Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Archie
My cast is off.
Well, technically, my cast has been replaced by a walking boot, which is essentially a cast that went to design school and came back with ideas above its station. It’s black and chunky and makes me look like I’m about to stomp through a nightclub or possibly invade a small country.
I love it.
My cast was a prison, and the walking boot is now my parole because I can actually walk.
It’s not a graceful walk, in fact, I resemble a penguin who’s been at the sherry, but I can at least put weight on my foot and move without crutches, and that feels like the most incredible freedom I’ve ever experienced.
I mean, I’ve won academic awards and been offered professorships, but none of that compares to the euphoria of walking unaided to the corner shop for some milk.
“Ta da.” I hold out my foot encased in the walking boot triumphantly as Leo walks in the door. “Look at this magnificent piece of orthopedic engineering. I’m basically a cyborg now.”
Leo sets his keys down on the kitchen bench. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. The doctor said I’m still healing ahead of schedule, which I’m attributing to my superior bone density and general genetic excellence.”
I’m being too bright. I can hear it in my own voice, the wattage cranked up to compensate for what’s happening underneath. Leo can probably hear it too because Leo hears everything.
This morning’s weirdness still hangs between us like a cobweb neither of us wants to walk through. I panicked. I know I panicked. And now I’m doing what I always do after I panic: pretending the panic never happened and hoping the other person plays along.
“Genetic excellence. Is that the medical term?” Leo asks.
“Come look at this,” I say. I demonstrate my new walk, which involves my boot clunking against the floor, arms held out for balance, a general air of someone who’s just been unfrozen from a glacier.
“The doctor said I should be out of the boot in about two weeks. Then it’s just physio.
He says I might be able to do a light jog by summer. ”
“That’s great, Archie.”
It is great. Six weeks ago, I couldn’t stand without crutches. I’ve been slowly reassembling my independence, piece by piece, and today feels like the final corner piece clicking into place.
So why does Leo look like I’ve just told him something terrible?
He’s standing by the kitchen counter, watching me clunk around the living room. He’s not smiling.
Something’s off.
The thing I’m trying very hard not to think about is that last night, Leo looked at me like I was the only thing that existed. But when he tried to start a conversation about it this morning, I responded by making coffee in silence and telling him not to talk about it.
Cause and effect. You don’t have to be a genius to do the math.
“I’m thinking this calls for a celebration,” I say. “Pizza? The good place, not the sad one. I feel like my newly liberated ankle deserves the good place.”
“Sure,” Leo says. “But first, I need to talk to you about something.”
I’m fairly sure those words have never, in the history of human conversation, preceded anything good.
“Should I sit down for this? I feel like this is a sit-down conversation. Actually, I’m already standing on a newly liberated ankle, which feels symbolic. I’ll stay standing.”
He doesn’t smile.
He always smiles at my jokes. Even when he’s trying not to, even when his jaw is clenched and he’s actively fighting it, there’s always a flicker.
But there’s no flicker right now.
“Now that your ankle is getting better, I need to get back to San Francisco,” he says. “I’ve got meetings piling up that I can’t do remotely, and Tara’s been rearranging my schedule for weeks. I’ve been putting it off, but…”
He trails off.
“Right,” I say.
I once read that the human brain processes rejection in the same neural pathways as physical pain. At the time, I found it academically interesting.
It turns out it’s less fun as a lived experience.
Leo’s all business, his voice calm and measured as he lays out the facts like he’s presenting a report. He’ll continue to pay for the apartment until my ankle is fully healed. He’ll also pay for whatever support I think I need for dog walking and for my Captain Giggles routine.
I try to match his businesslike manner.
“I really appreciate it. Thank you for all of your help.”
Thank you for all of your help. Like he’s a contractor who’s finished renovating my bathroom. Like the last six weeks have been a transaction—services rendered, invoice enclosed, please rate your experience out of five stars.
“Archie—”
“No, genuinely.” I lean against the kitchen counter, my arms folded. “You’ve been amazing. Above and beyond. I couldn’t have managed without you, and now I can, so it makes total sense for you to get back to your real life.”
The words come out smooth and bright and completely hollow.
This was always going to have a short lifespan, wasn’t it?
He lives in America. He only came into my life because he tried to get revenge against my brother and then he stayed out of guilt.
Everything that happened after—the parties, the banter, the sex, the sleeping curled together, the way he remembers how I take my coffee—all of it was built on a foundation that was never meant to be permanent.
And yes, it developed into something more than either of us anticipated.
He tried to talk to me this morning, and I shut him down.
It’s natural that he’s now made the decision to leave, isn’t it?
I’m a genius who let himself be stupid about this.
“When are you leaving?” I ask, and my voice is steady, which I’m proud of.
He clears his throat. “I booked a flight for later tonight.”
I’m not even going to get one more night in his arms. I feel like someone has just punched my throat.
“Well,” I say. “We’d better get you packed.
I don’t want you accidentally leaving any of your stuff here.
Especially not your ties. I refuse to be responsible for the welfare of your tie collection.
Did you know ties originally developed from Croatian mercenaries in the seventeenth century?
The French saw them and thought, ‘That’s decorative,’ and they adopted them at court.
So really, every time you knot a Windsor, you’re honoring a long tradition of soldiers who wanted to look nice while stabbing people. ”
I’m talking too much. I know I’m talking too much. But if I stop talking, the silence will fill with all the things we’re not saying, and I’m not strong enough for that right now.
It’s best if this finishes now, cleanly and like this, rather than it getting to the point where Leo can’t stand me.
I don’t think I could bear to see the way he looks at me change, see disappointment replace amusement in those dark eyes.
Which is almost guaranteed to happen if he sticks around with me for longer.
“Archie,” Leo says, and there’s something in his voice that makes my chest hurt. “I need you to know—”
“That you’ll text? Sure. We can be the modern equivalent of pen pals. I’ll send you pictures of the dogs, and you can send me pictures of spreadsheets. It’ll be riveting.”
“Archie.”
“Or we could start a podcast: The Unicorn and the Consultant. You handle the business insights, and I’ll handle the comedy. We’d be massive.”
“Archie, stop.”
The words are said with such authority that I do stop.
Leo crosses the room. He’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I can smell his aftershave, coffee, and the thing underneath that’s just Leo. His hand comes up and cups my jaw, tilting my face toward his.
He kisses me.
It’s not an urgent or hungry kiss, not the crackling heat between two people who can’t keep their hands off each other. Instead, it’s slow and deliberate.
It’s the sweetest kiss I’ve ever received.
He pulls back, but only far enough to rest his forehead against mine.
“You need to take care of yourself, Archie,” he says.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve got the Destroyer. I know how to take great care of myself.”
He closes his eyes as if in pain.
He stays there for a moment. Forehead against mine. Breathing. Not moving.
Then he steps back, and the distance between us fills with all the things neither of us has said.
I manage to hold it together while he’s packing.
I even help him carry his bags to the Uber, which I can do now because I have a functioning foot and a walking boot that makes me look like an off-duty stormtrooper.
“You’ve got your passport?”
“Yes.”
“Charger?”
“Yes.”
“The tie with the tiny pattern that looks like little swords but is actually little fish?”
“It’s actually little—” He stops. “How did you know that?”
“I know everything about you, Leo. It’s unsettling. You should probably leave before I start reciting your credit card number.”
He almost smiles. Almost.
The Uber pulls up. Leo puts his bags in the trunk and turns to me.
“Archie—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “If you say something nice, I’ll cry, and I don’t cry in front of Uber drivers. It’s a rule.”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he nods once and gets in the car.
The door closes and the Uber pulls away.
I stand on the pavement, in my walking boot, watching the car disappear around the corner. A pigeon waddles past with the smug confidence of something that has never had to say goodbye to anyone.
I go back inside.
The apartment has never been this quiet before.
Leo’s toothbrush is gone from the bathroom. His suits are gone from the closet. The left side of the sink is empty.
The only trace of him is a faint smell of his aftershave on the pillow.
And a note.
It’s tucked into my sock drawer, because of course it is.
I unfold it with hands that are definitely not shaking.
You are not too much. You have never been too much. Anyone who tells you that doesn’t deserve you.
Take care of yourself, my little chaos gremlin.
Leo
I read it three times.
Then I fold it very carefully and put it in the drawer beside my bed, the drawer where I keep things that matter.
My broken ankle might be healing, but now, unfortunately, it appears I’ve got a broken heart.