Jo and Piets last day in Stellenbosch after a weekend visit that turned into a week started with the kind of morning that made people linger in bed a little longer, stretching out into something more than just habit. For Jo and Piet, this was the last visit to Stellenbosch for a while; too many memories, too much nostalgia. Jo had said to Piet. Ja, the gang can rather come to us, Piet stretched in bed. The vineyards outside still shimmered with dew, the quad still echoed faintly with last night’s laughter, but everything felt more final. Today didn’t feel like a goodbye to Stellenbosch; it felt more like a promise to see each other again in a long time, perhaps only at graduation next year.
But they didn't spend it sulking. The gang was already waiting.
They met outside De Lapa, the usual corner under the ancient oak tree. The whole gang was there, chatting over takeaway coffees and clingy hangovers. Spencer was there too, leaning against the railing, too casual, too aware of his own presence.
Jo bounded up with his usual lopsided grin, freckled and easy. Piet followed, hands deep in his pockets, jaw tight. They were here to make this day count, and to tie off one last frayed edge: Spencer.
The group spent the morning at Coetzenburg, tossing a rugby ball around, sweat mingling with laughter. They teased Spencer like old times, with light jabs about his tragic dancing skills and the way he takes group project meetings way too seriously. Jo, always the center of attention, kept things breezy, never giving Spencer more than a glance, but his energy pulled everyone into orbit, Spencer included.
Beers were cracked by noon. Henk handed Spencer one. Piet watched, making sure every offer was deliberate, no one left out, but nothing given too freely either. Spencer was being allowed back in, not welcomed with open arms. That was the unspoken rule. He wasn’t a leader anymore. He was just… Spencer.
But Spencer wasn’t playing it clean. Every so often, his gaze lingered a touch too long on Jo’s neck. His hand brushed Jo’s shoulder during a joke and stayed an extra beat. Jo, oblivious as ever, just grinned, nudged him back like nothing. But Piet caught it all, the stare that lasted a second too long, the half-compliments wrapped in mockery, the way Spencer’s body always angled toward Jo.
It came to a head when the gang decided to head to Die Braak for Sunday lunch. The walk through the cobbled streets was lazy, filled with midmorning tipsiness and cracked jokes. Jo walked ahead, chatting animatedly with his old mates. Spencer trailed behind, near Piet.
Piet slowed until they were out of earshot, then stepped closer, his tone flat but sharp. “You’re pushing your luck, bru.”
Spencer blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“You know what,” Piet said, jaw clenched. “All that touching and staring. You think we don’t see it? You think I don’t?”
Spencer opened his mouth, but Piet cut him off. “Don’t. Just don’t. The gang’s being civil because Jo and I asked them to. That shit you’re pulling? It will end the groups play nicely vibes at the drop of a hat.”
Spencer’s expression twisted, half wounded, half defensive. “I’m not doing anything—”
“Exactly,” Piet snapped. “You’re not doing anything. Not fixing what you broke. Just circling Jo like a bloody vulture, hoping no one will notice.”
Sarah had fallen behind, hearing the raised voices. She stepped in, arms crossed, voice low but lethal. “Piet’s right. You’ve been given a third chance, Spencer. Don’t blow it.”
He turned to her, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”
“But you did,” she said. “We’re all trying, but you're making it hard. You don’t get to creep around Jo, hoping something just clicks. Jo’s not here for your redemption arc.”
Piet gave one last look, then turned and walked ahead, catching up with the others. Sarah followed, leaving Spencer standing alone on the cobbled path, hands shaking slightly.
Behind them, Spencer stood still for a long time. The bell from the church rang out in the distance, distant chatter from families and tourists flitting past like ghosts. He stared at the curve of Jo’s shoulders up ahead, Jo laughing without a care, Piet beside him, always grounded.
He could go after them. Fix things. Let go of whatever it was he still clung to.
Or he could turn his back on it all. Leave Stellenbosch with nothing but ghosts in his wake.
The wind picked up slightly, lifting the hem of his shirt. Still, he didn’t move.
Not yet.
