and pull of the sea.
When Henry texts me tonight, I almost don’t answer. It’s dangerous, talking to him, because it makes me want to talk more and more. I turn off the phone and then turn it back on. I look at the text for a while, and then eventually I give in and reply.
I text that I’ve finished Cloud Atlas. I tell him that I think all the stories are interconnected. I keep staring at the cover, at those pages rising to the sky, and wondering about transmigration of the soul. I don’t want to wonder about things like that alone.
I stop texting and call him when he sounds uncertain about the bookstore, because I know he’ll regret selling. I want to convince him of that without actually telling him. All I do in the end is make him angry. He can’t change the future, he says, and I think of him and Amy and how much I want him. ‘The future isn’t set,’ I say, and I hope that he will believe it. I can hear that he doesn’t. I think ahead to the time when he’s with Amy and the bookstore is gone. I can’t picture where I am.
‘Henry,’ I say before I hang up. ‘I want a do-over.’
‘A what?’
‘A do-over,’ I say again. ‘On 14 February, this Sunday night, I want another last night of the world. This time I want to spend it with you. I want you to promise me that whatever happens with Amy, you won’t ditch me for her. The end of the world will be at six in the morning on 15 February. Before then I want to hear Lola and Hiroko play their last song. I want to watch the sunrise.’
‘Why?’ he asks, his voice hinting that he knows the reason.
‘Because you owe me an apocalypse.’
‘True,’ he says. ‘And I always pay my debts. Can I ask you for something?’
‘It depends what it is,’ I say, knowing I’ll give him anything.
‘Tomorrow night is the one Friday night we don’t go to dumplings. We host the book club instead. I want you to be there with me. It might be our last one.’
‘Agreed,’ I say, and we hang up. ‘Last’ hangs in the air.
Great Expectations
by Charles Dickens
Letters left between pages 508 and 509
11 February 2016
Michael
I know how upset you are about losing the bookshop. I’m upset too. But ignoring the sale won’t change the situation. As much as we both want the bookshop to do better, it’s not. Can we please talk?
There are developers making very generous offers. (See the paperwork I left on your desk.) We could also go to auction. If you won’t talk, will you give me permission to make all the decisions?
Sophia
Sophia
Frederick and I have been discussing the sale. Would you consider giving us some time to buy you out?
Michael
Dear Michael
I wish I could say yes. I know how happy it would make you. But have you looked into what the building is worth? Where would you get that kind of money? I don’t want to see you in that kind of debt and that debt would affect the kids. This is hurting me, too, but please accept reality for Henry and George’s sakes.
Sophia
Henry
I hold her hand tighter
The book club starts at seven on the second Friday of the month. Dad, Mum, George and I, usually, we’re always here for it. Tonight, though, Dad excuses himself and says we should order in whatever food we want, and pay for it out of petty cash. ‘I’m going out. Your mother’s not coming.’ Before I can say anything about anything to him, say that I’d like him to stay or ask him if everything’s alright, he walks out of the door, gets in the car, and drives away.
The shop feels empty without him, tonight. I feel empty without him. He looks crushed a lot of the time, now. Crushed and lost. I think back to the imaginings that Rachel made me do the other night. Dad will have done his own imaginings, I guess. I try to picture him away from the bookshop but I can’t.
‘Where’s Dad?’ George asks when she comes downstairs.
‘I’m not exactly sure,’ I tell her.
She stands next to me for a while, straightening the wine glasses and the platters, and then eventually she says, ‘I need your advice on something.’
George doesn’t ask my advice on anything, not even English essays. ‘It’s about Martin,’ she says. ‘And about the boy in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.’
This