Page 133 of The Revenge Game

Drew’s helped me realize that all those years I spent trying to be the perfect quarterback, salesman, everything, were just different versions of hiding. There’s something incredibly freeing about being loved for your imperfections instead of despite them. About having someone who doesn’t just accept the way you spoil your cats or your obsession with correct roast potato methodology but actually finds those traits endearing.

I don’t know quite how to phrase this revelation in a speech I can share with my ex-classmates though.

I brought my old school yearbook with me on the trip to help me write the speech, and I flick through it now for inspiration.

I can’t help snorting when I stumble across theMost Likely Topage. Some of the predictions are definitely off.Most Likely to Become a Millionaire: Seymour Washington, who I last saw posting on social media about living in his mother’s basement and his amazing opportunity selling dietary supplements.Most Likely to Never Leave Texas: Amy Rodriguez, who I know is currently teaching English in Japan.

Then I see the prediction that makes my stomach clench.Most Likely to Stay Together Forever: Justin Morris and Madeline Birwood.

In the photo, Maddie’s cheerleader uniform matches my letterman jacket, like we’re actors hired by central casting rather than actual teenagers. I remember how my hands shook when I pinned on her corsage at prom, terrified someone would somehow see through my carefully constructed facade.

Funny how we all made these grand predictions about each other’s futures when we didn’t even know who we were ourselves.

There’s something weirdly poetic about how wrong we all were. Maybe because we couldn’t imagine anything beyond the roles we’d been assigned at eighteen. The football captain marries the head cheerleader, the math geek becomes anaccountant, and the class clown hosts a morning radio show. But life has this way of unraveling all our careful predictions. Like how the guy votedMost Likely to Stay Single Foreveris now raising triplets.

The train jolts into King’s Cross, derailing my trip down memory lane. I transfer to the underground, but once I’ve arrived at the station, instead of heading straight to the office, I go past the fancy hot chocolate place Drew loves. I love seeing how he practically purrs over their Belgian dark chocolate blend.

I juggle the hot chocolate and my laptop bag as I push open the door to the IT department.

Drew’s sitting at his desk, and when he glances up, there’s a flash of something in his expression that I can’t quite read. Almost like panic, which doesn’t make sense because this is Drew, who I spent Christmas Day with, who told me he loved me.

“Surprise!” The word comes out breathier than I intended, my heart doing that fluttering thing it always does when I see him, like it’s trying to escape my chest to get closer to him.

“What are you doing here?” His voice sounds strange. “I thought you weren’t due home until tonight.”

I don’t understand why he’s acting like he’s seen a ghost in his inbox instead of his boyfriend bearing hot chocolate.

Maybe he’s still not feeling well?

“I got the deal done yesterday. I wanted to get home early to surprise you.”

Before Drew can respond, Xander bursts into the office.

“Drew! Or should I say, Andrew—” Xander starts, then spots me. “Oh! Justin.”

“Hey, Xander.” I direct my attention back to Drew, who looks like he’s about to be sick. The hot chocolate suddenly feels heavy in my hand, but I keep talking, hoping that if I drown him indetails, he’ll stop looking like he’s about to bolt from his desk chair.

“I actually left first thing this morning. The trains were absolute chaos. Some signal failure at Preston meant we had to go via Manchester.”

“Why didn’t you just take your boyfriend’s private jet?” Xander chortles.

The words take a moment to process, like when you have to reread something because your brain refused to make sense of it the first time.

“My boyfriend’s private jet?”

Drew’s face has gone completely white, and there’s a roaring sound in my ears that almost drowns out Xander’s next words.

“What the hell, Andrew? It’s one thing not to tell your colleagues about who you really are. But your boyfriend doesn’t know either?” Xander says.

The room seems to tilt sideways, like someone’s adjusted reality’s settings without warning me first.

Andrew.

Who the hell is Andrew?

Drew’s face has my whole attention. Drew’s face makes me grip the cup of hot chocolate so tightly I’m worried my fingers will leave permanent indents in the cardboard.

His usual warm brown eyes are huge behind his glasses, filled with the kind of devastation I’ve only seen in the shelter animals who’ve been abandoned multiple times.