Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

We texted lightly for a few days; politics, the weather, funny things we had seen, and then on Tuesday, I agreed to meet him. I settled on a loose dress beneath my winter coat and deliberately mismatching underwear.

I pushed the Art Deco doors, and he was at the bar with a pint. I looked at my feet, half in and half out the door. I knew that when I looked up, I could be lost to him again, but hadn’t I felt his loss deeper than my own over these past ten months? Besides, it might be fine. We might just chat as friends. I prepared to look at him as at an eclipse.

One.

Two.

Three—

There he was, and I immediately existed in all the same ways as before.

I walked up to the bar, and he pulled out a stool. Well, this is a pleasant twist! He looked like a teenager being told not to laugh. I said hello, but my voice sounded like I was speaking in an accent. There were marks on my fake leather bag, like how my grandma’s cat left nervous paw prints at the vet’s. He asked me what I fancied. Complicated question .

A red wine, please. I slipped off my coat, and his eyes gleamed. There was more silver in his hair. He ordered a large, and I said that a small would have been fine.

Why, you have somewhere to be, Enola?

He edged his stool so that our knees were touching, and I remembered waking up with him in the beach house: white sheets, grains of sand, legs wrapped around legs. I reminded myself to stay alert. A drink with him was like crossing a busy road.

He took a fake sip of his cider for impact.

I heard about Simon Longman, I said, keeping my tone casual. I couldn’t believe it when Mat told me!

He narrowed his eyes. Why? Because I was such a failure when we were together?

No! You were never a failure! Your writing is incredible. It’s astute and funny and—

He grinned.

That’s not funny!

He laughed, and it cut through me like it used to, like I had earned it. I called him a prick, and he said that nothing had changed there. I wondered if that was true, though, that nothing had changed. Did he have a girlfriend? He was looking at me like he was imagining me naked.

You must be over the moon, I said.

Simon is over the moon. He gets to spend his evenings drafting emails about the real function of a semicolon.

And what is the real function of a semicolon?

No one knows.

He asked about my book, and I told him that it was on submission. He said that he was proud of me, and I wanted to hibernate in his voice. I told him that he shouldn’t be too proud because it didn’t look like anyone wanted to publish me. Six rejections so far.

We stayed in the pub for two large glasses of wine and conversation concurrently razor-sharp and watercolor. I wanted to write it all down so that I could read it back. We shared a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps and discussed our work. I told him that when I was redrafting my book, I once woke to a note on my bedside table that read: People who can’t ride horses should ride friendly centaurs. He said that he did the same thing with voice notes. I told him that I was worried Diana would drop me when the book didn’t sell. He told me to focus on the writing. That’s your only job. Leave the rest to Diana.

We traced the American political situation. He told me that people voting for Trump was less about misogyny and more about disillusionment. I told him that they weren’t mutually exclusive. We chatted about the books that we had read since breaking up. When he said the word “breakup,” I felt my cheeks warm. If we had broken up then we had also been together; we had seen each other naked. I could lean over and put my tongue in his ear. But I didn’t. I told him that I still had his copy of Catch-22 , and he said that he had been looking for that.

We asked about each other’s families. How’s the crazy aunt? I told him that Louise was fine. I asked about his parents and Karen, and he said that the doll collection had grown. He asked after Ruth, and there was a beat when we both remembered how much he had hurt me. I asked about Pat and felt stupid for using his nickname when we had never met. But then he said that Pat had mentioned me recently.

Pat was always rooting for this—for us. He liked you, Enola. Or maybe he just knew that I did.

You did? I thought but didn’t say.

I looked at my glass and asked about Steph. He said that she was filming a pilot in LA. I lied that Mat said he had bumped into them. Was that before she left? It was a pathetic attempt to garner information, but I had to know if Mat had seen him with a girlfriend. I braced for the cauterization, but he nodded and subsequently affirmed that the woman he had been with was, in fact, just Steph.

Thank god.

Then he took my hands. His skin felt rougher, and his fingers seemed larger. He said that my hands still looked like a child had drawn them. A circle with five sticks. I slipped my hands away and took the last sip of my wine. Were we just friends or was this a reconciliation? Both thoughts made me sick. The former because seeing him made it impossible for me not to see him again. The latter because I would have to tell Ruth.

He placed his palms on the bar and asked if I wanted another drink. But I shook my head; the edges of the pub were smudging. Well, he said slowly. I suppose we should go home then? Unless there’s something else you want to do? I nodded that we should go home, and I meant it, but then I floated to the ceiling and watched myself suggest that he come to mine so I could return his book.

T HE COLD WOKE ME up, and so when we got to mine, I asked him to wait by the door, but he followed me to the bookshelf in the living room. I found the thick silver spine and gave it to him. He pulled out a turquoise Vonnegut and moved it into the orange section. I went to move it back, but he caught my arm and told me that losing control would be good for me. He said that he would lend me this new book he was reading when we saw each other next. Then he corrected himself. If we see each other. His hand was still on my arm. I had to take charge of the moment.

All right, I said definitively.

All right…

I walked back to the door, and he followed. I gave him the kind of hug that I would give a friend. It was so quick that I barely noticed his lips graze my hair or the smell of his neck. I reached for the door, but his hand lingered on my waist. Neither of us moved. He searched my eyes for the approval I didn’t mean to give, and then he kissed me. I said his name, but my words melted on his tongue. His hand pressed the wall to steady us. I brought up a tsunami of concerns like swells of a tide, but his voice was in my mouth when he said: Wouldn’t it be sexy to say that your ex-boyfriend came over and fucked you?

Those aren’t the words I would use.

He was crude, but he delicately unbuttoned my dress.

I was being led to my bedroom like it was his.

Pushed onto the bed.

It wasn’t like coming home. It wasn’t beautiful. We both tasted like the cheese-and-onion crisps we ate at the bar, and when I removed him, heavy and hard, from his red boxers there was a sourness, but it was the most alive I had felt since the glass shattered against the bedroom wall.

A FTERWARD , I ASSUMED THAT he would leave, but he suggested a bath. He went to the shop and returned with a bottle of red and a chocolate egg. Don’t say I never gave you anything. I wasn’t sure if he remembered that he had given me one before.

We poured two glasses, and I waited in the water as he put some music on his phone. They were songs that he used to play, and it was like time travel. He climbed in, quipping: Sorry for the view. I unwrapped a bath bomb that Catherine had given me for my birthday. He dropped it in the water with a “kaboom,” and it spewed pink glitter that caught in the bubbles like dirt in a corner of a lake. He leaned back and closed his eyes; then he opened them and it felt like I had been caught staring at a stranger on the tube. But he just shook his head and said: I just can’t believe I’m here again.

Me neither.

Good surprise?

I’m not sure yet.

He asked if he had been a dick to me when we were together. I told him that I had been thinking about that recently. I was seeing someone, and the experience made me realize that I had been unreasonable. He shook his head. You weren’t unreasonable. You were just sensitive and I felt—

Like you were responsible for my feelings all the time?

He nodded.

When we got back together—

You don’t have to—

I know but—

I was the one who…

No, I was…

Our voices trailed off, and we just looked at each other. He said that maybe time was how we fixed things. I didn’t agree or disagree, because the moment felt too unsteady. He asked if I remembered our holiday, like it was an episode of a show we watched once. He said that he regretted going away together so early. I said that it was four months in. Either way, he said. I think we should have gotten to know each other more. I told him that it never seemed like he wanted to get to know me. He said that I never seemed like I wanted to be known. I felt brave then and asked: So, what do you want now ? His eyes sparked, and he lowered his hand under the water. He started writing letters on my thigh. The first word was “I,” and the second started with a “w.” He was writing “I want.” I joked that this was like playing Scrabble. He moved his fingers up and asked where the triple word score was. He wrote the third word three times and then looked at me questioningly.

Yes, yes, I want you too , I said without speaking.

He adjusted so that he was on his knees and moved toward me. Water splashed over the side. I lifted one knee so he could push inside me. His hand reached around my back and pulled me closer. More water splashed over the side. Fuck, he said, fuck. Hands reached my neck and squeezed like he was trying to fold me up like paper. Pressure rose. My elbow caught the wineglass, which tipped and turned the water red. He caught it without removing his mouth from my neck. I reached into the water and touched myself until I came; then he pulled out and came on my chest.

Oh god. Oh my god.

That was the first time that had happened, and I had to fight to stop from crying. He said that was intense. I agreed but didn’t tell him why. I felt stupid that I hadn’t been able to do that before. He fell back by the taps, and the bath bomb shriveled to a raisin. He said that he had felt it fizzing and it wasn’t unpleasant. We laughed, and I pointed out that the water was cold. There’s not much of it left, he said with a double eyebrow raise. I bit my cheeks, and he asked me why I did that. I said that I thought it made me look like I had dimples. He said, dryly, that it didn’t. Then, holding up one hand, palm facing me, he declared that he was a prune. I said that he was a prune before the bath, so it wasn’t a fair experiment. He splashed me, and I remembered being in the ocean with him on the holiday we never should have taken.