“You think they’ll work it out?” he asked, then said, before I had a chance to answer, “I need to eat something.”
I was about to tell him that there was Indian food in the fridge that I could heat up for him, and that he shouldn’t risk the chicken korma because I thought it had nuts in it, when Addison pushed her way back into the flat. “Don’t worry, you two. We’re going to give you some privacy. We’re going to go get a drink.” Nolan was behind her, and I could tell by the redness around both their mouths that they had been kissing in the hallway. I don’t know what he had said but it had worked. Addison grabbed her coat and purse and they went back out into the damp night. I realized suddenly that my plan was back on if I wanted it to be. My stomach roiled with anxiety, but if anything, what I had just witnessed between Nolan and Addison had given me added resolve. Guys like Nolan and Eric got away with breaking hearts far too often.
“Look, Eric,” I said. “I’m exhausted. I drank too much myself, and Addison wiped me out. I’m getting into bed. There’s Indian in the fridge if you want. I got you a chicken korma.”
“You goddamn saint,” he said, and kissed me sloppily on the side of my mouth. I went into the bedroom, swung the door so that it was partially open, and took off my jeans and sweater, slipping into the wool pajamas that kept me warm in our cold flat. I could hear Eric rummaging around the kitchen; there was the sound of clanking dishes, then the loud hum of the dingy microwave. I could smell the korma—the tang of spice and coconut milk—as it heated up. I was sitting on the edge of my bed. I felt calm but my mind was feverish, filled with images. I pictured Chet in the meadow at dusk, swaying above me, not knowing he was about to die. I saw Eric emerging from his office, lighting a cigarette, meeting Faith. I saw Eric the night we first made love, his dark brown eyes an inch from mine.
The microwave stopped humming and I heard Eric open and shut the door, then it was quiet for a moment. I assumed he was rapidly eating, maybe still standing.
A minute passed and the bedroom door swung open. Eric stood there, the food container in his hand, the skin of his face already reddish. And there was a puffiness around his eyes. “There’s nuts in here,” he said, pointing at the container. It sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of cotton.
“You sure? Where’s your EpiPen?” I said.
“Bag.” He jabbed frantically at the air with his hand, finger toward where his bag was.
I pulled his bag up from where it was resting on the floor and put it on the foot of the bed. Eric put the container down on my bedroom’s bureau and went quickly to the bag, shoving me out of the way. He searched through the zippered pocket where he’d left the pens, then turned toward me, panic in his eyes, and the redness of his skin now rising. One hand was now scratching at his neck. “You didn’t bring them?” I asked in a raised, panicky-sounding voice.
“Yes,” he said, and I could barely make out the word. It sounded as though it was coming from a great distance, the shout of a man trapped far underground in a narrow damp cave.
Eric dumped the contents of his suitcase on the bed, then began rapidly searching through them. He sat down, his body held rigidly, his lips pursed as he tried to pull air into his lungs. I began to help him sort through his clothes and toiletries but he grabbed my arm, mimed the action of making a phone call. “You want me to call for help?” I asked.