It’s so good to see him. And laughing, at that.
It’s terrible to see him.
He looks so good. Is he aware that he’s wearingthatsuit again? It still fits him beautifully.
‘Well, you’re shit out of luck because I’m all out of dumplings,’ I say, turning back to the soy sauce and dabbing at it with a towel. ‘I think you can get fries in a cone over theother side,’ I tell the empty steamers.
It’s too hot, my body set alight by his moving closer, the hair on my arms electrified, remembering the last time he was so near. He’s next to my ear, asking, ‘Can we go somewhere to talk?’
‘I’m working,’ I reply. I’m impressed by the steadiness of my voice while I’m evaporating.
‘Take a break.’ And I’ve just entered my nightmares because that’s another voice I recognise. Bee has joined the chat.
She’s looking somewhere above my head, but when she speaks it’s to me, and it’s the first time she has acknowledged my existence face to face (sort of) in almost two months.
‘I’ll get someone else on clean-up here. Go talk.’
‘Well, problem solved!’ Arthur says brightly.
‘Problem not solved,’ I counter. I point to Bee. ‘She’s not my supervisor.’
‘Oh, please,’ Bee says. ‘Do you think Pez gives a shit? I’m ninety per cent sure she’s high as a kite right now. She ate half the sliders.’ I spot Pez over by the deck railing staring absently at the moon. Bee might be right.
‘Fine. Let’s go.’ I set off inside.
‘You walk fast,’ he says, jogging to keep up with me.
I don’t look back at him. ‘Keep up or no chat.’
When we’re safely hidden away behind the closed door of the makeshift staffroom, I finally turn around and look at him. The image of him in that suit hits me again like a ton of bricks, and any getting on the front foot I achieved with my super-chill demeanour is gone.
‘Speak,’ I say. It’s about all I can get out.
He takes a moment to compose himself, and I use the time to take all of him in. For all his bravado out there, in here with nowhere to run he’s nervous. His breathing is a little shaky. He’s twisting his hands together, running them through his hair, fiddling with his cufflinks. (He’s wearing cufflinks, and I’m wearing a soy-stained denim apron. Fantastic.) It makes me feel better that he looks the way I feel. Welcome to the club, dickhead.
But other than nerves, he’s giving nothing away. Is this going to be a continuation of our fight, or is he here to tell me I need to get a chlamydia test? Honestly, it could go either way.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he says.
‘You came all the way here and infiltrated a charity event and didn’t have a speech written? That seems like poor planning.’
‘I mean, I did have something planned, but then I saw you, and it all kind of flew out of my head.’
I look down at my body, misshapen in unflattering polyester pants and a white shirt apparently made for women, but by someone with no knowledge of the existence of breasts (I think one of the buttons might have given out under my apron). I think about the severe topknot on my head born out of frustration with the way my hair was sitting this morning.
‘Really? This?’ I gesture at myself. ‘This is doing it for you?’
‘Everything about you does it for me,’ he admits, and I’ll concede he’s doing a pretty good job going off script so far. Also, I probably don’t have chlamydia, so there’s that.
He takes a deep breath, assumes a stance that I imagine he learned from a video about power poses and looks me in theeyes. ‘First and foremost, I want to apologise to you. The way we left things was really ugly, and I’m sorry for it. I shouldn’t have even come over that day. I should have given you the space you clearly needed and not pushed.’
If he thinks that was ugly I need to show him scenes from my parents’ marriage. But I digress.
‘I’m sorry for my part, too,’ I say. ‘I kind of forced you into a corner by being so avoidant. If I had communicated better at any point, we might have avoided it.’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Are you trying to stop me from apologising?’ I demand.
