Page 64 of The Revenge Game

People crane their necks so dramatically that I worry about a mass chiropractor emergency. Vivian’s paddle stays down.

“Going once, going twice…sold!” The auctioneer’s gavel crashes down. “To our anonymous online bidder!”

The tension drains from Justin’s shoulders as relief floods his face.

He manages a gracious smile and wave as he exits the stage.

My hands shake slightly as I pocket my phone. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape and place its own bid.

I just spent seventy-five thousand pounds to save Justin from an uncomfortable situation. To protect him.

What the hell am I doing?

Chapter Eighteen

Justin

My mother calls me as I’m standing in front of my mirror, trying to decide whether my navy or gray suit would be better for my mystery date at The Shard.

I’m just hoping the mystery bidder is less predatory than Vivian. That I haven’t jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“Have you booked your flights for the reunion yet?” Mom asks after our initial greetings.

“Not yet, Mom.” I adjust my collar, studying my reflection.

“Well, let me know when you book your flights. I can’t wait to see you.”

There’s a forced brightness to her voice that I recognize all too well. She gets like this whenever I’m coming home, like she’s trying to pretend we have just a normal mother-son relationship. Like she’s trying to make up for all the years we spent walking on eggshells.

“I can’t wait to see you too,” I say.

I haven’t thought much about my upcoming class reunion. It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost ten years since high school. The reunion has been moved forward to January ratherthan May because of renovations to the school’s gymnasium over the summer, so it’s coming up fast.

I got an email yesterday from the organizing committee asking me if I was happy to give a speech as the former class president. The idea feels like a punch to the gut.

How can I deliver a speech that talks about my memories from high school with any kind of fondness? Whenever my memories of high school seep through the wall I’ve built around them, my most overwhelming feeling is shame. I’m ashamed of the person I was then. I’m ashamed that I tried to hide who I was by targeting other students.

I need to come up with a speech that entertains but doesn’t involve me having to dredge through my memories. It strikes me now that perhaps my mother could help with my mission.

“Do you think you can track down some photos from high school for me? And maybe my old yearbook? I’ve got to do a speech for the reunion, and I might show some old photos, give everyone a laugh.”

“I’ve got a few boxes of your things in my spare room. I can look in there if you want,” Mom offers.

I know the boxes she’s referring to. When I left for college, I’d taken all my possessions with me because I didn’t trust leaving anything in a house with Bobby Ray in it.

But when I moved to London, Mom agreed to store the boxes. Bobby Ray was out of the picture by then, so I trusted they’d be safe. When I dropped them off at her apartment, she asked to sift through them, smiling about my prized autographed Troy Aikman poster that used to hang above my bed and the box of my achievement certificates from elementary school, each one carefully preserved in plastic sleeves like they were made of gold instead of paper.

We hadn’t talked about the things missing from my childhood memorabilia though.

And I don’t want to talk about it now. I move the conversation on.

“Anyway, how are you doing at the moment?” I ask.

“Oh, you know me. Just plodding along. The new job at the craft store is working out well. Much better hours than the diner.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“What about you, honey? What’s been going on with you? You’ve seemed different lately.”