Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
never let a uni student cook for you
Dylan
The journey back to London is bittersweet. After we say goodbye to the place that tested me in every possible way, I sit with
Jude on the shuttle bus and then the train. Max avoids us throughout the journey, and Jude glares at him at the other end
of the carriage on my behalf until I tell her it’s okay. Because I may not like it, but Max made his decision, the same way
I made mine.
Instead, six weeks have crumbled, and all that remains is in Max’s hands now.
Because I stood up for myself, for us, in the cabin, even if it made my heart speed so fast I thought I might pass out.
I wasn’t the one too scared to go for what I want, for once.
Pride pings in my chest at that, at least.
And so, Jude and I make plans to meet up soon, and the second I step off the train and my feet hit London soil, I know in
my gut it’s not where I’m supposed to be. It hits me that this place is too big for me; not because I’ve changed, but because
I never quite fitted it to begin with. I’m not sure I was ever made for this kind of volume–of noise, of people, of stuff.
I become surer with every day that passes, just as I become stronger in my conviction not to contact Max, or spill everything to Ava in the hope she might tell me something about him that I missed.
On my third day back, my phone buzzes while I wait on the familiar scuffed vinyl floor by the lifts in my building with my
food shopping.
Jude: Have you seen his most recent video?
Jude: The man’s obsessed
Jude: As he should be, obviously
I’ve been avoiding checking social media since I got back, which has been easy enough, but trying to avoid thinking of Max
at all is much harder. It kept me awake the first two nights. Every story I’ve told Mum about the trip was tainted by memories of
what happened at the end.
Dylan: Not yet
Jude: The offer to spread rumours about him online still stands
Jude: Happy to make a burner Instagram account
Dylan: No burner account needed, but thank you
I might not fit in London itself anymore, but this flat, with the chipped paint on the door and the welcome mat we’ve had
for a decade, is somewhere I can recuperate.
I’m opening the front door, Tesco bags, in hand, expecting a silent flat while Mum’s at work, when I hear singing. Tahlia’s singing.
‘Surprise!’ she yells, skidding out of the kitchen in her socks and launching herself at me in a hug and presenting me with
a mouthful of her curls.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Thought I’d come back for a few days to see you.’ Her eyes are bright, and I know mine are the same. Then she gives me a
grin and says, ‘I have a lot to catch you up on. There are some things I was worried about the FBI overhearing on the airwaves.’
‘The FBI doesn’t even have jurisdiction in the UK.’
‘They might change their mind about this,’ she says with a grimace. ‘Also, it’s not just me with updates. I believe you may
have neglected to share some details about what happened with a certain man you shared a cabin with. How dare you deprive me of that.’
‘So nosy.’ I hand her one of the bags. ‘Help me put the shopping away. We’ll talk as we unpack.’
We catch up about Max and then Tahlia insists on making dinner for us, which means I’m on clean-up duty throughout the process,
because she somehow uses every single pot, pan and utensil when she cooks.
I finish drying around the sink and analyse her. She’s pulled her hair back and is wearing the old apron I wear every time
I bake one of us a birthday cake. ‘You seem so much older.’
‘Because I know how to cook salmon now?’
‘You just seem surer of yourself.’
‘I’m a real adult,’ she says, like she knows she sounds funny. ‘An independent woman.’
‘Have you been homesick at all?’
‘A little. But I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to dwell on it.’ She prods at the rice on the stove with a vaguely
concerned crease between her eyebrows and says, ‘You, on the other hand, seem younger. Which is weird.’
‘I feel like that’s what happens as you get older. The difference between ages doesn’t seem as stark, and you realise everyone else is experiencing adulthood for the first time as well.’
‘It’s not that. You’ve just always seemed older than you really are, and it’s like the past six weeks have made you, I don’t
know, lighter? Different, somehow.’
‘I feel different.’ Braver. A little less uptight. With everything that happened with Max, I know what I want now. I know what I deserve,
and it’s not someone who turns away the moment he’s scared. ‘I’m really glad I went. Thanks for aggressively pushing me to
go.’
‘You deserved a break.’ She leans over me to grab a chopping board. ‘You’ve always carried so much responsibility on your
shoulders that you’ve never given yourself much time to have fun.’ She lines up some broccoli on the board and looks at me,
and I have to refrain from telling her to be careful with the knife. ‘I know I haven’t been looking after myself for very
long, but it’s made me realise just how much you’ve always taken care of me. I’m really grateful, you know. And I’m sorry
that I didn’t help more, growing up. I didn’t realise the sacrifices you were making for me.’
A lump forms in my throat. ‘I wanted to help you.’
‘I should’ve noticed it as I got older. But it never occurred to me that the reason everything felt so easy and safe was because
of work that you were putting in. Not just Mum. That you weren’t letting yourself have fun, because you were giving all your opportunities
to me.’ She blinks hazel eyes my way. ‘So I’m really, really happy that you went on this trip and got to experience living
for yourself for once. And I hope it continues, because that’s what you deserve.’
I wait for the lump in my throat to clear, and say, ‘Well, I have something to tell you, actually. There was this guy on the
trip—’
‘Hot Max? I realise he was a dick, but you know I’m weak to a pretty face. Let’s talk some more about him. I’m all ears.’
‘Not Max,’ I say. ‘It was—’
She flings her hand to her chest with a gasp and a piece of broccoli flies to the floor. ‘You had two men?’
‘Oh my god, T, let me speak!’ My laugh spills out of me, but I’m still nervous to say this out loud, because saying it aloud makes it true.
‘One of the people there, Toby, owns a flat on the south coast. A few streets away from the beach. He wants to sell it, but he’s away a lot over the next year and won’t get around to it, so we’ve agreed I’ll rent it from him in the meantime. ’
She stops chopping, rain pattering against the window. ‘You’re moving out of London?’
‘I don’t think I realised how much the chaos of this city affected me until I left. Toby’s really organised, so he’s happy
to get things sorted as soon as possible. I officially turned down the accountancy job this morning, which I guess means I’m
currently unemployed.’ My voice falters, because the thought of not having a job lined up fills me with unease, but a kernel
of hope has already sprouted too. There’s so much space to try new things, and that uncertainty might be scary, but it’s thrilling,
too. ‘I’ll find a local café to work at while I figure the rest out.’ At her silence, I add, ‘That’s the idea for now, at
least.’
She drops the knife on to the chopping board with a clatter and tosses her long arms around me. ‘This is perfect,’ she says
quietly. ‘You’ll get to be by the sea.’
That, if nothing else, is the constant. The fact I’ll be able to walk to the ocean every morning, to watch the sun drop below
the horizon every evening. It’s not just my body I’m angling towards the sea anymore, it’s my whole life.
‘Look at you, all grown up,’ she says, disentangling herself from me to throw the broccoli into a pan.
I give her a flat look. ‘Really, Tahlia?’
‘I’m so good at living alone, I’ll give you some tips.’ She pulls out plates from the cupboard and sets them on the counter, then
pulls the salmon from the oven and plates it, then the rice, which is definitely too stodgy, but I don’t complain.
I top up our drinks while she finishes up, and by the time she brings it over to the dining table, I realise I’m starving.
We sit in our designated spots at the table, amidst the scratches and pen marks on the wood that tell the story of our childhood, and I thank her for dinner.
‘Cheers to growing up and making big moves,’ she says, lifting her glass of squash to mine, because she might be an adult,
but she still hates wine. ‘Would you like me to sing us a song?’
My stomach rumbles. ‘Please no, I’m so hungry.’
‘Fine. Let’s eat.’
The broccoli is a bit crunchy, but it’s edible. The rice is, as expected, closer to porridge, with the occasional grain that
simply hasn’t been cooked at all. And I don’t know what sauce she cooked the salmon in, but it’s simultaneously too spicy
and so salty it makes my tongue feel weird, and I’m about to just pretend it’s fine it until I catch Tahlia’s wrinkled nose
and burst out laughing.
‘Oh my god, that’s foul,’ she says, sticking her tongue out to pant. ‘What the hell?’
‘I think . . . there’s room for improvement.’ I put my knife and fork together, but pick at the broccoli, because at least
that’s okay.
She cocks her head to say, eyes hopeful, ‘Takeaway?’
‘Takeaway,’ I agree, and she sags in relief. ‘I assume I’m paying?’
‘I’m on a student loan!’ she complains, picking up our plates.
I accompany her to the kitchen and lean against the counter, watching while she scrapes everything but the broccoli into the
bin. ‘I see; you’re only a grown-up until you need me.’
She throws a smile my way, and I get a flash of that little girl who used to sit on this very counter each night, accompanying
me while I cooked dinner.
‘I’ll always need you, Dyl,’ she says simply. ‘You’re my big sister.’