38
Chris
“So, what’s all this about rugby?” Martin asks as he helps me unload the shopping.
“It was just a match. Evan wanted to go.”
“How come?”
“They invited him,” I reply vaguely.
“Who did?”
“A…friend.”
“His friend or your friend?”
“Does it really matter?”
“It really does.”
I scoff and lean against the counter. Martin called this afternoon because he had a few hours to kill, and he wanted to take Evan somewhere. As usual, Evan didn’t respond, so Martin had to use me. They have a good relationship, but Evan hates being treated like a little boy, being taken to stupid places filled with divorced dads and their sons. Most of the time, he pretends he never heard his phone go off when Martin calls.
“So…?”
“There’s nothing to say, Martin. A friend ofbothof ours, who plays rugby, asked him if he wanted to go and watch a game, and he accepted. End of story.”
“Why should I believe you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“You can believe whatever you want.”
“That’s true.”
“It’s nothing, honestly. He’s a friend, that’s all.”
“If that’s all, why are you going so red?”
Martin’s way too observant for me and my stupid games.
“I’m not going red,” I attempt.
“You don’t want to talk about it because you think I hate the thought of another man being around the house – right?”
“There’s no other man in the house!” I cry, overly convinced.
“But there could be…”
“No!” I stop him right away. “And if there were, it wouldn’t be him.”
“Him.”
“Anyway, even if there were, it’s none of your business.”
“It’s not the guy from the other night?”
“What? Absolutely not!”
“Okay, so itishim.”
