I’ll call them tomorrow, if you like it, he says.
Where is it?
Devon, he says, which is random, Nora says.
Or romantic? By the ocean, lots of space. It could be a nice getaway for people. I did a shoot there, once, when it was first built, Robin says, as he flips his laptop closed, clears the dining table of work so that he can make room for dinner. He’s wearing felted slippers on his feet, a dark green jumper rolled to his elbows.
I remember thinking it was so peaceful. I’d never seen anything like it. They do yoga retreats and stuff, not just weddings. I still know the guy that runs it, Jed something.
Well, give Jed something a call, Nora says. Why not.
I will, Robin says, but then he says hey. Are you okay?
I’m fine, she says. I’m great.
Everything good with the café, today? How’s the chakra series going?
Can I leave you with these onions, she asks him. I really need a shower after my swim, today. I can’t warm up.
Course. Have a bath, if you need.
Yeah, maybe I will.
In the bathroom, she opts for speed and stands beneath the showerhead on full blast. Trying to work out her thoughts,separate them into strands. Marrying Robin. Seeing Bren. Feeling one thing and also another. Anger, love; resentment, concern, and something else of a different colour, a shade she can’t quite identify, a mix of now and then and what’s coming. She goes to shampoo her hair, uses conditioner, by accident. And when she gets out, her skin red raw, she finds she’s replaying that stupid fantasy kiss, just kid’s stuff, though, like wanting to be a Power Ranger or a pop star when in reality you wouldn’t want to be either of those things; she’s thinking about Robin, too, and the venue in the woods, so sleek and far away. She’ll tell him she’s not sure about it. She’ll tell him right now. But once she’s dried off and in her dressing gown, she glances at her phone on the bed, Robin singing along to the radio in the next room.
Look, Bren’s text says, on the screen:this is not going how I’d hoped.
New message, then, because he sends them in stilted sentences rather than one long block; like he’s talking to her.
It’s meant to be a nice thing, being here
Meant to be good to see you
Sorry about the party
Sorry about the shark
Sorry about the nothing-ness that apparently isn’t interesting, like the chocolate
I actually brought you some back from the airport
I forgot to bring it, today
But to me, Nora, friendship IS all that stuff. The nothing that makes up your days, or how your life looks, like the Polaroids you printed, or like your Monday swims, or the pastry you bought me at lunch.
Three waving dots as he deletes, and then types, for a prolonged moment.
And they might seem insignificant over email or a video call but they’re actually THE significant bits, to me, the real things. Sharkbites aren’t real, I don’t think. They’re not representative of my life out there, or who I am. Or what I want to know about you.
Because I do still want to know you.
(Better. I want to know you better.)
Thanks for the swim, and the coffee, and sorry if I ruined your lunch break
and yes
I’ll be leaving soon.
