“Alright,” he says finally then walks me to the door.
“Here,” he hands me a key. “Keep this on you, at all times.”
“Is this?” I examine it.What could I have possibly done to earn the key to his place?“Why?”
“I trust you to have it.”
“Does Za have one?”
He shakes his head, “Only you.”
“Hm,” I ponder that. Trust. A new step, a scary one. “I guess, if you promise to remain anonymous, you could still invest in the project.”
He just stares at me.Is he okay with that?
“Text me when you get in,” he says.
I stare back at him , then the key, then nod once. I guess he is. “Cool.”
And I’m out.
The journey home feels longer than it is.
My phone buzzes twice on the way. I don’t check it until I’m outside my building.
I check the screen.
A missed call from Za.
Two messages:
Za : Are you okay?
Za : Please just come home.
The guilt comes backin full force.
I unlock the door and step into the flat. It’s quiet. No TV. No musical music. No kitchen noises. That alone tells me she’s been worried.
I shut the door softly.
“Hey,” I call out.
Then I hear movement from the living room. Za appears in the hallway, bonnet on, robe tied properly this time, eyes puffy like she’s been trying not to cry and failing at it. She stops when she sees me. Her expression shifts between relief and annoyance, like she’s fighting the urge to cuss me out and hug me at the same time.
“Hi,” she says, voice small.
I stand there awkwardly for half a second because suddenly I don’t know where to put my hands.
I feel twelve years old.
“I called,” Za says.
“I know,” I reply. “I came home so we could talk face to face.”
She nods once.
“I’m sorry,” I add quickly, because if I don’t say it now I might not at all. “About me being distant. I’m sorry.”
