Tristan chucked his acoustic guitar onto his bed and threw himself after it, stretching his arms above his head so that his biceps bulged out of his light pink polo shirt. The guitar bounced once and gave a toneless groan, which actually didn’t sound much worse than the love songs he’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to crank out for the past hour. What the hell rhymed with impotent anyway? Tristan sighed. He’d never be able to start a band at this rate. But Seb and Rando were counting on him for the music. Maybe he should try his electric guitar instead. Or maybe he should just give up. He’d never be the next Thom Yorke.
A bell was ringing in the old stone chapel. Tristan crossed the bedroom and pressed his forehead against the window, staring out at the lawn. This time of day, when the light started to die and the air started to chill, was always the loneliest. The grass had been sunny before but now its patches of shadow were seeping into each other, and the younger boys who’d been playing football outside gathered their things and dispersed, scattering into different stone doorways around the school.
T ran his fingers through his quiff and turned toward the fields and woods, beyond which lay St. Cecilia’s. He’d thought dumping Alice would be a relief. She’d made him feel trapped—like their relationship had to be the one; like she wanted to settle down and stop him from shagging anyone else, ever. But now he was confused. How was he meant to know whether or not he’d made a mistake? In frustration, he kicked the bit of wall beneath his window, then staggered back clutching his foot.
Damn. What kind of idiot forgets when they’re not wearing shoes?
There was only one sensible option here: Facebook stalkage.
Alice had added a new photo album to her page. It was called C’est La Vie: Babes Do Paris. The cover picture showed her in the Place des Vosges with a group of street musicians strumming behind her. Tristan felt a twist of possessiveness. Paris was his city. He’d taken Alice to the Place des Vosges. She always told him if she was going there. Actually, she usually invited him. Fuck this.
There were more: Tally posing in front of Ladurée, the famous macaroon shop. Alice opening her mouth wide to pop in a pink macaroon, her lips glistening as red as the jam oozing out of it. Alice sipping from a mug in a pavement café. Alice wearing a wispy black dress under a streetlight, looking stunningly beautiful. Alice, Alice, Alice.
Tristan leaped up and paced about the room, kicking aside the dirty rugby uniform that he’d shed after practice this morning. Maybe if he heard her voice he’d know what to think. Better dial from Skype though; if she saw it was him, she might not pick up.
With shaking fingers, he tapped out Alice’s cell number on his keyboard. It rang once. Twice.
“Hello?”
Should he say something?
“Hello?”
Tristan’s heart clanged in his ears. He hung up.