“I split up,” I repeat slowly. “With Grace.” And it’s almost as though I hadn’t taken it in until this moment. I had that conversation. I didn’t just think the words, I said them out loud. Words that I can never take back.
“Does Emma know?”
“No,” I say hastily. “Course not. She’s... I dunno, but she doesn’t know about it.”
“You have to go to her,” says Sinclair. “It’s important for you guys to talk.”
“I can’t yet. It would look like I was just hooking up with her on the rebound. And don’t you dare say that’s just what I’m doing.”
“Well, in theory...” he begins, but he laughs as I glare at him. “I’m joking, Henry.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“I noticed.” He hands me the bottle. “Well, have a drink if you’re not going to talk to Emma today.”
I take it in silence and stare at theDead Poets Societyposter by his bookcase.
Today... Right now I don’t feel like I’ll ever be able to speak to Emma again without it coming across in the wrong way. I split up with Grace, and a naive part of me thought that would solve all my problems. But that’s not true. I don’t feel even a tiny bit better.
The gin burns in my throat, but what do I care?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Henry, enough.” Sinclair takes the bottle away again. “Or you’ll be steaming in ten minutes.”
“That was the idea.”
“We have to go down to dinner.”
“No way am I going down to dinner.”
Sinclair rolls his eyes. “You always were a drama queen,” he murmurs. “Well, at least eat one of these. Here. And now talk about how you’re feeling.”
“I can’t talk about how I’m feeling.”
“Henry, that’s my bit.Youcan, and we both know it.”
I peel the foil off one of the tea cakes. “No, you’re right. Talking about feelings stinks.”
“But you feel better afterward.”
“It was a mistake, wasn’t it?” I blurt. “It was a mistake, right?”
Sinclair leans back against the wall and hands me the bottle again. “Does it feel like a mistake?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“No.” I sigh. “Stop it. Not that...”
“Henry, answer my question.”
“I don’t know, OK? I don’t know a single thing anymore.” I gulp. “I had everything. Fuck, why am I like this? Everything was perfect the way it was, wasn’t it?”
Sinclair shrugs his shoulders. “Was it?”
“Stop asking all my questions back at me.”
“Why?”
