Page 33 of Power Moves
I smirk back. ‘That’s probably why he hasn’t asked you out.’
Archie chuckles. ‘So why’s he texting?’
I shrug. ‘No reason, probably. He just texts a lot. He’s a texter.’
‘Does he want to get back together?’
‘Ha. No. He’s just a friendly guy. He’s always trying to catch up. He might even have a thing for Jessie, actually … He was randomly asking about her.’
‘Ohhh.’ Archie grins so broadly a laugh slips through. It’s what always happens when he knows a secret I don’t. ‘Hedefinitelywants to get back together. Showing interest in someone’s family is the first move in the green-flag playbook. Did he ask about work too? That’s move two.’
My blush is instant. Fortunately, my beeping phone interrupts us and this time itisthe pizza. I race for the back door, my mind swimming.
Bryan can’t want to get back together, can he? I’m way too chaotic for him. I know I try to give off the aura of a cool, calm and collected individual, but deep down I’m a hot mess. For Bryan, spreadsheeting is a way of life. For me, it’s a coping mechanism. Yes, on the surface, we seemed like a perfect match, but it was all a facade. I use organised busyness as a cover for high-functioning anxiety. Bryan knows that, right?
I open the back door to find a teenage delivery guy standing on the doorstep with a steaming cardboard box. He’s clad in a leather jacket and this unbalances me even further. Could he be a BAD BRO too? Is anyone who they say they are these days? Does anyone ever say what they actually mean?!
I take the pizza and offer the teenager a warm, law-abiding smile, just in case he has outlaw connections.
Within a moment, I’m chastising myself again. I cannot be judging people by their gangster-esque clothing choices! I cannot be referring to Bryan as ‘The Joke Misser’ in my head. I need to be better! I must purge myself of such ungenerous thoughts.
‘Want some pizza?’ I ask Archie, stalking back into the room and taking my first step towards redemption.
‘You know me too well,’ replies Archie.
‘In some ways,’ I admit, setting the box on the coffee table between us. Though to be fair, anyone in viewing distance of Archie would assume this guy needs a constant supply of calories.
Archie waits for me to pull out a slice, then tugs out his own. ‘This feels like old times,’ he says. ‘Like we’re in the common room at uni.’
I try to roll my eyes but chewing makes it kind of difficult, which is probably good because eye-rolling strikes me as an ungenerous facial cue and Iamtrying to be better. However, I’m still puzzled by his version of history. ‘Why do you’—I swallow—‘always pretend like we’re friends from way back? In a whole year of living together, you said about two words to me. You were friends with, like … Chappo and them.’
Archie swallows a mouthful of pizza.
‘And Chappo is a dick,’ I add, in case that wasn’t clear from my tone.
Archie takes another bite and his throat flexes as he swallows. ‘Chappo says dumb things, but so does everyone.’
‘He once told me I was too tall for a girl.’
‘I’ve known him since we played under-twelves together. He’s not all bad.’
My eyebrow arches. ‘And that assessment is based on what? Have you ever actually had a proper conversation with Chappo? Or was it all surface-level chat, thinking you’re mad legends talking about all your “Ws” and “good D”, when you could have been saying “wins” and “good defence” like normal people?’
Archie reaches for a paper napkin. ‘Maybe talking about sport is how guys talk about other things. And I know Chappo can be an idiot, but he was like a brother to me growing up. Why would I throw that friendship away?’
I pluck an olive off my pizza and pop it into my mouth. Talking to Archie sometimes makes me feel like I’m trying tofinish a jigsaw but I’ve lost some critical pieces. I can understand that football-club loyalties can be weirdly formative, but that doesn’t change the fact that Sebastian ‘Chappo’ Chapman the Third used to slap the arses of random girls and call it ‘playing whack-a-mole’. If a politician nowadays did anything half as bad, Archie would turn it into a three-part special.
I clear my throat. ‘Saying you “got the W” is actually two syllables longer than saying you “got the win”. I just want that on record in case you’ve never realised. It’s a dumb expression.’
‘But saying “good D” is acceptable?’ asks Archie.
I lift my chin. ‘It lacks clarity. It could refer to good dodge, good drive, good duck-and-cover, good dagwood dog. Imagine if I was a tennis coach and I ran around saying “good F, good F!” for every forehand. That could really be misinterpreted given what the F word normally refers to.’
Archie smiles. ‘Not everyone’s mind is in the gutter.’
I flush. ‘I’m just saying—if guys like you talkedproperlyto guys like Chappo, the world might be a better place.’
Archie cocks his head, a strange expression crossing his face. I quickly take another bite of pizza. I hope he doesn’t realise there was an indirect compliment buried in there.
