That doesn’t mean I have to look him in the eye when I get it. I thank the air just over his shoulder. We stand there, quietly sipping, definitely not looking at each other. Maybe occasionally sneaking glances and then looking away when the other goes in for a glance. And then my coffee is finished, and I’m not sure what to do with my hands, so I go to the fridge and start getting out the eggs we bought for breakfast.
Silently, we work together to make poached eggs with smashed avocado. The door to the Only One Bed has closed again, but apparently daytime soundproofing is superior, because I can’t hear any creaking.
He keeps touching me.
I can’t tell if it’s even a conscious thing.
True, this kitchen is small, and we both keep moving around it, hunting for cutting boards, cups, plates, pans.Needing to go through every cupboard to get to what we need. When I’m in front of something he needs, he places a hand on my lower back or my hip, a silent excuse-me (because we still haven’t said anything since my thank you). It kind of feels like he lingers, fingertips brushing across the exposed skin between my pants and top, but it’s possible that time just slows down for me with every touch.
We four of us eat without speaking, only the awful sound of mouths chewing eggs to break the silence. We clean up, we lock up, we leave. Tina Arena is our driving companion for the trip home.
And it’s only about halfway throughChainsthat I realise something: I never did get a chance to ask Bee for her advice. I make a plan to do so when we get home, but William and Bee exit the car hand-in-hand when we get to his place, so I once again go back to our dark apartment by myself.
I wave goodbye to Arthur. (I fucking wave.) In the dark of the hallway, I think about it a little more. I went into Bee’s room. I told her I wanted to talk about something. I asked for her advice. And she immediately turned it around to herself. And look, to an extent I can forgive that, because when you’re really excited about a big development in your life, you might get a little self-centred. It’s natural.
But I’ve realised that I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times it has happened between me and Bee.
She didn’t even remember that I had something to talk about.
She didn’t care.
When was the last time she asked me a question aboutmyself? A proper one? It might have been when she asked me to date Arthur to make her life easier. And that wasn’t really about me at all. It was about her. And William.
I’m standing here, in the dark of our shared apartment that’s really my solo apartment and her storage locker, and now I’m mad.
I’m reallyreallyangry.
THERE’S AN UNIDENTIFIEDcrusty bit of food stuck to my work pants. Scratching it off just leaves a white powdery residue behind, and there’s no helping it. Frankly, this company gets what it gets—it’s only a corporate awards party anyway.
Nicole walks in and selects a locker three down from mine. It’s just the two of us, which is new because she’s never normally this punctual. I don’t really know where we stand. We haven’t been to Friday drinks yet, but we also haven’t spoken since the Saturday-night exchange. I exist in limbo, so I wave and smile. (Yes, I waveagain.Gross.) She has the option to just say hello and move along.
But instead she turns to me, leaning against her open locker. ‘So, how was your weekend? Did you have fun with yourfriend?’ An exaggerated wink.
‘I was away with three friends actually,’ I reply, a little smug. See? I havethreefriends (not sure William counts, butfor these purposes he’ll do).
It does not have the desired effect, because Nicole just smirks. ‘Oh, I know. Bee tagged you and the other third wheel in her stories.’ The fucking stories strike again. ‘Is he hot? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him.’
‘Yeah, he’s Will’s friend.’ That doesn’t sound right. He’s my friend too. My friend, who I’ve kissed. ‘We’ve hung out a fair bit now. Hard to describe re: hotness. He’s not obvious. Like a librarian, maybe?’
Nicole nods sagely. ‘I get it. The Chris Evans in the cable-knit sweater effect; he’s somehow sexy in the jumper, but you also justknowthere’s a rig under there?’
‘Unconfirmed on the rig. I haven’t seen him shirtless yet.’ Nicole’s face indicates she has not missed the use of the wordyet.In response, I don’t add that it’s about seventy-five per cent confirmed thanks to his shitty old (fantastic) T-shirt.
‘Anything happening there?’ She looks eager, excited to know. Keen for the tea.
She actually asked.
My pause, my diverted eyes, is enough for Nicole to connect a few dots. ‘Ah!’ she squeals, rushing to close the gap between us. She grabs my hands and squeezes them. ‘I was only like sixty-five per cent sure that there was something to tell! Spill!’
Deep breath. You can do this. She wants to know. Maybe she can help. ‘He kissed me.’
She squeals again. It hurts my ears, but it warms my heart. ‘How was it?’
‘Terrible.’
This stops her. ‘What?’
It’s a miracle that no one else has walked into the staff area while I relay the whole sad, sorry tale. My telling doesn’t make a lot of sense. I keep remembering things. Being his hero, baby. Drew Barrymore. Chaperoning. Hands touching. Movie pashing. Cabernet sauvignon.What even is your life?I hear Nicole mutter at one point. I think it is during the part about the chaperoning. Honestly, fair.
