It took Greengrass a long moment to say anything, and in that interlude Theo regretted asking the question. Because there was no good answer to it, was there? If there was nothing ostensibly wrong and Cash seemed well, happy, perfectly comfortable with the life that awaited him, the French wife and new house and the Ministry career – and meanwhile Theo was stuck feeling like this, more of a mess than ever – then it would be a kick in the gut to hear. But he wasn’t going to be happy, was he? Cash hadn’t wanted the wife or the Ministry career, hadn’t had a choice. Theo had had one – he hadn’t forgotten the earnestness in it’s up to you. So maybe the only possible answer here was that Cash wasn’t doing any better, either; so maybe Theo’s decision had only made them both feel that much worse.
It didn’t matter, because he couldn’t have expected a real answer: it wasn’t like small talk and honesty often overlapped in society. Still. If that was the very best Greengrass could do – as well as he ever is – he had to grimace at it. That was bad. Cash’s baseline was bad. And – whatever the circumstances – the last thing he wanted was for Cash to be doing badly.
He hadn’t realised that he was wringing his hands together. He dropped both abruptly to his sides, and tried to keep them still.
“He quit,” Theo said blankly, as if that answered it. Given he had only formally retired a week ago, though, it really didn’t. Nor did a player leaving the team usually stand to mean so I can never speak to him again, either. But Theo had been pretending all night that things were fine, and he was sick to death of it now, exhausted – because even if they’d had to keep seeing each other in the last few months, it hadn’t been the same. They hadn’t spoken alone. In fact, Theo had spent as little time at the Cannons stadium as possible, and neither of them had stayed after hours. Well, he hadn’t, anyway. He had no idea where Cash had been.
It was already dangerous ground here – he should keep his mouth shut – but there was suddenly another swell of frustration at Cash; at how things had ended; at how he couldn’t even sort out his feelings because now there was no one he could conceivably talk to about this, so it was all probably just going to rattle around in him forever, unresolved. “And, well, I thought – we were – friends,” he said, because he had to say something else – but he carefully tamped down the truth and most of the hurt, until hopefully only ruefulness was left. “But he doesn’t tell me anything, anyway. He – he didn’t even tell me about this until it was practically in the papers.” Theo gave a hollow laugh and a bitter gesture back towards the house to mean the marriage, the engagement. (Though, somehow, even worse than the news about the arrangement and the unbreakable vow and the terrible situation was the way Cash had delivered it all: completely impassive, entirely devoid of anger, like any of it was remotely alright. But he couldn’t say that.) He tried to shrug it off. “So – I don’t know.”
It didn’t matter, because he couldn’t have expected a real answer: it wasn’t like small talk and honesty often overlapped in society. Still. If that was the very best Greengrass could do – as well as he ever is – he had to grimace at it. That was bad. Cash’s baseline was bad. And – whatever the circumstances – the last thing he wanted was for Cash to be doing badly.
He hadn’t realised that he was wringing his hands together. He dropped both abruptly to his sides, and tried to keep them still.
“He quit,” Theo said blankly, as if that answered it. Given he had only formally retired a week ago, though, it really didn’t. Nor did a player leaving the team usually stand to mean so I can never speak to him again, either. But Theo had been pretending all night that things were fine, and he was sick to death of it now, exhausted – because even if they’d had to keep seeing each other in the last few months, it hadn’t been the same. They hadn’t spoken alone. In fact, Theo had spent as little time at the Cannons stadium as possible, and neither of them had stayed after hours. Well, he hadn’t, anyway. He had no idea where Cash had been.
It was already dangerous ground here – he should keep his mouth shut – but there was suddenly another swell of frustration at Cash; at how things had ended; at how he couldn’t even sort out his feelings because now there was no one he could conceivably talk to about this, so it was all probably just going to rattle around in him forever, unresolved. “And, well, I thought – we were – friends,” he said, because he had to say something else – but he carefully tamped down the truth and most of the hurt, until hopefully only ruefulness was left. “But he doesn’t tell me anything, anyway. He – he didn’t even tell me about this until it was practically in the papers.” Theo gave a hollow laugh and a bitter gesture back towards the house to mean the marriage, the engagement. (Though, somehow, even worse than the news about the arrangement and the unbreakable vow and the terrible situation was the way Cash had delivered it all: completely impassive, entirely devoid of anger, like any of it was remotely alright. But he couldn’t say that.) He tried to shrug it off. “So – I don’t know.”
