Max rarely lets slip any kind of opinion on Tash. So he just keeps his mouth steady and says, “Yeah.”
We drive the rest of the way back to London without talking much, listening to Snow Patrol. The music takes me straight back to Norwich and to loving Max with my whole heart, from the first moment I methim.
Seventeen
Stay
“God, I’m sorry, Luce. I really thought he’d love it.”
I’m facing Ryan by the door in the now-empty church room. He asked if he could have a word after the session, and I could tell by the look on his face that it wasn’t good news.
It’s March now. Caleb’s been gone for three long months. The tail end of winter by the sea—though vividly scenic, and lavish with frost-filled panoramas—has started to feel incessant. I am yearning for warmer weather.
A few weeks after Caleb left, I said Ryan could pass several chapters of my novel to his agent. And for the first time maybe ever, I felt quietly confident. It was ready, this sentimental story about love, and about longing and hope, that I’d poured my whole heart into. It tackles a few tough themes—including some similar stuff to what I went through in Sydney, with Nate—and I’m privately proud of the result.In that respect, I feel as though I’ve partly rewritten my past, regained control over some of the trickier parts of my own history.
We thought a response—either yes or no—might come quickly. But the weeks slid unremarkably by, even though Ryan nudged him a couple of times.
Today, finally, the e-mail came. One of the few professionals, aside from Ryan, who’s read my work, and the response was a hard no.
Ryan looks as remorseful now as if I’ve caught him graffiti-ing appendages on the church wall. “I honestly would never have sent it to him if I thought he’d turn it down.”
I nod. “I know.”
“But, listen, Lucy—it’s true what he said. This is no reflection on your writing, it’s just that he represents more...” He trails off.
“Highbrow stuff?” I supply, with a half smile. “It’s okay, you can say it.”
He looks at me for a couple of moments. His dark eyes are dewy, the expression on his face intense. “This isn’t going to make things weird between us, is it? You know I’m your biggest fan.”
I smile. We’ve known each other almost two years now. Ryan’s a friend, and a good one. I lean forward and hug him, so he can be in no doubt. His frame feels fragile and wiry in my arms, so different to the sturdiness of hugging Caleb. “Not at all. If I ever do get published, your name’s getting top billing in the acknowledgments.”
“Notif,” he says, sternly, pulling back from me. His words echo against the high ceiling, the stone walls.“When.”
I think we’re about to leave, but though he’s set his hand on the doorknob, he doesn’t turn it. “How’s Caleb?”
I can see that the teacher in Ryan is trying to end on a positive, which is sweet but also unfortunate, because talking about Caleb’s pretty tough for me right now. “He’s really well, thanks,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, my tone upbeat.
“Where is he at the moment?”
“Myanmar.” To stop myself becoming too emotional, I get out my phone, tapping through to the most recent pictures Caleb’s sent me, of the rust-colored temples and hazy sunrises, the elaborate pagodas and formidable stone Buddhas.
Ryan swipes through them, seeming impressed. “Remind me why you didn’t go with him?” he says when he’s done, handing back my phone with a gratified smile, like he’s just been flipping through a holiday brochure.
“I wasn’t really... in a place in my life where I wanted to go away. Maybe I will, someday.” I realize with surprise as I’m saying this that for the first time in more than a decade, it might possibly be true.
“Big deal, isn’t it? Saying good-bye to the person you love for six months. Not sure I could do that.”
Ryan never talks much about his love life, other than occasionally making reference to having been on a (usually disastrous) date. Emma says he broke up with the love of his life in his midtwenties and never fully got over it. Which kind of makes sense, when I think about it. His writing makes a lot of references to regret. Chances missed, opportunities squandered.
I nod. “Yeah, it’s a big deal. Bigger than I first thought, maybe. But... it’ll work out.”
On the morning Caleb flew to Bangkok, I dropped him off at Heathrow. We parked up in the dropoff zone, then sat together for a while without saying much. The sky was a rich, predawn purple, and together we watched it gradually brighten, then dissolve into daybreak. We listened to the roar of ascending planes, their lights skimming above us like shooting stars.
“This feels all wrong,” he whispered, when it was nearly time to go.
Despite every synapse in my body throbbing in agreement, I shook my head firmly. “It’ll feel right as soon as you get there.”
We’d had this conversation so many times—late at night in bed, first thing in the morning through the shower curtain, across currents in the sea, over candles flickering in restaurants. And every time, I told him the same thing—if it was right for him, then it was right for us.
