The cork pops louder than it needs to, sharp in the quiet of my flat, and Clara winces before grinning at me like we’re sixteen again and about to get caught doing something we shouldn’t.
“Jesus,” she says. “You’d think we were opening champagne with that drama.”
“I need the drama,” I reply, slumping back against the sofa as she pours. The wine sloshes generously into both glasses. Too generously but I don’t comment or complain. Tonight is long overdue. I’m well aware I’ve neglected our friendship since Callum entered my orbit. Hopefully, a few glasses of wine will put that to rights.
My flat smells of clean laundry and takeaway cartons that my flatmates and I haven’t thrown out yet. It’s familiar, safe. Mine. Which is exactly why I came here tonight instead of staying at Callum’s, even though he offered, even though he looked disappointed when I said I wanted a night in with Clara.
I tell myself it’s healthy. Space. Normality.
I don’t tell myself the other reason.
Clara hands me a glass and clinks hers against mine. “To surviving unhinged exes.”
I snort despite myself. “To surviving them.”
The wine is sharp and a little too cold, but it loosens something in my chest that’s been knotted tight since the game.Since the toilets. Since Talia leaned in close enough that I could smell her perfume and whispered words that have refused to leave me alone.
You should ask him what secret he’s hiding.
Ask him why he feels guilty.
Clara watches me over the rim of her glass, already clocking that I’m somewhere else. She always does. She’s been doing it since we were flatmates, since she learned how to read the micro-expressions I don’t even know I make.
“Okay,” she says finally. “You’ve been quiet for at least three sips. Spill.”
I sigh and lean my head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling. “I ran into Talia.”
Clara’s eyebrows shoot up. “At the game?”
“Toilets.” I swallow. “She cornered me.”
Clara’s mouth twists. “Of course she did. What did she say?”
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the stem of my glass. Saying it out loud feels different. Heavier. More substantial.
“She told me Callum’s hiding something,” I say slowly. “That he feels guilty about something. She said I should ask him why he’s with me.”
Clara doesn’t interrupt. She just watches, eyes sharp but gentle, giving me the space to keep going.
“I know she was trying to get under my skin,” I add quickly, as though I need to convince myself. “She was angry. Bitter. She lost access to the family box, she lost him?—”
“But?” Clara prompts.
“But.” I exhale. “But it stuck.”
Clara takes a slow sip of her wine, and I can almost see the clogs turning as she’s thinking. “Okay. Let’s break this down. Doyouthink Callum is hiding something?”
My instinctive answer is no. Immediate. Protective.
But it doesn’t come out of my mouth.
Instead, I think about the way his jaw tightens when the past comes up. The way he goes still sometimes, like he’s bracing for a hit that never comes. The sleepless nights. The apologies he whispers when he thinks I’m asleep.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Clara nods once. “Has he ever lied to you?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
