“Thanks.” I match his sarcastic tone.
He passes me the plate and I take a piece and for a few moments we’re silent, until Seb suddenly draws breath, his face working with thoughts I can’t guess.
“You think love isn’t transactional?” he says. “That’s what you’re telling me? Then I have a question. Why do you run around, constantly doing too much for your family?”
“What?” I give a shocked, incredulous laugh. “No, I don’t!”
“Is it because of love?” he continues, ignoring me. “Or is it because you feel you owe them? Or is it guilt? Because that’s a toxic, subprime, never-ending debt, and you need to get rid of it.”
Everything he’s saying is touching a nerve. But I can’t admit it.
“I don’t do too much for my family.” I glower at him.
“All I hear about is what can you do for your mother, your family, the business. You work harder than any of them. You clear up their messes. Your brother has problems and you want to sort them out! Why should you? Let him sort it out!”
I can’t help it; I’m starting to bristle. If people attack my family, I defend them. It’s how I’m made.
“Look, you wouldn’t understand,” I say tightly.
“Because I don’t have a family?” he shoots back, equally tightly, and I blink in shock.
“No! Of course not! I only meant … We’re very close. We have a motto—”
“I know,” he cuts me off. “Family first. When did they last put you first, Fixie?”
I stare back, my face prickling. I feel like he’s taking each of my most hidden, most painful feelings and holding them up to the light to brush them down—and it hurts. I want him to stop.
“My family may be a distant memory,” says Seb, “but what I do remember about them is that love isn’t acting like a doormat. Love can be tough. Sometimes love has to be tough.”
“You think I’m a doormat?” I say, breathing hard.
“I didn’t say that. But I think you need to start thinking less about what you owe other people and more about what you owe yourself.”
I know what he’s saying makes sense. But at the same time, he’s making me feel so stupid. Such a mug. And I can’t bear it.
“So, what, just stop caring?” I lash back.
“It’s not that!” he says hotly. “But you have to care for yourself! You have to be strong. Don’t let them make you feel bad about yourself. Try to … I don’t know. Block them out.”
“Oh, right.” I hear my stream of hostile words before I can stop them. “Easy. Block out my family. Like you block out your brother? Shut the door and turn the key and look away? Just because you can’t see a bin full of bottles doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
There’s a monumental, terrible silence. Seb looks like I’ve bludgeoned him.
“How do you know what’s in that room?” he says at last, and his voice has lost all its volume and spirit.
“I’m sorry.” I rub my face. “I … I took the key. I looked.”
The atmosphere has disintegrated. I take a step forward, trying to be conciliatory, but Seb doesn’t react. His face is pale and distant, as though I’m not even here. I look at the plate of fudge and suddenly realize that if he’s been making it since he was seven, he probably made it with his brother.
“Seb—”
“It’s fine,” he says, looking at me as though I’m a stranger. “It’s fine. Really.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It’s fine,” he repeats. “Let’s not talk about it.”
His face is all closed up and his voice has lost all its warmth. I feel like I’ve been excommunicated.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” I say in a defensive rush.
“Like what?”
“Like I meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You pried into my dead brother’s room behind my back.” His tone is unforgiving. “What were you meaning to do?”
“I didn’t ‘pry’!” I say in horror, even though a small voice is whispering, Yes, I did pry. “Seb,” I begin again, trying to reconnect, “I know you’re sensitive, I know this has been awful for you, but I’m sure James would—”
“You have no idea!” he cuts me off furiously, then pauses, regaining control. “You have no idea about James. None.”
His gaze is so hostile, it brings tears to my eyes. I’ve had a hell of a day, and I came here for comfort and instead I’ve messed up. I shouldn’t have invaded Seb’s privacy. I shouldn’t have blurted it out. But can’t he forgive me?
“It seems like neither of us can say anything without hurting the other,” I say, my voice trembling. “Maybe I should go.”
I’m so desperately hoping that Seb’s face will change, that he’ll sweep me into his arms and we can say sorry to each other six hundred times and make it better in bed.
But he doesn’t. He’s silent for a few moments, then says, “If you think so.”
So I gather my things with shaking hands, my breaths coming short and shallow. And I go.
I travel home in a daze, sitting on the tube, staring at my distorted reflection. I can’t quite comprehend what just happened, how we went so far and so badly so quickly. And it’s only when I get home, to my own bedroom, that I bury my face in my pillow and start to sob.
Twenty-three
I wake up with a splitting headache and only one thought: Seb. I must contact Seb. The entirety of last night is in my head, as clearly as though it happened five minutes ago. I still can’t believe how we veered off track. I have to talk to him, apologize; we have to make this right.
It was only a spat, I tell myself. All couples have spats. We were both tired and stressed and said stuff we didn’t mean. We can fix this.
I grab my phone and send a text to him:
Are we OK?
Then I flop back on my pillow and stare at the ceiling, trying to self-heal my headache. I’ve seen a book in Nicole’s room called Meditate Your Way to Health, but what are you supposed to do when your head hurts too much to meditate?
I try to focus on a beach, but the only beach I can visualize is dry and scorching and kind of dystopian-looking, with blinding white sand and harsh cliffs and a vulture trying to peck bits out of my eyes while it screeches in my ear. So in the end I get up, wrap my robe around myself, and stagger down the stairs to find some aspirin. I’ll follow the Drug Your Way to Health regime, I decide. Just for this morning. And I’m on the bottom step when a new text pings into my phone, making my heart lurch with nerves. It’s from Seb.
I don’t know, are we?
I gaze at it, my temples throbbing. I don’t know how to reply. If I say yes, do I sound too complacent? Obviously I’m not going to say no. What I really want to say is, I don’t know, are we? but that sounds like I’m copying him.
The main thing, I tell myself, is that he replied. Within two minutes. So he’s thinking about me too. And maybe the best thing is not to text again yet but to call him later, only I must have an aspirin first …
I push open the door of the kitchen and nearly die of shock. Ryan is sitting at the kitchen table, scooping cereal into his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I clutch the doorframe.
“Morning.” He shoots me a dazzling smile, but I don’t return it.
“What are you doing here?” I try again. “What— How—” I feel like I might be going mad. Is Ryan part of my dystopian fantasy? Have I conjured him up to torture myself?
“Jake gave me a key, said I could stay over in his old room.” Ryan winks suggestively. “He told me you wouldn’t be here; otherwise, I would have come visiting.”
“You’re vile.” I glare at him. “I want you out.”
“Give me a chance!” says Ryan, gesturing at his breakfast. “I haven’t finished! Although these cornflakes are pretty gross,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.
“They’re Nicole’s,” I say. “They’re spelt flakes.”
“You moron,” I want to add. “Can’t you read the packet?” But that would be engaging with him, when what I want is not to engage with him, ever again.
“Spelt,” he says thoughtfully, finishing his last mouthful. “Huh. Figures.”
“Go,” I say sternly. “Now.”
“So, how have you been?” He leans back in his chair, running his eyes over me in a way that would have had me melting on the floor once upon a time. “I’ve been hoping you might call me.”
He’s been hoping I might call him? I open my mouth, about six furious responses on my lips, then stop myself. Do not engage, Fixie. It’s what he wants.
“Go,” I repeat. “Just go.”
“I’m going!” He lifts his hands, looking amused. “Make me a coffee first, though.”
Make him coffee? Is he for real?
“Go! Leave! Vamoose!”
“Oh, I took some chewing gum out of your bag,” he adds, pointing to where my tote bag is hanging on a chair. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Go!” I say, and now I really am feeling enraged. I look around wildly, see the broom propped up against the wall, and pick it up. “Go! Out!” I start prodding it at him, trying to make him stand up. “Out!”
“Fixie, you’re hilarious,” says Ryan, finally standing up. “I’ll see you soon, babe.”