tonight, it’s my week off. Then next week we’ve got a variety show.”

“Oh yeah, Rory’s been prepping for weeks.”

“That’s settled then. You’ll stay,” Ryan said. “Come on, Jonny, you can help me peel this bloody mountain of potatoes.”

“Okay,” I said, standing up before I’d really processed what he’d asked.

Maybe the distraction would help. But I was already counting down the hours until I could leave to find Devon.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Devon

I hadn’t heardfrom Jonny since I’d left after the match the previous afternoon, and my emotions kept spinning wildly between worry, fear, and boiling rage. I didn’t want to lose Jonny and the feeling that might happen kept gnawing away in my gut, only to be replaced with a burning anger at his behaviour.

Maybe I should have confronted him instead of allowing things to fester between us, but every time I’d tried he’d lashed out. I still wasn’t convinced by Peaches and West’s theory of him being jealous even if it was the best explanation I had. And that was more of a self-protection thing than anything else.

I didn’t want him to be jealous but at the same time I did. I didn’t want to lose him, but I also wanted him to realise what I meant to him or what we meant to each other. I wanted him to figure his shit out and talk to me about it, knowing full well I needed to do the same. I didn’t want him to keep secrets from me, despite the fact I’d been keeping my feelings under wraps for years.

I was a walking mess of contradictions and nothing was making me feel any better. I didn’t know where to start unpicking everything and every time I tried I came away feeling drained and grouchy.

Which was why I’d decided to make myself an enormous stack of chocolate chip banana pancakes for breakfast, because while it might not solve all my problems, it sure as shit would make me feel better. Especially if I also covered them in Nutella and raspberries.

I took my stack of pancakes into my living room and sat on the sofa under a mountain of blankets to watch old episodes ofDix pour cent, which had been one of the shows I’d watched endlessly to improve my French. I was pretty much able to quote the entire thing from memory, and it was a comfort watch I turned on when I wanted something to help me tune out the rest of the world.

I was three-quarters of the way through my pancakes when the doorbell rang and I groaned as I heaved myself to my feet and shuffled towards the door, still in the ratty joggers and old Marseille hoodie I’d thrown on when I’d gotten up. The hoodie now had a pancake batter stain down the front of it, but I was beyond giving a shit. My muscles ached from the match and I knew I’d have to drag myself through my recovery exercises or I’d feel even worse in the morning. But that could wait until I’d finished my breakfast and at least another two episodes.

And until I’d found out who was at my door at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning.

There was another knock, more urgent this time, and I grabbed my keys and grumbled to myself as I unthreaded the chain and unlocked the door, pulling it open with a muttered, “What the hell?” only to trail off halfway through when I realised who was standing on the doorstep. “Jonny?”

He looked like absolute shit, with dark circles under his eyes and skin so pale and drawn I thought he was ill. “Hey,” he said, croaking voice not doing anything to convince me he hadn’t come down with a cold overnight. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” I said, stepping back to let him in. “Are you okay? You look awful.”

---