Nicole gasps. ‘You haven’t? Everyone says it’s amazing.’
‘They do.’
‘I’ll give you all my tips when I’m back. You absolutely have to go.’
‘Sounds good!’
I get home, and the apartment is empty and dark, because in the Era of William I mostly live with Bee’s stuff and my own dark thoughts.
I’m used to being alone, especially while Bee has been in relationships. With her first uni boyfriend Bee would cancel pretty much every plan she made with me for the better partof a year. We’d be getting ready to go for dinner or drinks or out to a club, and he would text, and I would understand, because this was what it was like to be in a relationship, and it was just dinner, we could do that anytime. Don’t be selfish; it’s not a big deal.
The empty house used to feel like a sinkhole.
That’s less true now, energised as I am from a great day out, and I am humming to myself in the kitchen, washing up after dinner, when I hear the door open. ‘Hey!’ I call out. ‘How was your day?’ The door shuts, and I hear the lock click. I’m elbow-deep in soapy water, chained to the sink, so I call out at the frosted window in front of me. ‘I know you were probably out for dinner, but there’s leftover pasta if you want it!’ Then I hear another door shut: firmly. She must be tired. Or it’s an intruder making themselves at home.
I turn off the lights in the kitchen and hall and go to stand outside Bee’s door, poised to knock. The light through the crack at the bottom of her door vanishes, so I go to my own room and settle into bed.
I’ve read the same page in my crime novel about five times now. I feel like I’m on top of the fact that something no one in this town wants to talk about happened in that condemned barn twenty years ago. I wonder what Arthur’s doing. I dog-ear the page and pick up my phone, open our chat and scroll up.
I look back at our early texts. I’m so frenetic; he’s so calm, and understanding. And then we settle into a comfortable reel relationship and gif reactions interspersed with date logistics.
There wouldn’t be any harm in telling him about the paintball, would there? He would be thrilled to know I amcontinuing to say yes when he’s not around. Actually, it would be rude of me not to inform him that his hard work has paid off. Then once I’ve done it I can go back to my book and find out who died.
I should message him on Insta—more casual than a real text. Like, oh, I was doomscrolling and then I thought I should quickly drop you a line. Rather than, I purposely opened the text app, found our conversation, read our entire history and then wrote you a message. That is way too intentional. Coming on a little strong.
So, I got invited paintballing today. And I went.
He sees it right away. Dot dot dot.
Who were you chaperoning?
It was a twenty-second birthday, so technically I was supervising a number of children?
Look at you, so hip!
So hip as in, I nearly threw out a hip somersaulting, but sure.
Were you any good at it?
The paint splotches and bruises suggest otherwise.
Is it bad that I’m a bit glad we found
something that you’re shit at?
So he is still salty about the boardgames—I knew it!
Yes.
Pics or it didn’t happen.
I send a picture of the bruise on my thigh. It’s about five centimetres across, covers the entire colour spectrum and at the centre features a crescent-moon cut.
Is that your nip?
It’s very obviously my leg.
Disappointing.
