On one level, there’s the relief that I’m finally being honest with myself. But on another level, there’s the regret that it doesn’t matter. Because although Rory might want that life too, he wants it with Emily, not me. I’m not going to come between them. You never try to sabotage the person you love. You just try to support their happiness, however best you can. Even if it means staying away and moving on.
Jules is doling out another round of Craig Davids. My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
U still up?
Perhaps it’s the idea of more tequila or letting a stranger use my body for his pleasure, but I feel like I’m about to vomit. I tell Jules I’m not feeling well, that I need to go home. Fumbling around, I search for my parka but can’t find it. Giving up, I bolt out of the pub in just the leotard.
Ankles wobbling on the cobblestone, I hurry back to Marlow House, trying to seek refuge in the possibility that my thoughtsabout Rory and our life together are nothing but inebriated ruminations and that by the time the alcohol wears off, all those thoughts will be dead and gone and buried.
But the idea doesn’t comfort me. It just adds to the sense of loss that’s mounting. Because as scary as it is to think that I’m in love with Rory, it’s even more frightening to think that I’m not.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The thoughts and emotions hang over me in the days that follow, like I’m perpetually walking through the London fog. The only solution to gaining some clarity seems to be getting together with Rory again in person.
I haven’t seen him since Christmas, and even if there’s some validity to my feelings, my imagination is likely exaggerating the whole thing by inventing all the ways we might be compatible. In reality, if there were some grand connection between us, we’d be together by now.
So, early in February, I finally text him. Or at least I type out the text, keeping it in my iPhone notes until I’m ready.
Achieving the “ready” status involves talking myself in circles about how Rory hasn’t reached out, so he clearly doesn’t want to be friends, so I should just take a hint and leave him alone. But also I do need to see him for my own closure, so I shouldn’t worry about reaching out—I should just woman up and do it. Or maybe Ishould just let the whole friendship fizzle out completely and delete his number from my phone.
One day at the office, Harold assembles the management team, plus me, to vent about how some of Turpi’s largest shareholders are asking Harold to diversify into clean energy. “They’re such puppets,” he vents. “Just worried about the optics, no spine to think for themselves. It’s all the media’s fault, of course,” he carries on, pounding his hands on the conference room table like a tantrummy toddler who’s been denied a third serving of pudding. “Those clean energy charlatans are hogging the spotlight. It’s a bloody joke.”
Turpi has been on the negative end of some recent PR stories that have been praising their competitors for going green. It’s not hard to see through the veneer of his business motivations and into the deeper reason for his concern. If Turpi loses its stature, his stock options will plummet in value, not to mention that the models at Annabel’s won’t be as impressed by him.
I feel an unexpected pity for him, that his net worth and identity are so wrapped up in his business and the opinions of strangers. Then the pity turns inward as I wonder if that might be me someday—hopefully leading a less dreadful company but still defining my success by what I do rather than who I am.
It’s in that moment of frustration that I decide I’m ready to text Rory. I do it quickly, before I can talk myself out of it. I copy the draft from my phone notes and press “Send.”
Hey, hope you’re doing well! Any chance I could come by the school on Friday and have lunch with Mala?
I do want to see Mala, very much so, but it’s also a defensive strategy for deflecting the message from Rory himself. For making it seem like I’m entirely indifferent about him specifically, since hecertainly doesn’t seem inclined to see me—thus the total silence of the past six weeks.
It’s late enough in the afternoon that the school day will be done, but I still try to prepare myself that I won’t hear back for a while, perhaps not at all.
But the texting bubbles appear right away, along with bright bubbles of hope that—I’m bracing myself—could pop any second.
They don’t pop, though. They just inflate further as I read the message.
Of course! Sorry I haven’t reached out, been a bit of a crazy time. Will be great to see you
I’m relieved and a bit exultant. There was a part of me that was worried I’d never see or hear from Rory again. I thought he might be gone for good, the way Mateo blocked me after our breakup. In fact, the way every ex has blocked me after a breakup. I guess that’s the type of person I’ve gone for in the past—the passionate, tempestuous type who drops out of my life as quickly as he popped into it.
But it’s not going to be like that with Rory. Yes, he’s with someone now but that doesn’t mean we have to cut each other out completely. It doesn’t mean that he can’t still be there when I need him.
And I do need him now. I need him to help me see all the ways we’re not right for each other.
When I arrive at Hendrick Primary School on Friday, the children are scampering about the playground, spinning on the tire swings in their puffy winter coats, racing down the twisty plastic slides,cackling with ebullient amusement at nothing and everything all at once.
When I reach the classroom inside, it’s empty except for Rory. He’s sitting at his desk, filing papers, wearing a pair of round glasses that give him an even more earnest expression than usual. His hair is cropped tightly around his ears and forehead, like he asked for the barber to cut it shorter than he wanted so he’d be able to go longer in between cuts and save a bit of money. He has a sunlight-deprived look about him, his skin paler and his hair darker. His cowlick remains as stubborn as ever, an upturned tuft that’s the only rebellious part of him.
Lingering in the doorway, I arrange my face in my most believable oh-hey-friend-for-whom-I’m-harboring-zero-repressed-romantic-feelings expression.
“Hi there,” I say, talking a bit too loudly to mask the nerves.
Rory looks up from his desk, and his face breaks open into that stretchy smile that used to look too large and now seems just right, like anything less would be a rip-off. “Hey!”
Something expands inside me, something I didn’t even realize was contracted.
