a broken piece of wing and a human tooth right by my foot, and I shrink away with a shriek, part revulsion, part dismay at myself, part just anguish.
Could I mend it? But even as the thought passes through my brain, I know it’s ridiculous. As I pick up the putter and survey the black smithereens scattered across the floor, I feel utterly sick. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to…
Then my stomach heaves as there’s the sound of a key in the lock. The front door is opening, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed, clutching the putter, like the murderer at the crime scene.
“Ava,” Matt greets me—then stops dead. His eyes widen and darken as they take in the scene of carnage. I hear him emit a tiny sound of distress, almost a whimper.
“I’m sorry,” I gulp. “Matt, I’m so sorry.”
Slowly, his aghast eyes travel to the putter in my hand.
“Jesus.” He wipes his face. “You…you did this?”
“Yes,” I admit in a tiny voice.
“But how? What were you doing?”
“I was…angry,” I begin in faltering tones. “Matt, I’m so sorry….”
“You were angry?” Matt’s voice rockets in horror. “So you destroy a piece of art?”
“God! No!” I say in equal horror, realizing how I’m misrepresenting myself. “I wasn’t aiming at the art. I was hitting the footstool! I just…I don’t know how it happened….” I trail off in misery, but he doesn’t respond. I don’t think he’s even listening.
“I know you didn’t like it,” he says, almost to himself. “But—”
“No!” I say in dismay. “Please listen! It was an accident! I was in a state! Because I get back here from the expo and the doorbell rings and who is it? Your former girlfriend, Sarah. Or should I say Lyric? I had no idea who she was, and I felt like a total, utter fool—”
“Sarah?” Matt looks shattered. “Sarah was here?”
“Didn’t you bump into her? She only just left.”
“No. I didn’t.” Looking shaken, he sinks onto the same leather footstool that I was whacking five minutes ago. “Sarah.” He closes his eyes. “I thought she’d disappeared. Moved to Antwerp.”
“She’s engaged. She came here to gloat, basically.”
My eyes feel hot and I blink a few times. I know he has the moral high ground right now. But don’t I have it too? Just a bit?
“Engaged.” He lifts his head a smidgen. “Well, that’s something.”
“So, you were with her in Italy.” I look away, hunching my shoulders. “Did you sleep with her right before you slept with me?”
“No!” Matt raises his head, looking appalled. “God, no! Is that what she said? We weren’t together by then. She stalked me! She just turned up on the martial-arts course. I hadn’t even told her I was doing it. I still don’t know how she found out. She wanted to get back together; I kept telling her it was over….” His eyes suddenly flash with memory. “Remember when I did my monologue about trying to escape someone? How a person wouldn’t leave me alone? That was her! That was for her!”
I remember Matt lashing out furiously, unable to articulate his frustration. I mean, it makes sense.
“But why didn’t you tell me?” I say, feeling like a broken record. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“Because we weren’t talking about exes!” Matt lashes back hotly. “Remember? Then we got back here to the UK and I hadn’t heard from her…and you reacted so badly to Genevieve….” Matt rubs his face. “Sarah was gone. I thought she was gone.”
“But she wasn’t gone, was she?” I say slowly. “Because baggage never is gone. You can’t just pretend it is. It catches up with you.”
I’m feeling a kind of ripping sensation inside. Like all my thoughts are tearing apart, exposing how badly they were joined together in the first place. I’ve been wrong. Wrong about everything.
“God, I’m stupid,” I say in despair.
“No you’re not,” says Matt, but he sounds automatic rather than convinced.
“I am. I thought we could have a relationship without baggage. I thought it would be all light and free and wonderful. But Topher’s right, it’s impossible. When I look at you, Matt, I can see suitcases all around you.” I wait until he raises his head, then gesture with my arms. “Heavy, bulky, awkward suitcases everywhere, all in a mess, spilling out crap. Japan…Genevieve…your parents…Lyric…And you don’t take ownership of them,” I add, with rising agitation. “You don’t even look at them. You just go and putt golf balls and hope they’ll