It’s fucked. Everything is fucked.
* * *
I pack quickly, throwing two outfits and a pair of pajamas into an overnight bag. He’d sounded exhausted, drained, when he’d called last night. A child-like wobble in his voice, all sighs and disjointed sentences.
“I… I don’t know what’s going on, Em. We had this huge fight and I don’t know what’s going on—what… what am I going to do? I don’t know if it’s even happening. She—she’s with her parents and I’m—God, I’m going fucking nuts here.”
“I’ll come,” I said. “First thing.”
And I meant to pack last night, too, but exhausted from a day of organizing barely a fifth of Fishers Way, I fell asleep on top of the sheets, in my clothes.
The doorbell cuts through my thoughts, and it’s not until I see Eliot on the other side of the door, a grin on his face, that I realize I forgot to text him last night. I’d texted Rosie late, at about ten, and apologized for not being able to be there today, and… shit. I remember my finger on the screen, hovering above his name, to tell him, to text him and tell him I couldn’t go. And I fell asleep. I fell asleep.
His smile fades when he takes in my face. “What’s up? Am I too early? You said eight, didn’t you?”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, bringing my hands to my head. “I—I meant to text you.”
“It’s off?” he says. Then he laughs and says, “Oh well. Probably best. Wouldn’t want to shame all those other carpenters being forced along to blog-ference under false pretenses when, really, it’s all about objectification of our—”
“It’s on,” I cut in, cheeks burning now with embarrassment at bringing him here pointlessly. “At noon. As organized, but—I can’t go.”
Eliot nods, eyebrows knitting together. “Is everything okay?”
“Lucas,” I say, and Eliot’s face freezes, eyebrows still knitted, lips still slightly apart.
“Lucas?” he repeats.
“We spoke last night. He’s—God, I don’t know, Eliot, but he sounds terrible. Said he needed me, needed to talk, and…” I stop when I take in his face. Mouth now a hard line, sharp jaw, tense, eyes unblinking, as if listening to a story he doesn’t buy for a second.
“What is it?” I ask.
Eliot takes a deep breath. “So, what, you’re dropping everything and going over? Now? Just like that.”
I nod slowly. “I’m getting the 11:00 a.m.”
“And what about Rosie?”
“She was fine.”
“And you are too?”
“Am I what?” I ask, face scrunching up, face burning even hotter now.
“Fine with that. Fine with not going to see Rosie today, at something really important to her. Fine with dropping everything—”
“Of course not, but he—he needs me. I’m his best friend, Eliot. He sounded really upset.”
He looks down at the floor, runs his hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says, looking up at me. “Okay.”
“Eliot.” I step forward, out onto the doorstep toward him, remembering our conversation before he left Fishers Way, when Lucas was here. “What did you want to tell me about?”
“What?”
“When you left last week. You said you had a phone call you’d talk to me about. You said you’d explain.”
He pauses, mouth still a tight line. “It was with Mark. He’s launched his business. He needs a hand. And he’s asked if I’d consider going back for a while. To Canada. To help him. Like I’d planned last year.”
My stomach aches at those words. Canada. That’s miles away. “Wow,” I manage. “That’s—that’s a big deal. Will you—will you go?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I step forward, closing the gap between us even more. “Eliot. Are we all right?”
He nods. “Text me the address of the place,” he says shortly. “I’ll head over there.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can’t let her down, can I?” He stares at me then for a second, jaw tight.
“Take photos,” I say as he gives a nod and takes a step back, hand on his chin, eyes on the floor for a fleeting moment, as if considering something else, then he opens his truck door, gets inside, and drives away.
* * *
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
OMG ELIOT FOR PRESIDENT. Look at my display! It’s been Insta’d to shit!
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
Also Fox is practically wanking because Eliot is interested in all his traveling stories, and they are both sitting there talking about Canada and some place I’ve never heard of that sounds totally made-up.
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
Seriously, Fox is practically climaxing at the stories. Eliot said his friend has offered him work and he might go back though. WTF? You did not mention this?
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
Almost straddled him myself and shouted in his face “YOU CAN’T LEAVE, YOU HAVE TO FALL IN LOVE WITH MY EMMIE AND MAKE LOTS OF WOOD-CUTTING BABIES!”
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
Also, that belt. So hot. Utilize it. Role-play is your friend.
“Keep them closed.”
“You want me to keep my eyes closed while I go up stairs?”
Lucas chuckles from behind me, his hands on my waist. “Just trust me.”
“I do. But also, try not to let me break my spine.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
I got into Calais an hour ago, and Lucas seemed so much happier than I expected him to be. He was grinning, eyes bright, dressed for the frosty weather, in a black overcoat and a gray jumper beneath. Smart and as waspy as ever. He greeted me with a giant coffee and hugged me, groaning into my ear as he lifted me, raising me onto my tiptoes. “God, it’s so good to see you, Em.” Then he said he had somewhere to show me, and before I knew it, we were on the motorway, on our way to Honfleur, like we used to, on our Dream House Drives, the winter sun high in the sky, the in-car heating on full.
“You’re going to get lost again,” I said as large dual carriageways turned into meandering country lanes, and he’d laughed and said, “With any luck, eh?”
We stopped at a tiny café, where, dominated by hunger, we ordered far too much food to take away and eat in the car with us. Sticky buns, toasted sandwiches, crisps, and two boxes of macarons, and like the old days, we slowed by huge mansions, and Lucas, now armed with several years’ experience in architecture, pointed out things that were mostly lost on me.
“It’s to give the illusion of no seams at all, you see.”
“I do.”
“Do you?”
“Sort of.”
“Close enough, Em.”
Then we pulled up here—the house in which I am currently being led blindly around. An ultramodern detached, three-story house—perhaps too white and modern for my tastes—with a stone driveway, a double garage, and a gate with touchscreen access. It is one of three houses in a row, in what feels like the absolute middle of nowhere. All three of them stark and brash among the green, soft surroundings.