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The Day After
Jamie’s got a secret.
Except it’s not even really a secret, is it? It’s no one’s business but his own, it’s just big. It feels like a secret, since this is the type of thing you tell people, especially people you’d consider friends.
Jamie just… Can’t figure out how to tell anyone. The urge never comes up, the moment never presents itself. And honestly, he just can’t be bothered.
No one gives you a script for telling people your dad is dead, do they?
What’s he supposed to do? Stop the team before training with a public service announcement? “Oi lads, just so you’re aware, I might seem off ‘cause my da’s dead!”
Nah, that’d be weird. Too much like assuming people cared. Which seemed crass, even to his inner ears, but the truth’s the truth, innit?
Regardless, Jamie goes back and forth on it, always ending in the same dead end; tell ‘em or don’t.
All the while, it feels a little like pressure building. Not because it’s too emotional or he’s fucked in the head about it or anything. It’s just. Big. Or it feels like it should be big and isn’t.
The nagging feeling stays in his chest as he dresses out for training, as he lopes onto the pitch, as he dribbles and passes and scores in the mid-training scrimmage.
Every once in a while, if he’s stopped to get water or resting in line waiting for his turn at drill, Jamie feels his face twist. He’s self aware enough to know he must look strange, starin’ into the middle distance with a confused expression before he finds himself again. Confused ‘cause like, his dad’s dead and nothing’s really changed for Jamie. If a tree falls but no one’s around to see it happen, did it really happen? Jamie doesn’t know—the tree fell, and he weren’t there to see it.
He can’t tell if Roy’s noticed. Roy’s pretty perceptive, especially as attuned as he is to Jamie after all their time spent outside training, training some more.
Beard may have, Nate definitely hasn’t, and neither have the lads except for Sam, who’s giving him little looks from across the pitch.
Not concerned, but aware.
Part of Jamie celebrates as they all trod into the locker room at the end of the day, because maybe he was normal enough that no one will say anything. Or maybe (hopefully) now someone will ask and Jamie will have an excuse to tell someone.
Except it becomes obvious that if Roy has noticed, he’s elected to leave it be. Sam’s gone when Jamie returns from his shower, and the ever-confusing Beard doesn’t even glance his way as Jamie leaves for the day.
___
Week 1
It’s like. Not that Jamie hates cryin’. Jamie does actually like a proper cry every now and then. Cycle all the chemicals through his body and rebalance his homo-stasis like. He’d just prefer to cry about something that he understands.
He’d just been grabbin’ a late night cereal now that they’ve got an off day tomorrow and he can fuck up his routine just a smidge, and it’s like there’s something in the packaging and Jamie’s a mess.
He’s parked at the kitchen island, and it’s all over as suddenly as it began. The tears packed away as easy as breathing, but not before Jamie remembers his dad sneaking him sugary cereals after a good win.
__
Week 2
It’s been a week like that. Confused and crying a bit here or there. Usually, Jamie buttons it up as soon as the feeling hits. And he’s not repressed, neither. There’s nothing he’s running from. He thinks on dad often, usually with a detached sort of twist to his gut that he eventually puzzles out is disbelief. He’s not hurt or angry or sad, really. Just kind of passively missing the kind of dad his dad had been becoming before the quiet reminder that the man’s dead filters in. And he’ll have a little cry and then head to Nelson road, or brush his teeth, or switch shows on the telly.
Training has been going well, and honestly, he feels good. He knows he’s probably grieving — dad only died two weeks ago—but he’s paying attention. It doesn’t feel like denial or avoidance.
He just doesn’t want it to creep into football, even though maybe sometimes he does, just so he could justifiably say something about it aloud without choosing to make it awkward.
He just. He hated his dad. His dad was mean and flaky and judgmental. The days that he didn’t think on him were better days than all the others. It’s just…
Dad’s sponsor.
Dad’s sponsor had told Jamie over the phone when he’d delivered the news that Jamie’s dad said he loved him. That he didn’t blame him, whatever the bloody hell that meant. Except. It meant a great deal, because in his less secure moments, Jamie felt certain his father blamed him for their fight at Wembley. Of course he did. He could never take responsibility for anything, and Jamie could see that now.
Despite that, some part of Jamie would always feel a little safe, a little cared for, a little loved by his dad. And knowing he chose his last words to be kind of all right towards Jamie made him sad.
Jamie was glad he were dead, except the times he weren’t.
He just thought they’d have time to work it out.
That’s when Jamie’d tear up a bit, stood for too long in the shower post match against West Ham or Chelsea or whoever. But he still didn’t say anything. Cause it were personal. And at this point it’d been a whole two weeks and Jamie had been doing fine, hadn’t he?
So he shuts off the cold water, towels down, and heads home deciding to revel in their win.
__
Week 3
This morning, Jamie waves at the mail man. Jamie doesn’t really do that too often, but when he sees the lad, he waves and smiles. It’s embarrassing when the mailman doesn’t see him, but usually he does and he waves back. Only this time, as Jamie’s eyes drift down to the package at his feet, his hand slips into his pocket and he tilts his head to read the label stuck on upside down.
Cremated Remains
Bloody hell, there’s a surcharge on transporting human remains, did you know? Fantastic, he thinks, and then—oh, that’s dad.
__
Week 4
“No, because in Back to the Future, right, McFly goes back and invents that song—except he couldn’t have done that if he hadn’t already been back in time. But he also fucks up his parents’ marriage, yeah? And has to fix that, too. All I’m saying is that means McFly would have already been back in time before the movie, if that song already existed, but ,is parents’ marriage didn’t get all fucked up.”
Over the din of the locker room, Jamie hears Isaac’s voice, and Colin’s response.
“Yeah, but still—“
And Jamie tunes them out just as quick as he’d tuned in, cause he’s suddenly stuck in his head. His fingers go slack on his laces, and all Jamie can think of is the realization, absurd as it is, that time travel isn’t real.
He’d known it for sure. But knowing it as a fact and knowing it as truth are two different things.
Jamie, contrary to popular belief, does enjoy a good movie or two and of course he loves a dramatic reveal. A betrayal, a twist, a long lost lover come back from the dead. And it’s like, he’s spent so much time in fantasy land that his brain had been hardwired to think that way.
The dead come back to life.
His dad had been an immovable object in his life for so long that Jamie hadn’t really been able to reconcile the gaping hole of Today with that massive presence of Before. He’d been there, however far away in Manchester, but he’d been out there somewhere.
Sat in the locker room before practice, the distant reality comes crashing down that not only is his father gone but gone with a whimper. He wouldn’t ever be sauntering into Jamie’s life suddenly and without warning anymore.
Just gone. Off somewhere else. Nothing much to miss.
There would be no dramatic reveal, no time travel machine, no “He actually survived that gunshot wound, miraculously.”
James Tartt Sr. is dead.
Jamie laces up his boots.
__
Week 5
“I don’t even know why I’m cryin’!”
Truly, Jamie’s ashamed. And he feels bad. Keeley doesn’t deserve this on her lunch break, but it feels like a phenomenon that she’d be interested in.
“Babe—“
“Like I’m not even in distress, it’s just comin’ out of me, Keels—look!” Jamie points to his eyes, his nose runny and wet as a sob escapes him. “This is so weird!”
“I think you’re stressed, Jamie,” Keeley says sweetly (but with a hint of curiosity) from across her desk at Nelson Road. Despite having her own business and office and fuckin staff, Ms. Welton keeps a little office tucked away for Keeley fuckin’ Jones. Jamie’s glad for it, not just because of the uncontrollably baffling crying fit he’s stuck in, but also because Keeley deserves it. And he’d come to her, hadn’t he? Been dealing with little fits for a bit, but this was different!
“Wow. It’s really coming out of you, isn’t it?” she mutters to herself. She uncrosses her legs, standing up to come around to lean against the ledge of the desk in front of Jamie’s chair. “I mean, a lot’s been on your plate this season,” she starts, but Jamie cuts her off.
“Oh no, not again—stop right there, Ms. Jones, before what happened last time happens again!” he jokes, putting up a hand as if to ward her off, and she laughs so he knows she’s also remembering his breakdown at the end of last season in Manchester.
“Then you tell me! What have you got that you could be stressed about? I can’t think of anything that would come out of you like this.” She hands him a tissue out of the box on her desk as he wiggles his eyebrows at the innuendo. She rolls her eyes with fondness. Definitely fondness.
“Nothing, swear down!”
‘Cept I buried my dad last week, he doesn’t say.
He doesn’t immediately know why he doesn’t say it, just that there’s this sense that Keeley doesn’t deserve him dumping that on her. He shares most everything with her—both of them love some good chisme—but she shoved him in front of Doc Sharon for a reason all those months ago.
So he doesn’t say anything, just laughs and eats his sandwich from the deli down the street, engaged in soothing conversation with Keeley until the waterworks stop and the incident becomes a footnote of his week.
__
Week 6
Jamie had another one of those dreams. Ever since his time travel revelation in the locker room a couple weeks ago, he’d occasionally had some variation of the same dream.
In one, his dad wakes up in the morgue, naked as the day he were born, startling both the mortician and the man’s cat.
In another, he pops into the tunnel after the last Man City match, kitted out in Richmond colors cause he were sober and right supportive when Jamie’d last seen him.
In others, he was just there, happy and around. Doesn’t matter that he’s been dead weeks—it feels like the realest thing each time. And he’s not sayin’ anything or movin’. He’s just not dead.
__
Week 7
It’s been a month since the memorial where dad’s ashes had been put into the wall, and Jamie can honestly say he’s fine.
Like, okay, maybe he’s called off sick for two days. He just doesn’t feel able to put on his outside face and be all proper and shit for the lads. And he loves taking shit from Roy, but the gaffer will know something’s up and Jamie’s just… Tired.
He’s too tired to explain, to approach the awkward “What’s wrong,” “I don’t know,” “That’s bullshit,” tango that he and Roy do now. Because Jamie knows Roy is expecting the truth to be something like “Twisted my ankle, coach, tryin’ to stay off it,” and not “I tried to think about dad some more the other night, and now talking is scary.” Roy’s probably not expecting “Why do you think he did it?” and “Oh yeah, shit, sorry, my dad died, forgot to tell you,” or “I don’t even know how he did it.”
He just needs a few days. It’s probably not even related to all… That. He just… Yeah.
__
Week 8
Midway through the morning a week after his funk started, two months after Jamie’s dad offed himself, Jamie is scooping a spoonful of peanut butter into a bowl and shoving it in the microwave when he hears a knock at the door.
A shock of stupid fear shoots through him—blanket cape, unwashed hair, and mismatched socks—all before Jamie gets a grip. He knows he texted Roy and all them that he still wasn’t feeling well and he’d be missing practice. And it’s only them who’ve come knocking.
“Oi! Open up, Tartt!”
It’s just Roy, but still, there’s something in Jamie’s throat that makes words all the more daunting. There’s more pounding at the door, the microwave whirring loudly in the quiet, and Jamie finally unsticks himself and shuffles over to the door.
“Christ, you look awful.” Roy reels back when Jamie opens the door.
Even to himself, Jamie’s voice is small and flat when he responds. “Thanks, mate.”
Roy doesn’t let them linger. “Why weren’t you at training?”
“Told ya, not feeling good.”
“So what is it, a cold?”
“Nah.”
“Stomach?”
“Nah.”
“Flu?”
“No,” and Jamie doesn’t know how to say except to just say it, because maybe, finally, he has his excuse—too sickly looking, too tired to care about the awkwardness—to just tell someone. Its completely underwhelming.
“My dad died.”
The words stop Roy’s growly expression from getting even more growly; instead, it softens a bit around the edges.
“I’m coming in,” he says, and pushes past Jamie into his house.
Jamie follows the sound of his footsteps, a faint voice in his head telling Roy to Take your damn shoes off, you caveman, but it never leaves his head.
Roy’s prepping tea when he enters the kitchen, pulling down the sorter of bags and box of sugar cubes Jamie bought cause he thought they looked cute.
“I made apples,” Jamie says into the silence. He’s unnerved by having someone in his space when his face is off. He’s just… Usually better at reading people, at responding how they want him to. He’d been in recovery mode not two minutes ago—fully defenseless—and now Roy is here and Jamie’s faintly afraid he fucked up.
“Grab your apples, then,” Roy replies without turning to look and gestures to the couch in the living room.
Jamie grabs the apples and the peanut butter from the microwave and shuffles to his own couch, and he’s not sure how much time has passed, but then there’s tea on the coffee table and Roy’s sat on the opposite end.
“Are you… Okay?”
And Jamie feels bad, he does, but he laughs anyways at the constipated look on Roy’s face. ‘Cause this is proper awkward, like he knew it would be, and the laughter must have put some energy back in him, ‘cause he’s responding.
“Yeah, grandad, I’m alright.”
“What’s all this, then?” Roy’s hands dance around him, gesturing to all of Jamie.
“See, like—it’s not like I didn’t want to tell ya, it’s just… My dad died. Killed himself, didn’t he? And I know that’s awkward to say cause, like, it’s not a big deal. It happened like two months ago. and I been fine ’til Sunday when I actually tried to think about it. Which. Now that I say that, it sounds bad, but it weren’t like I was trying to not think about it before. Just. Haven’t found the right way to tell anybody. Be a bit mad to put that on anyone out of the blue.”
“Jamie…” Roy’s a little breathy and wide eyed.
It kind of stops Jamie in his tracks. He pauses before rushing to amend, “I’m alright, I swear—it’s just something that happened and like, it’s not as big as I thought it’d be, honest. Like, he were there one moment and the next he’s not. Don’t even know how he did it.”
His words don’t seem to comfort Roy, but they do seem to unfreeze him.
“Christ,” the older man says, turning in his seat where he’d been facing Jamie to remove the tea bags. He sets them down on the spare plate and passes one mug to Jamie. He does it slow-like—not gingerly, but like he’s taking his time thinking. Jamie tries to seep some warmth through the ceramic into his palms to replace some of the energy he’s lost spilling his guts to Roy just then.
“Jamie—“
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
Roy growls, and Jamie mimes zipping his mouth shut.
“What do you mean, you don’t know how he did it?”
“Killed himself, didn’t he? Didn’t ask the people who called how. They were closer to him, anyway, so it seemed a bit rude. Don’t know if it were pills or the drink or a gun, just that he did it himself.” Jamie feels a little gross about how casual he’s being, but truly, he’s not all that curious. Not like he did it ‘cause of Jamie.
“And you’re really okay? Cause you don’t really seem okay,” Roy asks, and he seems earnest and something else Jamie’s tired brain can’t decipher.
“Yeah, swear down.”
Roy eyes him doubtfully.
“Then why’ve you been missing practice?”
Sheepishly, Jamie runs a hand over the back of his neck and takes a sip of his tea. “I mean, I’m not in denial or anything, I just haven’t been feeling much about him dying is all. Y’know…” And here, Jamie pauses. It all feels like a tidal wave now that he’s talking aloud instead of rolling it around in his head.
“Y’know,” he repeats, “I talked to doc Sharon after Wembley and honest I had the thought ‘If this is the last time I see my dad am I okay with that?’ And I came to peace with that. And then Dad went to rehab and seemed to be doing okay and I barely got around to the idea that things could be really okay. In like, thirty years or summat. So I’m not really grieving am I, just missing something that I know for sure now won’t happen.” Jamie breathes.
“Just had that thought the other day and it was like it sapped everything out of me.”
“Put your tea down,” Roy demands.
“What?”
“Put it down ‘cause I’m going to hug you cause I don’t know what to say,” and its so characteristically Roy that Jamie barely even complains as he tips over to rest his head onto Roy’s shoulder. The man’s arms wrap around him and it isn’t really comfortable, how he’s slouched over but Roy’s holding him. Jamie lets Roy hold him together for a moment, even though he doesn’t think he needs it. He can admit that its nice to want it and get it all in the same breath though.
“Oi gaffer,” Jamie says lightly into the warm silence. Roy grunts an affirmative.
“Can you tell the lads today. It’s kind of a weird to bring up.”
“Is that why you didn’t say anything two fucking months ago?” Jamie sits up in mock indignation,
“Oi! Its awkward to bring up shit like that; people feel obligated to say some nice shit when I didn’t even like the man or even worse they feel bad for me when really I’m fine and they don’t need to worry!”
“You over thought it.”
“Course I did!”
It’s really nice though, as Roy grins and Jamie laughs feeling a bit more like one whole person. It feels a little like everything is real again. Like it really happened. Like his dad, once alive, had become a dead body and then burned even though Jamie only heard about all that. Plus, his big secret weren’t all that big after all, which he knew too. But knowing and knowing are different.
So tomorrow Jamie will go to training. But for now Jamie buries into the couch as Roy closes the front door. And he sleeps.