can’t do this anymore. All I really want to do is go home and hug my dog.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “Please apologize to your mother. I think I might leave now.”
“Ava—” He looks desperate. “Please don’t leave—”
At that moment, a fork tinkles on a glass and Matt automatically looks around to see who it is, and I dart away, almost running out of the room. Within thirty seconds I’m on the staircase down to the main conference area, and I’m not expecting him to come after me. I’m not even hoping.
Twenty-Three
OK, I was hoping. Because I always hope. It’s my inner optimistic Alice.
But at the same time the Red Queen has been muttering meanly, He won’t come after you, don’t be so stupid. And of course she’s right. I get downstairs without any hand touching my shoulder. I get through the crowded conference center without any urgent voice calling me from behind. I make it down the road without hearing frantic footsteps and Matt’s voice yelling, “Wait! Ava!”
It’s only when I’m on a bus back to north London, slumped in my seat and staring out of the window in utter misery, that the text messages start arriving.
I’m sorry.
I’m leaving as soon as I can.
We need to talk.
Are you there? Where are you?
As I read his missives, one after another, I can feel his distress through the phone. I don’t think he’s ever sent me this many text messages at once. And I can’t help it, I feel myself softening. After a moment’s thought, I type a reply:
OK, I’ll go to your place. Let’s talk there.
I head to his building, let myself in with my key, and make a piece of toast to make up for the missing lunch. I can hear music coming from Topher’s bedroom, but the door is shut, for which I’m thankful. So I just walk around, my hands clenched, my head swirling with dark, upsetting thoughts.
I’ve said, “Let’s talk,” but what do I even mean by that? Where do we start? If Matt won’t share something so important as moving to Japan, what chance do we have? Doesn’t he want a joint future? What does he think is going on?
I could get over him eating meat, I find myself thinking in a frenzied whirl. I could try to be tidier. I could find another joint hobby for us, bond with his parents, master golf….We could overcome those obstacles. But moving to Japan? Without discussing it?
His texts are still coming in, but I can’t deal with them, so I turn off my phone. The more my thoughts swirl around, the more stressed out I’m becoming. Right now it feels as if Matt-land and Ava-land are on totally different sides of the world. They’re completely alien to each other. And Matt’s just fired a missile over my airspace.
Yes. I feel a sudden whoosh of comprehension. That’s what’s happened. He’s launched a socking great cruise missile at me. But now he’s behaving like, “What’s the problem?” So my dilemma is, do I get out my nuclear missiles? Are we at war?
Wait. Do I have nuclear missiles?
I feel a little unclear on this, because I am naturally a pacifist, but on the other hand, I need to do something. I need to retaliate somehow—
The doorbell rings and my chin jerks up defensively. Why’s he ringing the doorbell? Is he making a point? I stride to the door and swing it open, ready to make some barbed, pithy comment—but my words wither on my lips and I blink in astonishment.
There’s a girl standing in front of me. (No, not girl. Woman. I shouldn’t say “girl,” even in my thoughts. A female, let’s say.) There’s a female standing silently in the hall, surveying me with raised quizzical eyebrows. And I know her. Don’t I? She has tawny, feathery hair and very white teeth and she looks so familiar, but I can’t quite place her….
“A guy let me in downstairs,” she says, and the sound of her voice triggers a rush of instant, comprehensive recall. It’s Lyric. From the writing retreat.
Lyric? Here?
“Hi, Aria,” she says, with the slightly aggressive manner I remember her using in Italy. “I heard you two got together. Didn’t expect you to last, though.”
My jaw has fallen open. My mind is scrabbling about. What is this conversation? Lyric seems to understand it perfectly, whereas I’m flailing in bafflement.
“What’s your real name?” she adds. “Someone told me, but I forgot.”