Home. See how easy that rolls off the tongue?
As I make my way along dimly lit streets, I watch restaurants winding down for the night. Chairs are being stacked atop of tables, lights are being dimmed, and roller shutters are clattering down. About a block from home, a café is still frothing milk. I consider a late-night coffee but stop short at a couple making out in the front window. It would only serve as a diversion tactic, and I’m sure he will have gone home by now anyway.
Approaching the gallery from the other side of the street, I can see all the lights are out and he’s locked and bolted the front door. He’s made progress with his painting. Whoever his subject is, there’s a chin and a Mona Lisa smile, and it fills me with nervous excitement to see it from this side of the window.
It’s like seeing your favourite movie for the first time. No matter how many times you see it, you know you can never enjoy it quite the way you did the first time. He’s even switched the new neon sign to closed. I imagine him walking around, shutting up for the night, and it sits warmly in my stomach.
I slip down the side street and into the car park where his car is still sitting silently. It hasn’t moved all day. Unless he’s had a few beers and caught an Uber home, but that strikes me as a very un-Christopher thing to do. He’s always seemed so in control of it all, so I can’t imagine him leaving everything behind. I find myself relieved at the idea that he’s somewhere behind the door I’m currently unlocking.
A kick of breeze pushes the door shut behind me. I lock it as quietly as I can and tread carefully upstairs, avoiding steps five, seven and twelve. They all creak. When I reach the top of the stairs, all my answers are waiting there for me.
He’s asleep on the sofa. An upright lamp glows a warm yellow, and a pad of paper rises and falls against his chest. I watch over him a moment while I decide what I’m going to do. Even asleep, he looks like he has the weight of the world on him. His brow is still knitted in argument and his bottom lip juts like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. The thing is though, I can’t think of any other sight I want to see more right now.
I am utterly done for.
He is why tonight was so awkward and squeamish, why I couldn’t help but compare the rotten orange at the table to the crisp apple he is, if even just because of my cheap shampoo I can smell on his hair as I lean down to kiss his forehead.
I would much rather have been here at home with him, mulling over points of light and shadow, or listening to him natter about a podcast he doesn’t quite agree with, or chatter with excitement over the latest artist he’s discovered in some back-alley gallery I’ve never heard of.
When I’ve double-checked locks, plugged devices in to chargers and switched off all the lights, I settle in carefully beside him. It’s a tight fit, but my back curves into the mould of his front and his arm becomes my pillow. Just as I’m about to slip off for the night, he shifts, pulls his other arm from between us and slips it over my waist. If you listen carefully, you can hear him take a slow contented breath. He stirs as I clutch his hand and decide to pull him over to the bed.
Chapter 28
He’s the first thing I see through barely opened eyes the next morning, standing over a frying pan in yesterday’s clothes with a spatula in his hand and blond hair at Picasso angles. As he moves about, I wonder how Christopher has managed to climb out of bed without waking me. It’s the smelling salts of coffee that have done the trick. That and the buttery vanilla scent of pancakes cooking.
Though I’m certain I have none of the ingredients necessary to make breakfast, I don’t question it. The fact is, he’s still here. There are no notes, text messages or workplace excuses. A featherlight tickle curls my feet as I think about how I dragged him to bed when I got home, but that we barely slept. Hoisting myself up on my elbows, I yawn and stretch, feeling my body ache like the Tin Man after a humid night.
‘Good morning.’ He smiles, looking at me quickly. ‘Finally.’
‘Finally?’ I croak, amused. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone nine.’
‘Oooh,’ I perk up. ‘Lie in.’
Throwing the sheets back, I untangle my hair with fingers and shuffle past a dining table set for two. I even claim a glass of orange juice that’s been placed out for me. He is just … sigh.
‘Don’t have you have class to teach this morning?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘They know how to let themselves in, I can be a few minutes late.’
Placing an arm around his back, I snuggle into his neck and enjoy his warmth while he lands a kiss on my forehead. If I weren’t so hungry, I’d probably drag him back to bed. I reach over the stove, cracking the window above the sink and letting the world in. Sleepy city sounds waft in, and I consider that I could live this morning over again and be perfectly content with life.
‘I’m glad you stayed.’ I curl myself around him again.
His shoulders slip, only slightly, but enough to be noticeable. I brace myself for what I think might be an annoyed response, but he says, ‘I couldn’t very well leave a note when I’d gone and bought everything to make breakfast. I should at least get my money’s worth.’
‘Please, feel free to capitalise.’ I pick a pancake apart and listen to laughter ripple up through his chest.
‘How did last night go?’ he asks.
Last night. The question jogs my memory in the same way flicking a switch illuminates a dark room, and I kind of wish he hadn’t. Purposely, selfishly, I lost myself in him in the early hours of the morning. I just didn’t want to think about the fact I’d tossed sixteen years of friendship in the bin. It hurt too much. Even now, I can feel my throat closing.
‘Were you angry at me when I left?’ I pull back and look up at him.
‘Me? No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Did it seem like I was angry with you when you got home?’
‘No, I just.’ My voice crackles as it drifts off. ‘Last night was balls.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
I’m not sure people ever expect the avalanche of words that come after a question like that but, to his credit, Christopher listens as I step him through Lainey’s grand plan of setting me up with Hunter. At least I can laugh about the Chapstick, even if I can’t laugh at his assumption that I’d be happy to go home with him.
Christopher bristles when I gloss over his suggestive comments. I don’t want to repeat too much or dig too deep into them; knowing my best friend at least helped those ideas fester was painful enough.
‘Why didn’t you call?’ he asks, so gently that my throat gets all cloggy again. ‘Hey?’
I shake my head. ‘I thought you were angry at me.’
‘No.’
‘And, so, remember how we were talking about friendships that don’t survive change?’ I ask, my voice shaky. When he gives a slight nod, I continue, ‘Well, this one imploded.’
He steps back from the stove as I walk around him. ‘Katharine, I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’ I give him a watery smile. ‘I’m just going for a shower. I’ll be back.’
Ten minutes is all I need to have a good cry, scrub last night out of my hair and pull myself back into some semblance of woman. Even if that involves not much more than wrapping myself in a bathrobe and towelling my hair dry.