Page 100 of The Revenge Game
“Wow, you weren’t kidding about Christmas throwing up everywhere,” I say as we enter Covent Garden.
The converted market building glows like something from a fantasy novel. Thousands of white lights transform the Victorian ironwork into delicate lacework and a massive Christmas tree towers over the plaza. Even the street performers seem to have gotten into the spirit, with a living statue painted entirely in gold wearing a Santa hat and a juggler tossing batons wrapped in sparkly tinsel.
“Wait until you see the giant reindeer,” Justin says. “It’s basically a twenty-foot-tall mirror ball with antlers.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“Oh, it absolutely is. Small children cry when they see it.”
We find sanctuary in a tiny Italian restaurant tucked away from the Christmas crowds. The candles on each table flicker in a conspiratorial way.
“So, how long have you known Leo for?” Justin asks after we’ve ordered.
I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat. “I met him when I was in college.”
Justin frowns. “I didn’t realize he’s our age.”
“He was a mature student,” I lie.
Lies. More lies. How have I turned into this compulsive liar?
The guilt bubbles up suddenly, unexpectedly, like a pot boiling over. “I had a hard time in high school.” I blurt the words out so abruptly that Justin freezes as he’s reaching for the bread basket.
He blinks at me, returning his hand to his lap.
“That’s why he’s so protective of me,” I continue, my words coming out fast and free now. “Leo knows I’ve got some…unresolved issues from that time.”
Unresolved issues. What a delightfully sanitized way of saying,“I’m currently dating the guy who made my teenageyears feel like a personally curated hell. And oh, by the way, I originally planned to get revenge on you but accidentally fell into bed with you instead.”
Justin’s expression shifts to something softer. “Did someone hurt you?”
My throat tightens. I stare at the candle flame, gathering my courage before answering. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. I was bullied pretty badly in high school.”
“How badly?”
“The kind that makes your life hell for four years straight.” I lift my gaze, watching Justin’s face carefully as I say the words. “Being gay, being geeky, being bad at sports—I hit the teenage torment trifecta.”
Justin’s expression clouds with sympathy, but there’s no recognition in those ocean-colored eyes. No hint that he remembers being part of that hell.
“God, Drew, I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.” The genuine pain in his voice makes something twist inside me. Here he is, radiating concern for wounds he helped create while I’m drowning in the irony of it all.
“It was.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “The worst part wasn’t even the physical stuff—the shoulder checks in the hallway, the books being knocked out of my hands. It was the constant fear, never knowing when they’d decide you were the day’s entertainment. The way they’d laugh…”
I break off as our food arrives.
The dishes look amazing. There’s handmade ravioli stuffed with wild mushrooms and linguine tangled with seafood and cherry tomatoes.
When our server leaves, Justin ignores the food to reach across the table and take my hand. His thumb strokes my knuckles.
“I’m really sorry you had to go through that,” he says.
His eyes meet mine, and there’s nothing but sincerity and understanding that feels like a knife twisting in my gut.
He still doesn’t see me.
He’s literally holding my hand, staring at me, Andrew Yates, who’s telling him about how I was bullied in high school, and he still doesn’t recognize me.
How can the person who seems to see me the most in the world still not realize the history we share?
