Excerpt: Squaring the Circle

Chris is cold. She should not be, because this is summer, and summer’s supposed to be warm and nice, but she is, and her fingers are getting numb as she stands there and waits for Lance. He hasn’t told her why he wanted to see her, and she hadn’t asked, because she suspects, and while she dreads what is going to happen she is also relieved, in a way, because perhaps this is just one of the times when it’s better to just rip off the bandage instead of pulling it back millimetre after millimetre.

When he finally gets here his hair is falling around his face in long unkempt strands, his face is flushed from running and there is a cool, determined glint in his eyes, which is familiar even though she does not recall ever seeing before.

Everything’s quiet between the two of them, in this chilly evening air, and there are tags sprawling over the walls around them, senseless names and random scribbling and the occasional work of art, there is the sky over their heads dyed the blue of fresh bruises by night’s approach, there is the ground under them all cracked concrete and used candy wrappers and none of that matters because suddenly Lance says I love you, very lowly, and does anything else matter, really?

And Chris’ heart might be breaking a bit, and she closes her eyes and breathes, and when she opens them again he’s still standing there, lanky and lean and resolute, and Chris knows all too well what she has to do now.

I won’t be your Guinevere, she says, and steps away. But Lance’s looking at her, still, and there is, for the space of a heartbeat, something strangely fragile about his face, fluttering behind the bright blue of his eyes. She wonders, a bit, at that, and he must notice, because he straightens from his slouch to look at her in the eye, and he says, painfully, heart-breakingly honest, Really, I do. I do love you, you know.

She smiles, because yes, she knows (how could she not?), but there is a weight that hangs, always, onto her heart.

What about him, she asks, and fights to keep her voice even. What about Arthur?

His lips twist, fleetingly, and he turns away from her. Above them the sky is terribly clear and uncaring, and not nearly merciful enough for rain. The first stars glitter indolently, impossibly bright in the dim light.

This has nothing to do with Arthur, Lance lies, and leaves, footsteps echoing then fading.

She says nothing, and lets him go. Her hands, which hang useless at her side, are still cold.