14. 14

Chris didn't think he'd ever felt this nervous in his life, even Brendan shot him a look when he met his eyes as he walked in, his expression telling Chris to chill the fuck out.

He looked down at the white table cloth. Starched and pristine, it glowed yellow with the flicker of candle lights. The wine glasses caught that same light, the champagne flutes. Chris reached for his glass of water. He wanted to look back at the entrance to the restaurant but felt too nervous, like his body was too stiff to move.

When a waiter came by and asked if he'd like a drink while he waited, he almost said yes. But no, of course he could wait, Joq was never late. The waiter smiled, said, "Of course," and disappeared.

What was the time?

Quarter past.

Unusual, but maybe Joq decided to go home to check on Delia, missed the tram, and decided to use a car after all. Chris imagined him walking briskly to the table, apologising with a small smile, the flicker of warmth in his eyes he reserved for Chris. He'd look good in his suit, he'd look like someone Chris couldn't wait to stand beside whenever and wherever Joq decided to do it.

If he said yes.

Chris swallowed. He took another drink of water. Pulled out his phone.

Half past.

And okay, that was weird.

He cleared his throat and called.

It rang out.

He frowned. Joq wouldn't be driving.

He tried again.

Same result.

He typed out a message, Hey, babe, you on your way? Hit send.

And waited.

It was quarter to when he forced himself to get up and go over to Joq's parents. To the crew from the stadium. Not a word. And everyone exchanged looks that said what he was thinking—something's happened.

Joq was over an hour late when Chris called Terry.

"Terry," he said as soon as she picked up, "Can you send someone round to my place and check if Joaquin's there. Then call your contact at the hospital and check if anyone matching his description has come in, and check as well what's going on around the place tonight, you've still got that friend in the dispatch office?"

"I can have security at yours in five, and I'll call the other two."

"Thanks," he hung up, ran a hand through his hair.

"He's probably fine," Brendan said in the most unconvincing tone Chris had ever heard from him.

"He's an hour and a half late," Chris said low. "He's never late. Never. He's not answering his phone."

"Alright, well, no need to jump to the morgue," Brendan said.

Chris stared at him. He didn't know what to say.

"Jesus, babe," Tegan said. "What do you want us to do?" she asked Chris.

His phone rang. His heart pounded as he lifted it. Not Joq. Terry.

"Yep," he said.

"No one at your place. Waiting on my contacts to get back to me after they do a deeper dive, but nothing out of the ordinary on first contact."

"Okay, thanks, keep checking."

"Excuse me," he said to Tegan and Brendan and went to speak to Joq's parents and friends again. It was a blur—their concern mirrored his own but all he could think was he needed to get it together, he needed to remain calm because something had clearly happened and he needed to be in control when it came time to deal with it. He was assaulted with images of hospitals, accidents—no.

"I'll drive you home," Brendan said.

"Yeah, if we get a call, then we can…"

"Yep," Brendan clapped him on the shoulder.

Chris tried Joq again. It rang out. He kept on trying the whole drive home.

"Hey," Brendan said as they wound down his driveway. Chris looked up and met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Don't take this the wrong way, but he ghosted you once before, so do you think—"

"Brendan!" Tegan said and hit him on the arm from where she was sitting in the passenger's seat.

Chris felt the life drain from him. Could it be that? No, of course not, they bloody well lived together. They were renovating. They had a life together.

He shook his head, but he couldn't speak around the lump in his throat.

Once he got inside and finished searching the place for himself, he called Terry again. He told her to call everyone on repeat—Joq's work, his friends, his parents, his gym in case he'd turned up there for some reason—and to call the police.

"They won't do anything unless it's been twenty-four hours," she said apologetically.

He hung up and gripped his head in his hands.

"He's probably fine," Brendan said from beside him for the umpteenth time.

Chris' head popped up. "We can track his phone."

"I think the police can—"

"No, we can," Chris raced back into the house for Joq's office.

This was so easy to do, he didn't know why he didn't do it earlier.

He pulled up the program, punched in Joq's number and leaned back while the GPS coordinates worked.

They pinged. The map was showing his address.

"Did he leave his phone here?" Brendan asked from behind him.

"We'd hear it."

"Silent?"

"Where's Delia?" Chris asked suddenly.

He marched back out, went over to the pool. The water was calm in the bay, ink black, the lights stretching like golden oil spills towards the horizon. He spotted the figure sitting on the sand.

"He's here," Brendan said incredulously spotting him at the same time.

"Go home," Chris said quickly and walked towards Joq. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. Thank you."

"I'll wait, make sure he's okay."

Chris shook his head. "Go, I've got this."

He wasn't sure he did—what was Joq doing? Sitting out there and ignoring his calls until almost midnight? Chris felt a surge of relief, then a tidal wave of worry.

He heard Brendan's retreating steps, his own pounding on the grass as he rushed towards him.

"Joq?" he called.

Joq didn't even react.

"Joq," he said again once he was almost on top of him.

Joq looked up.

"Hey, sorry, I'll be there in a sec," he said like this was a normal evening.

"What're you doing out here? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

He didn't look hurt. He looked calm, eerily so.

"I'm fine," Joq murmured and refocused on the horizon. Delia was in his lap and he was stroking her absently. He had a small package by his hip.

"We had dinner plans," Chris said helplessly.

"Shit," Joq said. "I forgot, sorry."

He forgot?

Chris sat down tentatively next to him. Something wasn't right.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Something happened," Chris said.

Joq tensed. "I don't want to talk about it."

Chris blew out a breath.

"I'm sorry about dinner, tomorrow, we can," he broke off like his voice had failed him.

Chris leaned over and grabbed his hand. "What the fuck happened?"

"Fuck," Joq said and shook his head, "I don't know, I thought I was over this. I am, I'll be fine tomorrow."

"Over what?"

"George," Joq said his name and it sounded like a boulder dropping into a pool for the effect it had on Chris—crashing, rippling through everything—Joq wasn't over him?

"Do you still love him?" Chris asked disbelieving.

"No," Joq said firmly. "I saw him. He has a son. Did you know that? They have a fucking son and they're just," he yanked his hand back and waved it around.

"They're just?"

"Out there, married, having kids. Twelve fucking years, I was nothing, no one, and I just, I saw it and I don't know, it made me angry."

Chris tried to parse this all out rationally over his jealousy. If Joq wanted marriage and kids in front of everyone, Chris would give him that in a heartbeat. But he didn't think that was the problem. An even bigger problem was the fact that seeing that had made Joq so catatonic with grief, he'd disappeared for the night. When was he planning to tell Chris he was okay?

It'd been a year, they were happy. At least, Chris thought they were. But if Joq was still this fucked up over his ex, would he ever really be his?

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked.

"I forgot, I'm sorry."

"Your phone would've been blowing up all night, you didn't think to answer and let me know you were okay?"

"I'm not sure I am okay," Joq replied.

"Then we're not okay," Chris said.

"It's got nothing to do with us," Joq said.

"You disappear for the night and it's got nothing to do with your boyfriend?"

"It's not about you."

Chris recoiled. Joq delivered the line calmly, but Chris felt like he'd been hit. And it dawned on him—he'd never have him, not completely, a part of Joq would always be trapped back there in whatever deranged bullshit those two had going on. Joq never spoke about it, but Chris didn't miss the way he avoided all sports coverage like it was the plague. He was seeing that in a new light—avoidance wasn't the same as moving on, it was being so hurt you couldn't even look at it.

"You're never going to get that you can do better," Chris said softly.

"Better than you?" Joq asked, finally animated. "I doubt it."

"Him," Chris replied. "You could do better than him."

He stood. His heart aching in his chest.

"Keep the house," he said quietly. "I won't bother you anymore."

He turned and headed back for the house, half expecting Joq to call after him, to follow him.

He didn't.