the long game / gr63

chapter twenty-three

— TALIA —

TW: Repercussions of last chapter's events

The desperation in George's voice was clear as day, immediately causing my body to go into high alert. There was lipstick smeared on his cheek, his hair disheveled, but it was the look in his eyes that made my heart sink. He resembled a terrified wild animal, as if he'd just been shot and had now been left to die.

I slid off my bar stool and grabbed my purse. "Of course. Come on, let's go."

He kept his head down as we walked out of the church, and I'd never seen him like this. So fragile, shaking like a leaf. It's not a state that one would associate with a guy like him, with a body and height like his.

When we were out on the street, around the corner from anyone who might still be entering or leaving the event, I pulled George to a stop. And by that I meant that I physically had to keep him from walking on. His eyes were glazed over, expression blank and muscles tight.

"George," I breathed, reaching for his bicep, trying to get him to look at me. When I got no response, I tried again. "Babe, breathe."

He shook his head, running his hands down his face. "I just need to walk."

"Okay." I agreed. "Let's walk."

I laced my arm through his and we walked on, my heels clicking against the cobblestone and the wind howling like a wolf. The late December air was crisp, a kind of cold that could cure a cold as much as cause one. With each row of houses that we passed, I grew more and more concerned with the lingering silence between us.

I could tell whatever had caused this had nothing to do with me, by the way he was holding on to my arm like his life depended on it, as if he found comfort in my touch. But, in the back of my mind, I think I knew exactly who had caused this. And it gnawed on me like a hungry caterpillar on a leaf.

Dusk had fallen, but there were still a couple of shops open, and so I pulled George in the direction of a little café. "Hot chocolate?" I suggested, to which I only got a small nod.

When I'd secured us each a steaming take-away cup of cocoa, I led us to a bench a little away from the shops and the busy crowd. I turned to George, studying his expression: the furrow in his brow, the nervous jittering of his leg, the frown on his lips.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked slowly, trying to navigate how comfortable he was. I didn't want to force anything, but I also knew sitting in silence might only make it worse. Maybe talking about it could help him relax, breathe.

When he hesitated, I leaned forward, to rest my hand on his knee. He flinched, immediately making me pull back. Dread filled me with the realisation that something bad might have happened in that bathroom. "George..." I couldn't help the sympathy that laced my voice.