not a friendly question. That’s not a kissing-and-making-up question. Does he not want to kiss and make up?
As the thought hits me, I feel suddenly empty and scared and a bit stupid. Have I read this all wrong? Have I assumed…
Oh God. Does he see everything differently from me?
Are we over?
The thought sends unbearable pain ricocheting around me. Over. We can’t be over. I need him. I close my eyes, trying to breathe steadily, willing it not to be true. It can’t be. It can’t be what he wants. But why else would he send such a formal, distancing text?
I read the words yet again—Why do you want to meet?—and they’re plain hurtful. Where’s the intimacy? Where’s the affection? What are we, business associates?
My head is throbbing and I think I might start crying if I let myself. But I’m not going to. I’m Ninja Fixie. I’m tough. If he wants to be businesslike, I can be businesslike.
I type a new text, my thumbs jabbing the keys so hard I keep misfiring, but I don’t care, I have to let out some of my hurt.
There’s a business thing I wanted to ask you about.
I send the text, then wait breathlessly. Two can send hurtful messages. Two can play at being distant and formal. A moment later my phone pings:
Fine.
I stare at the single word, feeling a fresh stabbing in my heart. Why is he like this? Why has he given up on us? We had a row last night. A row. Couples have rows. Is he really going to throw it all away because I made one stupid mistake?
As I scroll backward and forward on my phone, reading all the texts we’ve exchanged today, I just don’t get it. He sounded OK this morning. Not exactly ebullient, but not cold either. He sounded like he wanted to see me.
Now, however, he sounds cold and detached and not the Seb I know. Let alone the Seb I’m in love with. What’s happened? Why?
But I can’t answer any of these questions standing here, motionless. So at last I force myself onward, my feet feeling heavy. I was so looking forward to seeing him. But now I’m dreading it.
* * *
—
I arrive at the building and Seb greets me himself at the lift and I instantly know: It’s worse than I expected.
“So,” he says. “Hi.” He extends a hand, but he doesn’t kiss me. His face is taut. His eyes are dark and ominous and keep looking past me. I shake his hand, feeling a bit surreal.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“No problem.”
He ushers me into his office as though I’m a stranger, asking politely if I’d like a coffee. All the time, his body language is wretched: stiff and tense, keeping his distance, swiveling away from me at every chance. And I keep thinking, Is this a joke? Are we really acting like this? But it doesn’t seem to be a joke.
As I’m waiting for him to return with my coffee, I look around his office. It’s so much more characterful than his flat. So much more homey, with all the books and photos and the colorful rug.
This is his home, I suddenly realize. So his flat is…what?
Limbo. The word comes to me, unbidden. His flat is limbo. Empty and unloved and kind of waiting. And suddenly I’m desperate to talk to him about this. But how can I when we’re as stiff as two cats preparing to fight?
He comes back in with two mugs, and I look up, hoping that maybe now things will relax—but if anything he looks less friendly than before.
“What can I do for you?” he says, sitting down, and I feel a surge of fresh hurt. Fine. If he wants to play it like that, then fine.
“I’m here for a favor,” I say shortly. “Not for me, for someone else. For—”
“Yes, I can guess,” he cuts me off.
He sounds so hostile, I flinch. He looks as though he’s bubbling with outrage. Hatred even. And, OK, I know he told me to be tough with Jake. I know I’m doing the opposite of what he advised, coming here for a bailout. But does he have to be so sanctimonious?
“I don’t expect you to understand,” I say.
“No. Frankly, I don’t.”
“Well, I guess I’m just not as strong as you thought,” I snap miserably. “Sorry.”
“Oh, you don’t have to apologize.” His eyes are so hard and unforgiving, I wince. “Your life. Do what you