I came here for comfort and instead I’ve messed up. I shouldn’t have invaded Seb’s privacy. I shouldn’t have blurted it out. But can’t he forgive me?
“It seems like neither of us can say anything without hurting the other,” I say, my voice trembling. “Maybe I should go.”
I’m so desperately hoping that Seb’s face will change, that he’ll sweep me into his arms and we can say sorry to each other six hundred times and make it better in bed.
But he doesn’t. He’s silent for a few moments, then says, “If you think so.”
So I gather my things with shaking hands, my breaths coming short and shallow. And I go.
I travel home in a daze, sitting on the tube, staring at my distorted reflection. I can’t quite comprehend what just happened, how we went so far and so badly so quickly. And it’s only when I get home, to my own bedroom, that I bury my face in my pillow and start to sob.
Twenty-three
I wake up with a splitting headache and only one thought: Seb. I must contact Seb. The entirety of last night is in my head, as clearly as though it happened five minutes ago. I still can’t believe how we veered off track. I have to talk to him, apologize; we have to make this right.
It was only a spat, I tell myself. All couples have spats. We were both tired and stressed and said stuff we didn’t mean. We can fix this.
I grab my phone and send a text to him:
Are we OK?
Then I flop back on my pillow and stare at the ceiling, trying to self-heal my headache. I’ve seen a book in Nicole’s room called Meditate Your Way to Health, but what are you supposed to do when your head hurts too much to meditate?
I try to focus on a beach, but the only beach I can visualize is dry and scorching and kind of dystopian-looking, with blinding white sand and harsh cliffs and a vulture trying to peck bits out of my eyes while it screeches in my ear. So in the end I get up, wrap my robe around myself, and stagger down the stairs to find some aspirin. I’ll follow the Drug Your Way to Health regime, I decide. Just for this morning. And I’m on the bottom step when a new text pings into my phone, making my heart lurch with nerves. It’s from Seb.
I don’t know, are we?
I gaze at it, my temples throbbing. I don’t know how to reply. If I say yes, do I sound too complacent? Obviously I’m not going to say no. What I really want to say is, I don’t know, are we? but that sounds like I’m copying him.
The main thing, I tell myself, is that he replied. Within two minutes. So he’s thinking about me too. And maybe the best thing is not to text again yet but to call him later, only I must have an aspirin first …
I push open the door of the kitchen and nearly die of shock. Ryan is sitting at the kitchen table, scooping cereal into his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I clutch the doorframe.
“Morning.” He shoots me a dazzling smile, but I don’t return it.
“What are you doing here?” I try again. “What— How—” I feel like I might be going mad. Is Ryan part of my dystopian fantasy? Have I conjured him up to torture myself?
“Jake gave me a key, said I could stay over in his old room.” Ryan winks suggestively. “He told me you wouldn’t be here; otherwise, I would have come visiting.”
“You’re vile.” I glare at him. “I want you out.”
“Give me a chance!” says Ryan, gesturing at his breakfast. “I haven’t finished! Although these cornflakes are pretty gross,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.
“They’re Nicole’s,” I say. “They’re spelt flakes.”
“You moron,” I want to add. “Can’t you read the packet?” But that would be engaging with him, when what I want is not to engage with him, ever again.
“Spelt,” he says thoughtfully, finishing his last mouthful. “Huh. Figures.”
“Go,” I say sternly. “Now.”
“So, how have you been?” He leans back in his chair, running his eyes over me in a way that would have had me melting on the floor once upon a time. “I’ve been hoping you might call me.”
He’s been hoping I might call him? I open my mouth, about six furious responses on my lips, then stop myself. Do not engage, Fixie. It’s what he wants.