Junction X by Erastes (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

change between Phil and me seemed even more marked when we met at the club. The man who met me in the lounge had every attribute that Phil had ever owned: the charm, the smile, the banter. But he was different in a very subtle way. It took me a while to realise what it was, and when I did, I nearly laughed aloud. The change wasn’t in him, it was in me.

I wasn’t waiting for him to initiate an episode. I wasn’t even hoping he would—or even that he wouldn’t. I’d stopped considering him in that way completely. It felt strange. Liberating but a little scary, a door opened, a crutch removed.

I didn’t get time to mull over it much then, for we went straight out onto the links. The rain had lessened and was drizzling enough to make conditions cold and slippery; this meant I had to work hard to raise my game on the greens. I played decently enough and beat Phil in both rounds, to his obvious annoyance, seeing as how he had been a member a lot longer. I found that I liked the Sands’ course; it was challenging in ways that Woodlands had never been, with many more slopes and tricky doglegs and several water traps for the unwary. But despite narrowly defeating Phil, I knew I’d have to practice a lot more before the next tournament. The club expected me to take a notch off my handicap by then.

As I worked my way around with Phil that afternoon, I realised that I’d need to spend more than a few days a month working at it. Time. Something I needed, and something I didn’t have. Life was already pulling me taut.

“Well done,” Phil said when we got back to the changing room. He leant across with a five-pound note, which I waved away. “Come on, take it. We’ve always been square about this.”

“You can pay for champagne next time.” I wasn’t looking up at him, and I felt stupid for feeling as though I’d done something wrong.

“All right.”

“You’ll be sorry you didn’t force me to take it, when I’m washing down the second bottle.”

“I won’t be sorry.”

I looked up at him then.

“I won’t be sorry.” His eyes were warm and I knew he was a breath away—if I wanted him.

Instead, I chose to be obtuse. He could be; why shouldn’t I? I felt powerful for once. The memory of his mouth at our last meeting was close and wet in my mind; were it not for that, I might have reached across that small space. But I hadn’t forgiven him for his stupidity. So I changed the subject and tried to ask him how he was doing, but he didn’t want to talk about that, or about Claire—and Fred. I wondered if we’d ever get back to how we were before France, and, for the first time, I doubted it. Perhaps he had been simply biding his time from the moment we’d met. Maybe I was the only one who’d thought we were friends when one of us didn’t have his cock out.

In the clubhouse I was unmerciful, ribbing him about his failure in front of the other members. Some glamour took my tongue; everything I said was witty but barbed, each little pettiness aimed to sting. I took some dark pleasure in doing so, too, and I wondered at myself, later on; when did I turn into him? When did I learn to cover spite with wit? More than once, I saw him looking at me, perhaps with new eyes, perhaps the way I’d looked at him.

I had to leave before lunch and, after booking for the next week, we walked out into the secluded car park together in silence. The rain had finally stopped, and it dripped through the leaves of the horse chestnuts.

He was unusually quiet. When we got to my car, I said, “Well, see you tomorrow, then,” and he took me by the arm.

“You haven’t told me how it’s going.”

I stopped, but didn’t turn around. He was too close and if I turned around, I’d have had to deal with my reactions. I still cared for him, and didn’t want to be the one to say ‘No.’

“I’m not a man who kisses and tells, Phil. You know.”

There was a deep chuckle. He let go of my arm and I slid around, my back firmly against the Bentley. “I’ve always been glad of that.” His voice was nothing more than a murmur in case we were overheard.

“Yes. Well.” The wind had picked up, with a promise of frost behind it. Shuddering, I turned sharply and opened the car door.

“You sure you can’t stay for lunch?”

“Can’t.” That thrill of power went through me again; he was anxious to keep me with him.

“Family? Or…”

“Guy Fawkes.” I was so concerned with getting away that I wasn’t guarding what I said.

There was a horrible pause.

 After what seemed like ten years, I heard myself say, “We couldn’t have it on Monday—and you…well, we felt that we couldn’t invite you both.”

“No. I see that. So…you’ve invited her?”

“No. Valerie thought it would be…”

“I see.”

I gave in; I couldn’t bear the look on his face and the awkward silence. “Well? Do you fancy coming? It won’t be anything much.”

“All right. I’ll bring some wine.” The sun went behind a cloud. “Valerie’s instincts are so often right.”

I opened the car door, got in and slammed the door. That was a discussion I didn’t want with anyone. Damn him. Anger swelled over me and I wished I could yell at him for making me feel like a bastard. I didn’t need his help for that.

He knocked on the window and, with a sigh, I wound it down. Without a word, he ducked through the gap and kissed me. I pulled away, turned the engine on, drove away. Didn’t look back.

+ + +

I didn’t go home straight away. I had fireworks to buy and I found I’d left it too late