Chucking the sweater out into the room, he turns the shower on and turns the heat up, hoping to soothe away the dull throbbing up his spine. It’s too much of a reminder of what happened and he doesn’t know how he’s going to do. He doesn’t know if he can face Anne-Marie any time soon, not even on the phone, not whilst the memories are so fresh in his mind.
James makes a very safe decision he’s sure he won’t regret. He’ll never breathe a word of this, and it’s never going to happen again.
Less than twenty-four hours pass before he’s driven himself crazy. James is sat in the hotel lounge, cap pulled over his messy hair, sunglasses on and a strong coffee from the Starbucks down the road in one hand. Behind his glasses, his eyes are trained on Michael, who’s sat at the hotel bar with Kevin, laughing into his Tom Collins. Kevin’s drinking whiskey and, James imagines, telling Michael that cocktails are for women, as he has done many times before.
He hasn’t seen James, who wasn’t supposed to be back from filming for an hour, until a storm rained them out. James can’t take his eyes off of him.
Everyone’s noticed, although not everyone’s said anything. James is walking with a limp today; he’s got bruises in suspicious places, and he and Michael aren’t talking. Jennifer’s already asked him, sheepishly, if they’ve fallen out. All James can do is reassure her everything is fine.
Kevin downs his drink and gets up, patting Michael on the shoulder and going to leave. He’s accosted by a couple of fans before he reaches the door, a couple of women who look old enough to have seen his debut in 1978 when it first arrived in theatres. James watches for just a moment before his focus returns to Michael; another difficult conversation is coming up, he just knows it. He couldn’t bring himself to phone his wife the night before, and he knows it’s a sign that this won’t go away. The déjà vu to the situation after the phone call is less than amusing.
Getting up from his seat in the lobby as soon as Kevin is gone, he walks slowly over towards the bar, careful not to look like he’s still aching. It’s not as bad as it was, but James doesn’t like making the headlines in trash magazines. He hates paparazzi.
His plan this time is to talk somewhere public. James knows it’s not ideal, but at least Michael can’t pull any tricks and he can’t let himself do anything stupid. Determined look on his face, he puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder and gives him an anxious half-smile in an attempt to be civil.
“Hey,” is all James can muster. As Michael’s eyes meet his, his chest shudders slightly, heart skipping a beat. He doesn’t want to think about what it means.
“I thought you were ignoring me,” Michael states, sipping at his cocktail. James hand falls to his side awkwardly. He sits down in the seat Kevin was just sat in, dropping his eyes to the countertop.
James is silent for a moment, shrugging his shoulders childishly. He hates confrontation and he hates serious conversation.