Curve Ball (2 page)

She’s not going to help me, if Steven decides that right now is the time to shout at me for being a dick. She might encourage him to keep his voice down, but I believe that is the extent of her powers. And in all honesty, I’m not sure if she’s capable of that much. I look around and she’s suddenly disappeared, leaving me alone in this maze of crumbling sandstone.

With the Minotaur.

Oh God, I wish I hadn’t thought of him as a Minotaur. Now I’m just imagining him sweating and stripped to the waist, stalking me around this place on his big, heavy, ominous-sounding feet. Seriously – it’s like
Paranormal Activity
over here. All I can hear is “dum dum dum” as he clods his way through the maze, only without the blissful comfort of cool darkness to keep me unawares until the final hammer falls.

Instead, I have to do this in bright white daylight, while sweating uncontrollably. By the time he’s got me cornered behind the right-angled edge of a house that no longer exists, my upper lip has a film on it. Hell, it has an
ocean
on it. Every item of clothing I have on – and there are far too many of them, I know – is clinging stickily to my body, no matter how much I try to waft air onto it.

And as I’m doing so, I realise something even more appalling. I realise it the way the heroine realises that the call is coming from inside the house, halfway into the movie:

My overall moistness has turned the material of my blouse see-through. Oh good God, my top is transparent. It’s almost completely transparent, and he’s going to see me about 30 seconds from now. He’s going to see my boobs encased in this too tight-bra, like twin overflowing flesh mountains.

Unless I do something about it. And by “do something about it”, I mean I put both hands over my boobs like Barbara Windsor in a
Carry On
movie.

Before I remember there’s an actual gesture human beings can do to disguise their bare boobs, without seeming like they’re trying to disguise their bare boobs. You might have heard of it. It’s called crossing your arms over your chest.

I hear it’s quite popular. And appropriate too, given the circumstances. He’s turned into some kind of crazed Minotaur-like stalker, so I’m well within my rights to step out from behind this wall like a schoolmarm. And I’m also totally OK to say the following:

‘What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?’

Even though I kind of regret it, once I have. I let myself forget the whole gonorrhoea thing, in my rush to be righteously indignant about the stalking.

Now I’ve made a mess. I know I’ve made a mess. He’s going to kill me, for daring to be the outraged one in this situation. I mean, he was probably going to kill me anyway. I did insult him, after all – in a way he’s probably never been insulted in his entire life. But once he’s heard me actually raising my voice …

It’s going to be death by squeezing, I can tell. He’s going to make me stand against one of these crumbling walls, and then just puff himself out until one of his giant biceps crushes my head – though I’m not really sure what’s worse about this idea. That ten tons of sweaty, heaving flesh is going to murder me, or that it’s the closest I’ll have come to sexual contact in 5,000 years.

I’m actually kind of looking forward to it.

I bet he’ll taste like rare beef, in that moment before his muscles suffocate me.

‘Uh, well …,’ he says, which isn’t what I’m expecting. I’m ashamed to say I’m almost cringing, waiting for the worst. If he said those things about a girl he actually had sex with, what on earth is he going to say about me?

And how pathetic am I, that I’m willing him not to say it? I’m even thinking of ways I can backtrack, carefully. As though he’s a tiger, and I just jammed a stick in its eye. If I move away slowly, will he be more preoccupied with his missing eyeball than he is with me? Hopefully. Hopefully.

‘Look,’ I start, because
look
is such a pleasant, neutral word. It’s the kind of thing you say to a kid when you see something cool. “Look, Steven, a butterfly that isn’t me being a jerk to your enormous, probably aggressive self!”

I don’t get to voice the rest of that sentiment, however. Alarmingly, he kind of cuts me off at the pass. He makes this expression I’ve never seen before and completely don’t recognise on his amazing face, and kind of leans down towards me as he delivers it.

‘What did it
seem
like I was doing?’ he asks, which I don’t understand at all. And then I remember the outraged question I asked 30 seconds earlier, and everything completely doesn’t slot into place whatsoever.

Why is he asking me that?

And more worryingly … I’m kind of starting to fathom out his expression. I’ve seen it before, on the faces of lesser human beings who don’t think half as much of themselves as he probably does. In fact, I’ve seen it on my own face, before today. Usually it happens when I style my hair a different way and then look in the mirror.

At which point, it always blooms across my features:

Uncertainty. Maybe even a kind of –
anxiousness
. “Just how bad do you think I am?” that expression seems to say, but he has to know I can’t answer that for him. I’m not even sure if he’s really asking it. It seems so out of character for the Steven I’ve turned him into in my head, and besides …

The real response to his actual question sounds absurd.

Following me, I think, but even thinking it makes my face go all red. Why would someone like him follow someone like me? It’s absurd. He’ll laugh, when I say it.

So I go with something safer, instead.

‘I don’t know. I just know that you were doing it.’

Safer and stupider.

‘And you’re –
angry
at me for doing the thing you don’t know about?’

Ugh. Look at him, being all cute while trying to tease me. It’s like I’m 12 again and just fell off my bike. Only instead of skinning my knee, I mooned him right in the face.

‘Don’t play clever mind games,’ I say, even though I know his mind games aren’t clever at all. It’s just that I’m an idiot. I’m a total idiot.
Apologise for saying he has gonorrhoea
, my mind screams, but I can’t seem to do it. Speaking the word will just draw attention to what I did, and then he’ll think it’s open season on insults. Or what if … What if he really
does
have gonorrhoea?

Oh God, then I’ve just made fun of someone’s terrible, debilitating disease. I’ll be brought up before The Hague for infringing on his human rights. I’ll be tried as a war criminal. I’ll be hung in front of a jury of my peers.

And yes, I realise this flight of terrible fantasy has taken a turn for the ridiculous. In all honesty, it was probably ridiculous right around “debilitating disease”. I’m pretty sure you can get a cream for it, now – though this doesn’t help me.

I can’t offer him a cream.

Not when he’s about to kill me. I’m sure he’s about to kill me. I even brace myself for the blow, features arranging themselves into a wince before wincing is even necessary. And then he delivers it, and for a long moment I imagine I’m dead.

I must be, because I think he just said sorry.

That’s right. Steven Stark, creator of the game
Fire Monkey
, wearer of “boob inspector” T-shirts, constant puncher of my shoulder, just said sorry. Though even after he’s spoken the word aloud, I’m not sure that’s what it is. I could have easily misheard. Maybe he’s a fan of large road vehicles, and just saw one go by – despite how insane “I am lorry” sounds, once I’ve thought about it.

God, I wish I didn’t have to think about it.

Or ask him about it.

‘What did you just say?’ I try, and am proud of myself for managing to keep the incredulity down to around 40 per cent. I needn’t be, however. He catches it, all the same.

‘You don’t have to sound so surprised.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Then why is your face all scrunched up like that?’

‘This is just my face. I can’t help it if it’s crinkled.’

‘Your face isn’t crinkled.’

He laughs as he says those words, just to give them an extra layer of insanity. Usually I’d hate him for making me feel weird, but in this instance I kind of like it. My face is smooth, apparently. So smooth he snorts, when I suggest otherwise.

‘OK, so maybe I’m a little bit surprised.’

Another expression crosses his features. This one is even less recognisable than the last, but he doesn’t give me any time to decipher it. It’s gone as swiftly as it arrived, and is replaced by his usual laidback half-smile.

‘Because I’m not exactly known for being contrite?’ he suggests, though the moment he has I know that’s not the case. It’s true that he isn’t, and there have been many occasions when I’ve wished that was one of his many qualities … But it’s not the reason why I’m surprised.

It’s more like this:

‘Because I’m not sure what you think you should be contrite for.’

And it’s true too. I’m really not. I didn’t think he’d understand he’d hurt my feelings, or if he did understand I didn’t think he’d care, particularly. At the most, I expected something along the lines of “stop being so sensitive”, because really it’s what I’ve been thinking ever since it happened.

I let things get to me too much. He probably wasn’t even referring to me.

‘For probably insulting you second-hand.’

Or maybe he was referring to me, and he’s a gigantic arse.

‘You didn’t insult me.’

It’s a lie, but what else can I say? Somehow, him tending to my wounded feelings is even worse than sudden biceps death. I can feel my face getting hot, despite it already being at critical mass. I bet astronauts could see this thing from space, which doesn’t bode well for me. If the Russians are up there wondering what that red beacon is all about, then Steven is definitely going to have noticed this.

My only hope is his inability to understand emotion.

‘Really? Because you were kind of shaking with rage on the boat … And now you’re sort of – turning purple with indignation.’

Dammit. Where has he learnt how to be sensitive?

‘OK, so you kind of insulted me. But it’s not a big deal.’

It
is
a big deal. My insides are still aching.

‘It seems like a big deal.’

How
is he doing this? Is he reading my mind? Surely the only explanation is that he’s suddenly developed telepathic powers. He’s never been this insightful before, I’m certain of it, and even if he has he’s definitely never directed it at me. The last time I saw him someone joked about us dating, and he laughed as though the idea was the most hilarious thing to ever grace his hearing.

He’s never shown any awareness of how much stuff like that hurts me.

Hell, I try to never show awareness of how much stuff like that hurts me. I pretend he was never my friend, or maybe that he’s a stranger, or a mortal enemy, or an alien from the planet What-the-Fuck. Anything but what he is: a man I once loved. A man I once loved with all the painful gawkiness of a girl who still believes in romance.

But of course, I don’t believe any more.

So why am I still blushing? Why am I still stunned by a crumb of kindness from him?

‘I shouldn’t have told the story like that,’ he says, and my stupid, stupid heart goes pitty-pat. ‘I didn’t realise how it sounded until after I’d made you want to kill me.’

‘I don’t want to kill you, Steven.’

I want you to stop making me go all weird inside.

‘You kind of want to kill me.’

‘OK, I kind of want to kill you. But it was just a passing fad. Now I’m much more into shaking your hand and forgetting all about it,’ I say, and even manage to hold out said hand for him to do just that. It’s kind of sweaty and shaking, and I’m hoping he won’t touch it for long, but it’s there, isn’t it?

I did it.

I just wish I’d thought about what would happen
after
I did it. Because of course I have to drop my arms to make the handshake happen. And I don’t even think about it, either – I’m so focused on making this all go away that I barely know what I’ve done, until his eyes automatically drop.

Then I understand.

I understand that I’ve just shown him my barely covered boobs beneath my see-through top. Now not only have we had this huge, ugly misunderstanding, he’s seen my nearly naked breasts. And even worse, he can’t seem to stop looking at them. Of course I cover them back up immediately, but covering them back up immediately makes no difference. He just stares at the place they once were, as though the whole thing was an optical illusion that needs some deciphering.

Did he really see what he thinks he saw?

And more importantly: does he honestly think I’m going to answer that?

‘Shake my hand, Steven,’ I tell him, in a cold and deadly voice. And to his credit, he does just that – despite how awkward it is to achieve. He has to get really close to me to shake, because now my hands and arms are glued to my body.

It must be akin to greeting a T-Rex.

Plus, he’s still staring at the place my boobs were. Only now, he’s staring while his face turns a rather unfamiliar shade of red. It’s not an embarrassed colour, as my face always is. It’s more of a sort of – excited flush. Like on Christmas morning when you know you’re getting something good, and you’re just so giddy at the thought of ripping those presents open …

God, I hope he’s not giddy at the thought of ripping me open.

He
can’t
be giddy at the thought of ripping me open. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. A moment ago he was talking about his fear of jiggling flesh avalanches, and that’s
definitely
what’s going to happen if he removes my clothes. It’d be like yelling the words to
Staying Alive
halfway up Mount Everest.

Though I accept it’s weird that he seems unable to make sentences, currently. This is his best effort:

‘Um … what … were … words?’

And call me crazy, but it lacks a few things. Like sense, and structure, and meaning.

‘Huh?’

The second he sees my disbelieving expression – nose wrinkled, eyes wide, the works – he snaps out of this daze he’s sunk into. But by that point, it’s a bit too late. His big, hearty laugh sounds hollow; his waving hand like a gesture he thinks he
should
make.