Page 3 of Anteros' Return
My chest rose and fell with the force of words that had been trapped inside me for far too long. As I ran a hand through my hair, I hesitated, torn between the urge to finally speak and the fear of what those words might unleash. With a reluctant sigh, I turned away, caught in the turmoil of my own emotions.
Harry held up his hand, surrendering. “Alright, subject dropped.” Harry kissed my temple, hugging me tightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Uncle H, let’s go. I can’t be late!” Liam shouted from the front door, stomping his boots on the welcome mat. I knew this, not because I could see him, but because he did this every time we left the house. That, and the sound of rubber smacking against the hardwood floors reminded me of how far we had come.
2
As I walked through the streets I’d walked many times before, memories flooded back, ones that were bittersweet.
Wherever I looked, I sawher.
I saw the restaurant where we had our first date in high school—its weathered red awning still flapping in the breeze, the same ivy creeping up the brick façade, clinging stubbornly to the past like I was. The soft glow from inside spilled onto the pavement, just like it used to when we’d huddle close by the window, laughing over cheap pasta and pretending we were grown-ups.
Just around the corner was the park where I told her I loved her for the first time. The same rusting iron benches lined the path, and the old oak tree we used to sit under stood tall, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. I could almost hear the crunch of gravel under our feet, the way she used to tug me toward the swings just to prove she hadn’t outgrown them.
We’d walk those cobbled streets every morning, hand in hand, weaving through the quiet stir of early life—bakers hauling crates inside, windows being unlatched, and that comfortingclatter of the town waking up. Even the newsagent, tucked between the florist and the barber’s, was still there. The faded sign hung a little lower now, but inside, the jars of pick and mix lined the counter just like they used to. We’d stop there every day after school, trading coins for sweets and pretending we weren’t already falling in love.
Until this day, I never understood what I did, never truly understood why she cut herself off from me. It had been almost nine years, and I still loved her just as much as the first day I laid eyes on her.
“Beck! Get your ass over here, man!” Mike called out across the street to me. He stood beside Ollie and some other guys from high school and the football academy.
Shit, it’s been a while.
I made my way over to them, the crutches awkward beneath my arms as I tried to navigate the cracked pavement. Every dip in the road jolted up through my wrists, and the tips of the crutches kept catching on loose stones and uneven slabs. I gritted my teeth, focusing on each step, trying to ignore the slow burn creeping up my arms and the stiff ache in my shoulders. It felt like the street itself was working against me, and I was losing my patience, one unsteady step at a time.
I hadn’t spoken much to Mike since he fucked up his trials in Spain. As far as I knew, he was still close to Harry. Whether he saw Emily here and there played on mine too.
“You look like shit!” Mike chuckled, elbowing my forearm once I was close enough.
“You’re a funny fucker. You’d look like this too if you were in my place.” I tapped my chin with my index finger. “Oh, wait, you fucked it up, so you wouldn’t be in my place, would you?” My voice was serious, but I only meant it in jest. The look on Mike’s face told me he didn’t know what to say back. But then I winked, letting him know that I was only fucking with him.
“Are we standing out here all night, or are we having a drink?” Ollie asked, stubbing out his cigarette on the pavement.
I followed the guys into the dimly lit pub, the air thick with the familiar mix of stale beer and food. Nothing had changed. The same worn leather booths lined the walls, and the same dartboard hung crooked near the back, peppered with holes from decades of friendly rivalries. Faded photographs of local teams and yellowing beer adverts still hung proudly on the walls, like the place was stubbornly refusing to age—even if everything else around it had.
“So, how are you feeling?” Ollie asked, signalling for the bartender the second we reached the bar.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I keep thinking I should have stayed in Spain just because there’s nothing here for me anymore.” I knocked back a mouthful of my beer, knowing my statement was true. Other than my parents, there was nothing else in this town for me to come back to.
Ollie was the most down to earth guy in our circle. He was also the most caring, so I wasn’t surprised that he asked the question. The guy had a good head on his shoulders and a good heart in his chest.
“Listen, my sister's husband coaches a local team of seven year olds. He could use a hand, and the boys would love to learn from someone like you.”
“Mate, what can I teach them? I can’t even run right now.” I perched on the bar stool, taking the weight off my ankle. My crutches were propped beside me. It was almost like they had eyes of their own. They sure as hell had no problem staring me down.
“I get that but you can be there for encouragement. They’d love it, even if you just tried it for one session?” Ollie’s heart was in the right place, it always was. It’s why I had no issue hanging out with him and considering his suggestion.
“Alright, text me the details and I’ll pop along to see what it’s all about.” I took another swig of my beer, debating my next question.
Fuck it.
“Have you seen Emily?” My voice came out low, tighter than I intended. I tried to sound casual, but there was a hesitation in the way I said her name. My gaze flicked to the floor, then back up, guarded but searching, like I wasn’t sure if I even had the right to ask. Or the strength to hear the answer.
“Barely, mate, she keeps to herself most of the time.” His answer was shorter than I expected. “Listen, Beckett, don’t worry about her tonight. If you’re meant to see her while you’re home, you will.”
“Will she want to see him, though?” Mike asked with an underlying laugh, and I swear I could have knocked him on his arse. “You royally fucked that up when you left. She was a good girl, too.”
“Shut the fuck up, Mike.” Ollie spat from beside me.
