Page 126 of Power Play
Another voice note.
This one’s only eleven seconds.
Which, by Murphy standards, is basically a haiku.
I stare at it, toying with the idea of pressing play.
I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I text my sister something innocuous about our mum’s birthday next week, scroll through Instagram until I’m numb, and let Joey Tribbiani’s energy soothe me.
But eventually, because I am tragically human, I press play.
His voice is quiet. Rough. Like maybe he recorded it while lying down. Or maybe he’s just as wrecked as I am.
“I saw your text. You’re right. You don’t owe me anything. But I’m not giving up. I just wanted you to know that.”
That’s it.
No grand speeches. No “I love you.” No begging.
Just that.
I throw my phone across the sofa as if it’s contagious.
Because now I miss him.
Because now it hurts again.
Because now, all the anger’s still there, burning hot and sharp, but tangled in it is something softer I’m not ready to name.
I don’t know what to do with that.
So I don’t do anything.
I finish my wine. I cry for exactly seven minutes at the end of the episode. I fall asleep on the sofa with my heart still cracked right down the centre.
But I don’t reply.
Because I’m not ready.
Not yet.
And maybe not ever.
CHAPTER SIXTY
MURPHY
It’s barely 9am and I’m already dying.
“Again!” Coach yells from the sideline, voice like a drill sergeant possessed.
I double over, hands on my knees, sweat dripping off my nose. My lungs are on fire and my thighs feel as though they’ve been personally cursed by a vengeful god.
“Did someone piss in his coffee this morning?” I mutter.
