Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

We sat on gunmetal stools in a tight corner of the speakeasy. The air smelled like burnt orange, and fifties music played from a laptop on the reclaimed wood bar. I was drinking something short with moonshine, and he was drinking something long with tequila. Our kiss on the street had been quick, but now that he was back, things would settle. My grandma used to say that about houses: They just have to settle.

I started by talking about my new book, and he said that it sounded great but then added: Just don’t let it take away from your actual writing. I told him that it felt different, and that he was right when he had called my last book pretentious. He said that he didn’t remember saying that. I told him that I hadn’t taken it in a bad way. I asked if he wanted to read some, and he said that he would read it when it was finished. Then he added: I’m not trying to be disparaging. I just want to see you finish something, honey. You’ve never expressed an interest in writing for children before.

Honey.

He took a sip of his traffic light–striped drink. I asked if it was nice, and he nodded, then asked how mine was. I said that mine was nice too. I felt a swell of relief at the normality and leaned over the table to kiss him. I’m so glad you’re back. If I had known you would have been gone for that long, I would’ve—

Enola. It’s been two weeks. I was in Norwich, I didn’t go to war.

The waitress asked if we wanted more drinks. Tracing a finger down the menu, he stopped at: Weapon of the Gods? She looked to me, and I asked for the same again, but I thought I saw his chest fall, so I changed my order to a pistachio martini. That sounds fucking disgusting, he said.

The waitress left, and the conversation stalled. I asked how Norwich was, but he said that he didn’t want to talk about it; he and his dad had been arguing about his career again. I looked around for inspiration: there was a picture of a bison constellation on the wall. Oh, I wanted to talk to you about Patrick!

He frowned. My Patrick? Why?

Amy says it’s better to have illustrations—

What’s Amy got to do with anything?

Her agent’s assistant specializes in YA and, apparently, I should look at submitting illustrations when—

Wait, is the book for kids kids?

No, but I wanted illustrations. The protagonist is doing this art therapy and—

He was looking at me like I was insane, so I quickly explained that I thought Patrick might like to do them. He finished his drink with a rattle and said that Pat illustrated high-end stuff. I raised my glass to my lips, but it was empty. I took a fake sip. No worries, it was just an idea, I said, pretending to swallow. I asked how his writing was going, but he tensed up and said that he didn’t want to talk about it. Before I could decide whether or not to push, his phone vibrated. He mouthed the words as he read them, then expressed relief; he’d left his wallet at Steph’s last night and she had just found it.

Didn’t you get back today?

He said that he was meant to, but then Steph organized last-minute birthday drinks and it was late so he just crashed with her afterward.

My brain struggled to process: He came back yesterday, he went to a party, he slept with Steph?

Where did you crash?

With. Steph.

But in her bed?

He put his phone on the table with the screen facing down and told me that it was no different to me crashing with Ruth. That was probably true. But I asked him why he didn’t tell me that he was back early. His brow creased. Why would I tell you that I was back early when I already had plans? That doesn’t make the sense you think it does.

He made a good point. Or did he? Because I had been desperate to see him, but he clearly didn’t feel the same if he chose Steph’s bed over mine. Something was wrong. There was still tension. We hadn’t seen each other for two weeks; the conversation should be electric.

I’m sorry, but—

But what? he interrupted wearingly.

I feel like…

Yes?

What I wanted to say was: Why have we barely spoken? What’s changed? Do you love me? But instead, tiptoeing, I asked why he hadn’t invited me to the party. I could have gone with you. I mean, it’s been months and I’ve still not met your friends.

He nodded like he was a detective solving a case. And that’s it, isn’t it? Asking Pat to do your illustrations? Come on, Enola. If and when you’re at the illustration stage of your book—because, let’s be clear, you actually have to finish it first—you could approach anyone to do the art, so why don’t you try being honest about what you’re attempting to do? He placed his palms behind his head and sighed. There was a rise in my chest, then a drop: the last time he moved like that, he was sunbathing.

What? I asked, nervous about what he was going to say and relieved that I hadn’t said everything I was feeling.

It’s just—

What?

Boring.

What is?

All this! I’ve been in a relationship like this before and I won’t do it again.

Like magic, my anger and frustration vanished, and all that was left was incapacitating fear. Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. I pinged my elastic band under the table, once but hard.

Look, honey, I’m not trying to be a dick…

My hands turned ice-cold.

But I know myself, and I’ve never been someone who responds well to pressure. I don’t know. Maybe going away together was a mistake.

I tried to stop the shake in my voice. No, it wasn’t a mistake. Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t care about you crashing with Steph, okay?

He said it wasn’t just that. He said that some of the situations in Kenya were challenging. Honey, the bites? You completely overreacted. And then it just seemed like everything was a bit intense . You know I’m not a fan of the drama.

But I had asked you multiple times if everything was okay and you said—

He hit his hand to his forehead as if he had just remembered something. Yes! he said. That was the other thing. The constant asking if I was okay. If you want me to be okay then you have to let me be okay, honey.

I promised him that I would do better. I didn’t mean to put any pressure on you. I really don’t want to break up, I said, putting my head in my hands.

He made a noise like a balloon deflating. Okay, honey. Come on. I never suggested that . I looked up and he was grinning and we were back in the beach house and he was pouring wine into my mouth. I told him that I had just missed him. He told me not to be silly. We can spend a couple of weeks apart. That doesn’t have to be a big deal, does it? We smiled at each other, and then he began galloping his fingers over the table. I started humming the William Tell Overture, but he told me I was humming “Ride of the Valkyries.” Warmth returned to my hands as the waiter returned with our cocktails.

We stayed for one more, and then I asked if he wanted to come back to mine. I was nervous about what he might say, but then he showed me his toothbrush.

So, I’m still your girlfriend…?

What do you think?

We watched an episode of a television show in bed on my laptop, and then I moved in toward his body. He turned his face and kissed me properly for the first time since the beach. We had sex, and I focused on him. I needed him to remember how much we wanted each other, to remember that no woman understood him like I did. Afterward, he fell asleep, but adrenaline hammered in my chest. He was back, he was here, he was mine. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t miss a moment.