But I have to stop thinking like that. He’s with someone. Briony’s the girlfriend. I’m the blip.
I stand motionless, my legs feeling a little firmer, watching him, hardly daring to breathe, trying to guess what’s going on in his head. I’m in no hurry. Time feels like it’s suspended.
At last he turns his head, breathes out sharply, and pushes a hand through his hair. Then he says unsteadily, “I think maybe it’s time for me to clear out my brother’s room. Today. This afternoon.”
I feel an almighty spike of shock but try to hide it. “Right,” I say. “Yes. I mean … yes. That’s a good … Yes.”
There’s another pause. My hands are clenched by my sides, my brain circling uncertainly. I can’t— I can’t offer— After everything he said, I can’t interfere—
Oh God, but it’s bigger than me. I can’t help myself.
“Would you—” I begin, my feet pacing awkwardly on the spot. “No. I shouldn’t even— I mean …” I clear my throat. “Would you like some— No.” I cut myself off. “Sorry.”
“Yes, please.” Seb’s voice takes me by surprise and he looks at me, his eyes so dark and vulnerable I catch my breath. “Yes. Please. I would.”
—
I never knew Seb’s brother, James. I never will know him. But as we sit in his room together, passing things backward and forward, trying to sort and organize, I feel I’m getting a sense of him. He was like Seb in some ways, but more idiosyncratic. He worked from home in graphic design and was super-talented. From the few things Seb says, I think he could get quite ratty when his work wasn’t going well, but he told the best jokes too.
Everything I touch tells me something about him. His hasty handwriting, barely legible, on Post-its to himself. His bags of jelly babies, piled up in the bottom drawer of his desk. Doodles that he drew with Sharpies on computer paper. One portrait of Seb makes me gasp, it’s so succinct and accurate.
“You should keep this,” I say. “You should frame it.” And Seb nods silently and puts it into the “precious pile.” We have a precious pile for the things he knows he’s going to keep (notes, drawings, James’s ancient teddy bear). And a rubbish pile for the things he knows he’s going to get rid of (socks, old bills, all those empty water bottles).
And then there’s the stuff he stares at and can’t decide. I can see it in his face—just the thought of having to decide is overwhelming. So we’re going to put that in storage bags and he can have a look in three months and see what he thinks.
That’s what Mum did. Every few months after Dad died, she processed another batch of stuff. And each time she cried a little but felt a little stronger. There wasn’t any point in her rushing it. And there’s no point in Seb rushing it.
The rest of the world has receded. Everything has shrunk to this room, with its dust motes dancing in the air and smell of the past. We both have bloodshot eyes. Each of us occasionally reaches for a tissue. Seb was first to break down, when he found a photo of him and James that he’d never seen before. He gave one almighty heartrending sob and then furiously apologized, then sobbed again. Whereupon tears rose to my eyes too and I furiously apologized. And he apologized for upsetting me. Until at last I put a hand on his arm and said, “Shall we just not apologize?”
And so we didn’t anymore.
Now I sit back on my heels and take a massive breath, sweeping my hands through my hair.
“I think we’ve done most of it. At least, you know, we’ve sorted it. Except the magazines …”
“Right.” Seb’s face twists a little. “Those. Recycling, I guess.”
“Or you could sell them? Like … an archive?”
I don’t ask if he’s going to cancel the subscriptions. I’m fairly sure I know the answer.
“We need some storage bags, or whatever,” I add, looking at the piles of stuff.
“There’s a shop round the corner.” Seb nods. “It sells those tartan ones.”
“You should have come to Farrs,” I say automatically. “We have lovely storage bags in amazing prints—” I break off, with an abashed smile. “Sorry. Can’t stop selling.”
Seb returns my smile. Then his brow suddenly crumples. “Fixie,” he says, as though only just realizing the situation. “You’ve done enough. You must surely need to go. It’s a busy time for you.”
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get the bags. Then I’ll go.”
As we step out of the building, the cold air feels refreshing, and we fall easily into step, side by side.
“Well … thank you,” says Seb, after we’ve walked for a couple of minutes. “Thank you so much. What you did today is above and beyond.”
“Don’t be silly,” I say at once. “I wanted to. As a …” I hesitate. “As a friend.”
“As a friend,” Seb echoes after a beat. “Right.”
We walk on a while longer, until we’re in a little arcade of shops, all decorated with lights and tinsel. A group of children is singing carols and we stop to listen for a bit. Then, against the background of tra-la-las, Seb says, his eyes firmly fixed forward, “So, how’s the unconditional love going?”
At once my stomach flips over. My mind swoops back to his office, to that horrible row we had about Jake. Is that his issue? That I won’t give up on my brother? That I ignored his advice and stuck by my family?
“Fine,” I say.
“Good,” he says, but his voice is tight and when I glance at him, his face is studiously blank.
I can feel the tension between us rising again, and I need to burst it, because what’s happened with Jake and me and the whole family is good. It’s good.
“People can change, you know,” I say, slightly more passionately than I intended, and I see Seb’s jawline twitch, as though this isn’t something he wants to hear. But at last he turns his head to look at me, his face pink and blue from the glow of the nearby Christmas lights.
“I’m sure. And I’m glad for you.” His face creases with some emotion I can’t read, and for an instant his eyes seem to shimmer again. “You’re … you’re quite a woman.” He takes hold of my hands and squeezes them, and I stare back breathlessly, my eyes hot again too. I can’t help it—I’m lost in his gaze.
Then the carol-singing stops and ragged applause breaks out and we both seem to snap back into reality.
“So.” Seb gives me a wry smile and releases my hands, and suddenly I can’t bear being near him anymore. I can’t bear seeing his generous, brave face, his woodland eyes, his everything … and knowing that they can’t be mine.
“So,” I say, my voice a bit gruff. “Actually, I do have some things to get done. I ought to—”
“Of course,” says Seb at once, his tone more formal, and he actually takes a step back, as though wanting to put space between us. “Of course. You’ve done far too much. Thank you a thousand times.”
“It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing.” He shakes his head. “You’ve … I don’t think I’d realized …” He meets my eyes frankly. “I can go forward now.”
“Well, good. That’s all I wanted.” I smile brightly, trying to mask the pain which I can feel coming for me like a tsunami. “Good luck with everything. With Briony, and life, and … everything.”
There’s only so long you can smile brightly at the man who has your heart but loves someone else. Already my mouth is starting to tremble.
“So … goodbye,” I say, and I’m making to leave when Seb calls out, “Wait!”
I look back and he’s reaching into his pocket and somehow I’m not surprised when he produces the coffee sleeve.
I take a step back toward him and we stand there in the street, the two of us gazing at it. The original IOU. It’s crumpled and creased now, the writing indistinct and blurred in places where we spilled wine on it in bed, and I have a sudden memory of him giving it to me in the first place.
“Stupid thing.” I try to laugh.
“Yes.” Seb nods, suddenly grave. “It is. Because if I really wrote down all the reasons I owe you, it would fill a book.”
His words take me by surprise, and for a moment I can’t answer.
“No, it wouldn’t.” I say at last, trying to be flippant but not really succeeding.
“It would. You know it would.”
“Well … me too.” My throat is tight. “I owe you too.”
“But we’re not keeping score anymore.”
“No, we’re not.”
I take the coffee sleeve from him and look at our melded scrawled writings, feeling such pangs of loss I can’t bear it. Then, on impulse, I start to rip. Once through. Twice through. I need quite a lot of force to tear the cardboard—it’s stronger than it looks—but at last it’s in pieces and I look up.
“We’re done,” I say, and Seb nods, with such a wry, sad expression I want to cry again, but I mustn’t.
“Done,” he echoes.
I run my gaze over his face one last time. Then I take a deep breath as though plunging underwater, turn, and walk swiftly away, dumping the pieces in a recycling bin as I go.
Twenty-six
Sometimes life gives you what you need. Sometimes it gives you what you don’t need. What I really don’t need in my life right now is Ryan Chalker—but as soon as I get within view of Farrs, I see him, standing on the pavement, talking to Jake.