“I guess so. I don’t think he had a choice—it’s not like our parents were looking out for us, even when they were still together. Sure, they kept us fed with the most organic food and clothed in designer children’s wear, but I think they expected us to be ornamental little mascots for the family business.” She considers, twirling a lock of hair around her finger before tucking it behind her ear. “We had everything we could ever want, but what we actually wanted was our mum and dad. The moment we were old enough to realize how messed up that situation was we both rebelled... in our own ways.”
We both glance down at Iris’s drink, which she specifically asked to be non-alcoholic.
“I wanted to thank you for what you did at Matilda’s. For me and for Eric,” Iris says into her glass. “I don’t know if he ever thanked you, but I know he really appreciated having someone there with him.”
A nervous, breathy laugh escapes my lungs. “I don’t know. I think I might have just gotten in the way, made a bigger deal of the situation than it needed to be.”
“No, the next morning, when he told me what happened, I realized how we both got used to this routine of me partying like crazy and him doing damage control. It wasn’t fair to him. I think it just took someone outside of the situation to make us both come to that conclusion.” She nods. “I’m trying to do better now.”
“That’s really good.” I squeeze her forearm. “And you don’t just have Eric. You have me as well.”
She beams. “So, does that mean that you two are—”
“No!” I blurt. “I just mean that, you know, we can be friends too.”
Her wide smile turns into a Bancroftian smirk. “You know, Eric talks about you a lot.A lot, a lot.” She swirls the straw in her drink. “I don’t think he realizes he does it.”
“Probably because I’ve been annoying him so much over the past few weeks with this project,” I rebuff.
“No, it’s more like... kinda sweet.” She giggles into her drink. “And he’s been doing it forwaylonger than a few weeks.”
A twang of something lances through me... guilt, for not being honest with him? Regret at leaving the hotel room that morning? Relief that I’m not alone in replaying everything that’s happened between us? Maybe all three.
I can’t get his face out of my head, the look in his eyes when I implied our night together meant nothing to me. Cracking open a walnut shell with two broken fingers would have been easier than getting him to admit whathe was really thinking. When he’s spent his whole life pushing away the people he cares about under the guise of protecting them. At the art gallery, I persuaded him to open up to me and he’s spent weeks slowly showing me the real person underneath the shiny, smirking veneer. Then I told him our night together meant nothing. I pushed him away to protect both of us from the potential consequences. A voice of reason sounds off in my head:The moment you asked him to stay you knew there would be fallout. You caused the damage. This is your fault and you know it.
As he paces back to the table, all I know for sure is neither of us are getting out of this unscathed.
31
The sounds of London streets rage as I toss and turn in bed. My shitty desk fan is on full blast to drown out the sound and circulate the hot city air.
It’s been five days since I last saw Eric. Since we sat in awkward silence, leaning on stunted conversation about everything except the thing we needed to talk about. We haven’t spoken; instead, I’ve been counting down the days until the presentations and stewing on our night together, his words in my living room, the bomb Susie dropped; they swirl together into one big gelatinous mess until my brain can’t occupy anything else.
It’s only 9 p.m., the summer sun just settling into darkness, but I forced myself to go to bed early, hoping to get a good night’s sleep before the presentation tomorrow afternoon. Forgetting that lying in bed wide awake tends to wrench my mind open and let all the things I can avoid during the day slide out. I need to get this over with.
The phone light glares bright against the darkness of my bedroom as I type, delete, and retype a message. Finally, I close my eyes as I hit send:
Can we talk?
Immediately regretting it, I toss my phone to the other side of the bed and throw an arm over my eyes.Can we talk?What do I even want to say to him? I want to come clean about Dharmash, I want to tell him I’m sorry for not being honest with him, that the night we had together meant something to me, so much that I can’t stop thinking about it whenever I’m alone. Even if he actually replies, how am I meant to articulate those thoughts via text?
I pick up my phone, typing out another message.
Actually, sorry, don’t worry abou
Three dots appear on the screen, quickly transforming into a location pin drop. My chest instantly tightening, I click the phone screen off, as though pretending to not see it makes it go away.
He wants me to come to him? I can’t do that. The presentations are in eighteen hours. Seeing him now would be reckless, impulsive and completely idiotic.
I whip off the covers and head out of the door.
32
Forty-five minutes later I end up at a pub on Eric’s side of the city. Actually, it’s more like a town house than apubpub. Swanky but understated, lit by sconces and candlelight with bursts of laughter echoing around the room like fireworks. I meander through the crowd until I catch sight of a familiar figure. He’s at the bar, shoulders hunched as though invisible hands are pushing him further into the red velvet padded barstool.
“Big day tomorrow,” I say, sliding onto the empty stool beside him.
“Very big.” He doesn’t meet my eye, instead slides a fresh vodka martini with a twist over to me, just how I like to order it.
