“Hello?” My voice sounds thin, too high, as I walk into our cozy little living room.
Peter is sprawled on the couch like he owns the place, ankles crossed, legs casually spread, some mindless show playing on our TV. He takes his time looking up, as if he’s granting me an audience.
“Hi,” he says finally, and his face lights up in what looks like a genuine smile. The old one. The one that used to disarm me on sight.
I feel my own mouth twitch, muscle memory more than intention. The tension in my shoulders loosens a notch; that smile is still a weapon, even if I’m trying to build armor against it.
I turn away before it can work too well and head toward the kitchen corner. “Did Anna offer you something to drink?” I call over my shoulder, grateful for the excuse to fuss with glasses and cupboards.
“You know she hates me,” Peter answers, the TV going silent behind me as he switches it off. “But I brought my own.”
I turn back. There on the coffee table sits a chilled bottle of prosecco in a sweating silver sleeve, two tall glasses already waiting like an ambush.
“Come on,” Peter says, already reaching for the bottle. The cork pops with a soft, celebratory sigh. He pours pale gold into both glasses with practiced ease. “Sit with me for a moment. How are you doing anyway?”
I hesitate just long enough to feel it, then move. I sit on the far end of the couch, leaving a deliberate, safe strip of fabric between us. I accept the glass he hands me, careful not to let our fingers touch.
“I’m good,” I say, after a sip. The wine is crisp and cold, bubbles stinging my palate, something floral and familiar blooming on my tongue. “And this is very good.”
“I know.” He shrugs, self-assured as ever. “I know what you like.”
The sentence lands like a small, sharp knife. Of course he does. He taught me half of what I like. The prosecco turns faintly bitter in my mouth; I put the glass down, a reminder snapping back into place.
“Anna mentioned,” I say, looking straight into his blue eyes, refusing to soften, “that you have the money you owe me.”
His smile tilts into something sly. “I hoped we’d circle the topic a little longer,” he says. “Catch up first.”
“Don’t deflect, Peter.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I don’t pull it back.
He sighs theatrically, leans back. “How much did you say it was?”
“I sent you the exact amount,” I say. “The deposit from our flat. Half of my last rent. Gas from the trip when you took my car. It’s all in the spreadsheet I emailed you.”
“Yeah,” he says, flat now. “That money. I don’t have it.”
Silence drops between us, thick and unsurprising. Of course, he doesn’t. It would have been too easy if he’d turned up with an envelope and an apology. Still, some naive part of me had hoped.
“Peter,” I say slowly, “you have the deposit from our flat. When you handed the apartment over, the landlord returned it in full. I know. I checked with him.”
His mouth curls. “How clever of you.” A pause. “But I needed to use that. I’ll give you your money, but you’ll have to wait.”
“It’s been four months,” I say. “I need that money.”
“Oh, come on, Bunny,” he drawls, and the old nickname slices right through me. “You don’t seem to be doing so badly. Skiing in Austria twice in one month. Unless you found another sponsor…”
My spine snaps straight. “Anothersponsor? You never paid for my trips.”
“I took care of you,” he snaps back, irritation flashing for a second. “Took you places. I even took you skiing, even though I hate the mountains.”
“That’s not the point.”
My phone starts ringing. Of course it does. It’s on the table, screen up, because I made the rookie mistake of forgetting this isn’t a neutral space today.
“My sad, hot Austrian” flashes on the display under Fabio’s topless photo, his stupid, adorable grin framed in a neat circle.
Heat floods my face. I snatch the phone and flip it face down. The ringing cuts off.
The silence that follows is worse than any sound.
