Page 120 of The Revenge Game
We lie there, my head on his chest, and we talk about random things like whether British people actually enjoy Marmite or if it’s an elaborate prank on the rest of the world, about the weirdest sales pitch he’s ever given—involving a demonstration with sock puppets— and about the weirdest IT ticket I’ve had to deal with, which involved Kieran insisting his monitor was reading his mind and displaying his inner thoughts. Turns out he’d been talking to himself while working and his new speech-to-text software was transcribing everything in the background.
Then, our conversation turns more personal.
I can’t give Justin the truth, but I can give him the parts of me I’ve never shown anyone else.
I tell him about how, as a kid, I was obsessed with building intricate dioramas of famous places, like a miniature version of Paris made out of cereal boxes. How I was inexplicably afraid of escalators and would cry if I had to go on one. How I still feel guilty about breaking my sister’s transmitter radio when I was seven and lying about it to my dad.
In return, he tells me about the tiny apartment where he and his mom lived before Bobby Ray, how they used to make up elaborate stories about how the water stains on the ceiling happened, about how he found an abandoned dog when he was in college but had to rehome him because his apartment didn’t allow pets, and how he still gets updates from the family who adopted him.
Justin finally falls asleep as sunlight paints the walls in watercolor shades of dawn. The colors make everything dreamlike except for Justin.
He’s solid and real in the bed beside me.
I slip out of bed and go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.
I wrap my hands around the mug’s warmth as I stare out the window at the new day. It’s like London is offering a fresh start I don’t deserve.
Justin now knows me better than anyone else ever has.
Yet he still doesn’t know my real name.
I have to leave. I have to leave before I fall any deeper into this thing with Justin, before I forget how to exist in a world where he doesn’t look at me like I’m something precious.
But as I turn away from the window, my gaze catches on the Christmas tree Justin and I put up together the other night.
We’d had a hilarious debate over the correct ratio of tinsel to ornaments, with Justin claiming there’s no such thing as too much sparkle while I tried to insist on some sense of decorative dignity. Eventually, our argument descended into wrestling, which led to us making out on the rug under the Christmas tree and discovering that fallen pine needles aren’t conducive to romance.
I’ll leave after Christmas. I don’t want to ruin Christmas for him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Justin
I wake up on Christmas Day with more enthusiasm than I’ve felt on Christmas morning since I was a child. It might be because of who I’ve got pressed against me.
Drew’s breath tickles my neck in a steady rhythm, and his fingers are curled loosely against my chest.
My fingers itch to trace the curve of his jaw, but I don’t want to wake him yet.
The conversation from the night of the Christmas party echoes in my mind—Drew’s confession about how being bullied in high school left deep scars and made him doubt anyone could genuinely want him.
I’ve been mulling over his confession for the past few days, even though it brushes against some memories of my own I’d rather not think about. Memories of my own actions that I’m so ashamed of in retrospect. But I can’t do anything about the past now. All I can do is concentrate on Drew.
I hate the fact that someone made this amazing man feel so worthless. And I want nothing more than to prove to him how wonderful I think he is.
Cassie appears at the foot of the bed, fixing me with her most judgmental stare.
“I know, I know. Breakfast is traditionally served at dawn,” I whisper to her. “But do you think you could handle a slight delay? It’s Christmas, after all.”
Drew stirs against me. “Are you trying to negotiate with a cat again?” he says sleepily.
““Hey, I’ll have you know my negotiation skills are legendary. I once convinced her to delay dinner by three minutes.”
“She just let you think you won that negotiation.” His voice is still rough with sleep. “Classic feline manipulation tactics.”
I brush my lips against his temple. “Merry Christmas.”
He lifts his head to smile at me, his hair sticking up in ways that defy physics.
