Page 30 of Everything About You

surprise. I think it’s the unknown.”

Rhodes nods. “I completely understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I don’t get anxious the way you do, but I definitely have had moments.

” He raps his fingers against the top of the wheel, as if thinking whether he should go further.

“Sometimes, when I used to play football, I’d make myself crazy.

Work myself up so bad, I’d nearly be sick.

I suppose that’s what you go through? Maybe? ”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s a nightmare, because it’s sort of all the time. And I have ‘coping mechanisms’?”—I use air quotes—“but

they’re all much harder in practice.”

“I think you’re doing well,” Rhodes offers. “From my perspective, anyhow. You are in another country—on another continent,

even—all by yourself, which I reckon is really difficult. But you’re doing just fine, Milo. Doing just fine.”

“Thanks,” I say. “So that’s partly why you’re so into the Everything’s Shit exercise, then? From football?’

Rhodes sticks out his bottom lip. “Hmm. Yeah, I think that’s probably how I became most keen on it. It actually does help

me a lot, though. In general.”

We valet the car, and I follow Rhodes into a restaurant that also feels like it must be out of a movie. Brass-paneled mirrors

line the walls, and there are palms and sculptures and giant oil paintings. The whole place basks under the warm glow of lanterns

and candlelight, and a pianist in the middle of the restaurant sets the tone—a low, hushed whisper respects the music, doesn’t

compete with it.

We’re guided back to a little booth with some extra privacy, and I can’t ignore the way heads turn as we walk. I’m with Rhodes

Hamilton, after all, and I wonder how he feels about being seen with me like this. Not that I’m worried about my looks or appearance, exactly, but I’m not someone . I’m not a model or an actor or an athlete.

I slide into the U-shaped black-leather-tufted booth, and he sits diagonal from me. The square table is covered in a thick, buttery white tablecloth. Small candles are placed in the middle, and they make Rhodes’s eyes flicker.

“How do you feel about splitting a bottle of wine?” he asks.

“That sounds nice,” I say.

Even with more privacy, I can feel people slowly turning to look at us. I might be imagining it, but I think there are whispers

and nods.

Rhodes must catch on. “What is it? Do you want to sit somewhere else? I could see if they’ve got anyone in one of the private

rooms if you’d prefer. I know it can be a bit much. I’m sorry, I didn’t really consider that it might be a lot for you.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s totally okay. Just new.”

“If it’s any consolation, you do get used to it.” He draws in a breath and takes his napkin off the table, unfolding it and

then smoothing it over his lap. “And they’ll all get tired of looking at us. I’m not sure why people find it so terribly interesting

to just look at other people.”

“Well, you’re Rhodes Hamilton.”

He furrows his brow and gives me a very serious look. “And you’re Milo Hawthorne.”

“Yeah, they don’t know who I am.”

“They will,” he says.

“Can’t wait to see what they’ll say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Searching for the right way to phrase this so that my insecurities around this don’t come off as too unattractive, I study

the melted wax pooling in the ivory candles. “I’m just not what anyone would expect. I’m not a model or famous or—”

“Don’t be silly, Milo.” He takes my hand. “Who cares about fame? You’re incredibly smart. You’re loyal. You’re so driven—you rival Ollie for the most driven person I know, which is really saying something. And...”

“And?”

He squeezes my hand. “I think you bring out the best in me.”

My chest warms.

“And anyway, you’re fit enough to be a model.”

I laugh.

“Right, so I think we should do a nice white wine. It’s summer. But we could easily do a red if you prefer.”

I shrug. “I’m pretty new to the wine game, remember?”

“Course,” he says. “I think this is quite a lot of responsibility, then. Picking out the wine. But it’s a responsibility I

will eagerly take on.”

Rhodes orders us a bottle of Ladoucette Pouilly-Fumé, which doesn’t exactly mean a whole lot to me when I watch him drag his

finger across it on the wine list and effortlessly pronounce it to our waiter.

“It’s from the Loire Valley,” he tells me. “Pouilly-Fumé is one of the regions.”

“Impressive.”

“Learned some things from Ollie,” Rhodes says. “I think I mentioned he’s a wine snob. At his flat in London, he has this entire

wine cellar... er, well, I’m not sure if that’s what it’s called—it’s not like the one at our flat here, it’s all modern

and it’s like a big glass closet. It’s a whole thing. Don’t ever ask him about wine, Milo. Not unless you’re really interested

in getting a lesson.”

Their relationship as siblings, particularly as twins, is so interesting to me.

“Do you and Ollie get along? I know there are some things that make it complicated, but in general?”

The waiter brings over the bottle, uncorks it, and pours a small amount into Rhodes’s glass. Rhodes swirls it, brings it to

his nose, and then takes a tiny sip. He offers an expression of general approval, then the waiter pours some into both glasses.

“Merci.”

We clink our glasses together and I take a sip. It’s drier than any wine I’ve had so far, but I like that, I think. It’s light,

and it tastes a bit like grapefruit and maybe some other citrus.

Rhodes sets his glass down. “Okay, what were you asking? Right. Do Ollie and I get along? Of course. We’re twins. We spent

our whole lives as best mates. I think with Ollie, things are just a bit complicated. He’s got a chip on his shoulder for

some reason, and I know what you’re thinking—I do too. But Ollie’s is different. I mean, I’ll put in effort, and I’ll give

something my all. Really. I’m driven enough.”

He stares off, eyes narrowing a bit. “Ollie is... relentless.”

“How so?”

“He’ll do anything if it means he won’t fail. For instance, when we were lads, I’d say we had the same level of talent when

it came to football. Or rather, the same lack of talent.”

We both laugh at that.

“Honestly, though, it’s true. Except where I did my best—did all the trainings and drills and everything Dad wanted—Ollie became absolutely obsessed.

Ollie figured if he didn’t have the same talent as Dad, he’d train until it seemed like he did.

It was his whole life, 24/7. Lived and breathed football.

And I obviously can’t say it didn’t work for him.

I mean, he’s going to crush his career as a footballer. ”

“And you don’t think there’s still a chance for you? You’re still young.”

“Mate, there are players who are seventeen years old.” He barks a laugh. “I haven’t been on a pitch in ages. My chance has

come and gone. I’ve come to peace with it, honestly, but I just need to find my way now. Anyway, it’s a bit exhausting having

all the media paint me as some bumbling idiot compared to my dad and brother. Not that they matter much, don’t get me wrong.

But it would be nice to shut them up.”

I nod. “I can imagine.”

“And what about you? You really just played tennis for fun?”

“Oh, this again.” I force a chuckle, sipping my wine.

He nods. “Yeah. I just don’t know if I buy it.”

“And why not?”

“Well, it’s like I said. You don’t strike me as somebody who’s going to play tennis just for fun. It’s a competitive sport.

You’re competitive. Bit like Ollie in the way you are so determined. So I guess that doesn’t add up for me. Obviously, I could

be completely wrong, but I’m curious.”

I shrug. “You don’t even know if I’m any good.”

“Again, I don’t imagine you’d play if you weren’t.”

How has he got my number so precisely? Am I that predictable, or does he pay that much attention?

Taking a deep breath, I fidget with the corner of the tablecloth. I hate talking about this, and normally I wouldn’t, but it seems Rhodes might be one of the few people to understand.

“My mom used to come to my tennis matches,” I say. “In the beginning, it was great, but eventually she was too busy, so she

only came to the big ones. Championships, pretty much. And it worked well that way, in retrospect, because it motivated me—if

I didn’t make it to the championships, she wouldn’t see me play. So I really pushed myself. Worked as hard as I possibly could.”

Rhodes frowns.

“But along the way, I did fall in love with it for myself. I wanted to be a professional tennis player pretty badly, actually,”

I say. “But it just wasn’t in the cards for me.”

Rhodes runs his finger along the stem of his glass. “Why not?”

“Never was the best,” I say. “Maybe sometimes, but overall, I didn’t have what it took to make it something bigger. I just

didn’t have it . Never stood out enough, no matter how well I did. No matter how hard I tried. Just always felt like I was second best.”

“Damn. I’m sorry,” he says. “If it’s any consolation, I completely know what that feels like.”

Our eyes meet and I can’t believe it, but it does make me feel a bit better.

My phone goes off a couple of times in my pocket. I apologize and check it, just in case it’s Celeste or something about her

travel.

“Everything okay?”

“Sophie is texting me,” I say. “She has something important to talk to me about before she leaves.”

The tone seems different from our other texts. This feels less like we’re friends and more like coworkers—she’s using periods and perfect capitalization, and she begins with a jarringly formal “Hi, Milo.”

He furrows his brow. “Huh. Wonder what it’s about.”

I pocket my phone. “Sorry about that. No work talk.”

But there’s a slight tangible shift now that Maison Dauphine has come up.

We’re here, about to have a romantic candlelit dinner with wine and live piano, but this might just be a bubble that bursts

on Monday morning.