What I Should Have Said

“I was afraid I'd have to admit I wanted more than a kiss,” Rafa said. “And that if I admitted it to you, I'd have to stop pretending to myself.”

I stayed on the bench.

He rubbed his palms once against his trousers, then let his hands fall.

“I'd been attracted to men before. I'd never let it become something I had to name. Then you gave me your number and asked if I wanted breakfast. You made it sound so possible.”

“It was breakfast, Rafa. Not a press conference.”

“I know. The press conference was my contribution.”

His attempt at humour was so bleak that I almost smiled. Almost.

He moved to the other end of the bench, leaving space between us.

“When the reporter asked why we'd left the dinner together, I panicked. I thought about clips travelling home. About my family being asked questions before I'd spoken to them. About a thousand things I hadn't decided how to handle. I wanted the question to stop.”

“So you made me sound pathetic.”

“Yes.” His voice went rough. “I did.”

For the first time, I looked properly at his face. He wasn't trying to make himself attractive. No tilted mouth, no careful charm. Just a man sitting beside the person he'd hurt.

“I could have said it was private,” he continued. “I could have said we were friends. I chose words that made it sound like caring about you would be ridiculous. I'm sorry.”

“And the message?”

“I started an answer. Then another. Nothing seemed enough, so I told myself I'd call. I didn't. After a day, I thought you would hate me. After a week, I thought calling would only make it worse.”

“It was worse.”

“I know that now.” He shook his head. “I should have known it then. Being ashamed of what I'd done didn't give me the right to leave you with it.”

My eyes stung, which was extremely inconvenient. I'd wanted an apology for months. Receiving one apparently involved remembering why.

“I wasn't asking you to come out,” I said. “I would have understood wanting to keep it between us. I wanted you to tell me whether I imagined what happened.”

“You didn't.”

“I liked you.”

He closed his eyes briefly.

“Despite your personality,” I added.

That made him breathe out. “I liked you, too.”

“No. You don't get to put it entirely in the past and look tragic.”

His eyes opened.

The rain had become a steady whisper. Somewhere down the corridor a door clicked shut.

“All right,” he said. “I like you. I like the way you argue with everyone and still notice when the academy boy needs someone to eat with. I like that you pretend not to care about the supporters and know the name of the woman who sells programmes by the west stand. I like playing against you, even when you're unbearable.”

“Especially then, surely.”

“Especially then,” he agreed. “And I'd like the chance to take you for coffee. If you want that. If you don't, I'll be your teammate and leave you alone.”

I looked at the wet pavement beyond the glass.

He wasn't asking for the terrace back. That mattered. We couldn't return to being two people who hadn't yet disappointed each other.

“I don't trust you with this,” I said.

“I understand.”

“I might get angry again.”

“You can.”

“And you don't get to decide silence is kinder because a conversation makes you uncomfortable.”

“I won't. If I need time, I'll tell you I need time.”

I considered him for a long moment.

Then I picked up my crisp packet.

“There's a place on Harbour Road. Ten tomorrow. Their coffee is good.”

His face changed so quickly I had to look down.

“Ten,” he said.

“It's coffee, Costa.”

“I understand coffee.”

“Your recent track record with breakfast suggests otherwise.”

He laughed, surprised, and I felt the sound somewhere behind my ribs.

At the door, he held out his umbrella.

“Take it. Mine's closer.”

“You'll get wet.”

“I've survived it before.”

I accepted the umbrella. It was black and unnecessarily large, exactly what I would have expected him to own.

He didn't follow me outside. He didn't ask for a hug or try to turn the moment into something I'd have to resist.

The next morning, I arrived at the café at nine fifty-six.

Rafa was already there, standing beside a table with two chairs. He wore a dark jumper, his hair still damp from a shower, and he hadn't ordered for me.

“You're early,” I said.

“So are you.”

“I wanted the satisfaction of catching you late.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

He pulled out the other chair, then hesitated as though wondering if that was too much.

I sat before he could reconsider.

He smiled at me across the table. Slowly, I let myself smile back.