Chapter 36
The next day, I get up at the crack of dawn and for absolutely no reason at all, make cookies.
Three trays of them. I binge them hot from the oven until I’m on the cusp of throwing up then wash, deep-condition and blow-dry my hair.
An excessive amount of time is then spent counting split ends, which is good as it occupies my hands and stops them reaching for my phone.
Yet I need my phone, I need it close, just in case.
‘You okay?’ Eric asks, as he opens the kitchen window. ‘You seem a bit delicate today.’
‘Delicate?’ I snap. ‘What’s that meant to mean?’
He holds his palms up in a don’t-shoot action.
‘And you wonder why the energy bills are so high.’ I walk over and shut the window. ‘The heating’s on.’
‘Yeah, but it smells weird in here. Oh, you tried baking.’ He picks a cookie from the tray, raises it to his mouth, then stops to inspect it closely. ‘What’s this? An ant?’
‘It’s a flax seed.’
He jumps. ‘Okay. Okay. Calm down. Your hangovers are nasty.’
‘I drank the same amount as you last night.’
He snorts. ‘You were already on your way when you got in from the pub. Plus, you’re so thin at the moment, I don’t know how you can hold any drink.’
‘I’m not thin,’ I protest while laying my hands on my hipbones, unsure if they’re protruding more than usual.
‘Christ, Zoe, go for a walk or something. Fresh air might help.’
Admitting defeat, I grab my phone from the counter. ‘Fine.’
‘Pick me up some more yogurts if you go past the shops.’
The walk does help; the cold air blows away my headache and even the act of moving makes me feel somehow less tense.
At the park café I get a camomile tea despite craving the sweet chemical taste of Coke in a way I haven’t in months.
Unusually, I have an email from Ikenna, the subject line For your consideration, like those pirated Oscar films, and in the body of the email is a link. I hit delete and text him:
Me: I think your email might have been hacked. You’re sending me spam.
While I hate winter, I’m grateful when the sky begins darkening, signalling I’m closer to a night of sleep than to a day of trying to occupy myself. Yet when I check the time it’s only three-fifteen.
This is going to be the longest weekend of my life.
Before the café shuts, I get another tea and browse Reddit threads about which social media platform to use when you hate social media, only to realise that Reddit is social media.
As I head home my phone pings and something jumps within my stomach. Could it be him? Then it goes again and again and several more times and I know it’s not Cian, it’s Ikenna.
Ikenna: Are you insane?
Ikenna: Of course I am not hacked.
Ikenna: I’m a data specialist.
Ikenna: What makes you think anyone could hack my personal accounts?
I’m too confused to make sense of it, so I give him a call.
‘Do you need me to come and get you from somewhere?’ he asks upon answering.
‘What?’
‘Babe, are you okay? Do you need me?’
‘I’m fine. I was just calling you to—’
‘Calling? Zoe, I’ve told you before, please only telephone me if it’s an emergency.’ In the background Maximus barks in a way that does sound quite dangerous-dog-like.
‘What did you email me? It looked spammy.’
‘A job. Hold on. There, I’ve sent it again. Clearly, I don’t believe in kismet, I believe in myself and the power to guide my own life, and I believe in you.’
I’ve lost the thread. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘You deserve to be happy,’ he says, between puffs, which tells me he still hasn’t given up his vaping habit. ‘No one will judge you. I’ve never judged any of the women who’ve given up stuff for me before.’ He goes on and on.
‘Ikenna, I’ve got to go. I’m in the middle of something.’
‘Should we meet up instead? Talking on the phone feels very distant to me. I can’t get a read on your energy.’
‘Okay. Maybe.’
‘Great, send me a message when you need my help with that application.’
I promise I will, just to get him off the phone.
The job he sent is for a social media marketer at a clothing brand in Singapore. Why would he send me this?
I delete the email and close the tab.
By the time I get home, my body is desperate for warmth and my stomach craves something other than cookies and tea.
Possibly vodka, which I’m inclined to drink by myself while lying in bed and crying.
Only remembering Eric’s request for yogurt as I reach the front door, I creep in as quietly as possible then spot an extra pair of shoes on the mat.
‘When you report the potholes,’ Eric says, ‘they don’t do anything.’
‘My dad threatened to fill them in himself; the council said they would fine him.’
The talking stops as I shut the door behind me.
When I see Cian, sitting casually at the kitchen table, it breaks my heart all over again. He’s got on the red hoodie, the one he lent me that evening when it rained, the one I’d never seen him wear, nor could I have pictured it, him in such a colour.
Eric stands from the table then moves towards me, almost squaring up like he expects me to kick off for letting Cian in. ‘Did you get yogurt?’
Is he serious? ‘No.’
‘Never mind. I’ll go and get some. Message me if you . . .’ He stalls. ‘. . . need anything else. From the shops.’
When Eric leaves my eyes go to Cian and I search my mind for what to say, finding nothing except, ‘Tea?’
‘Okay,’ he says quietly. ‘Yeah.’
The act of making it provides an excuse to turn away from him.
‘Is it okay that I’m here?’ he asks.
My hands shake as I reach for the mugs.
‘Zoe?’ he tries again and this time I face him. ‘Yes, it’s fine. camomile or mint?’
‘You really want to sit and drink tea with me? Aren’t there things we should be saying to each other?’
I want to say, I’ve never got on with someone the way I get on with you.
I want to say, I miss you already. I want to say, I regret every word I’ve ever said to make you think I didn’t want you because I love you in a way I didn’t think I was capable of.
Instead, I say, ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you.
’ The way he’s watching makes me feel as if every word is important.
‘And I don’t like goodbyes. So. Please. Let’s not. ’
The kettle clicks and I make him a builders tea, bring it to the table and sit far enough away so our knees won’t touch.
Cian puts his elbows down and rests his chin on his hands. Finally, his eyes shift from me to the garden. ‘When was the last time you saw Stormzy?’
‘A while ago. I’m not sure. I’ve lost track of the weeks.’
‘Yeah.’ He snorts.
The tightening in my chest feels obstructive, like it’s forcing everything shut and nothing moves as it should. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘Flying out Monday.’
‘Nicole mentioned you’re going to travel first?’
‘To Dubai,’ he offers, cautiously sliding his eyes to mine. ‘Sort of dreading it.’
‘Is your sister going to make you do yoga and brunch?’
‘There’s no way I’m doing yoga,’ he says, ‘though she’s planned for us to do all these high-risk-sounding activities like diving and sandboarding.’
‘At least sand is soft if you fall on it.’
With his head still cradled in his hands he gives me one of his put-out expressions, then finally smiles.
‘We’re going to Vietnam together, then I’ve got a week to spare before I need to move into my place.
I don’t start work for another month.’ He says it like he’s surprised by the fact, like he didn’t consider the gap himself.
‘It’ll be great. And I believe about one per cent of Vietnamese people speak French, so you can flex your GCSE.’
‘Okay, smart arse.’
There’s a split second where I swear I’m on the cusp of blurting it all out, so I force myself to stand up and move away. ‘Do you want a cookie?’
‘What?’
‘I made them.’ He says nothing. ‘Well, I have five hundred so you’re getting some.’ I fill an old take-away container with a pile and turn back to him. This is so hard. I don’t know what to say. ‘How’s your dad?’ I ask eventually.
‘Fine,’ Cian says, quietly. ‘He was asking about you. Maybe if you get time, you can say bye to him before you move away. Nicole told me. It’s good you’re moving out.’
As much as I’ve told myself I’ll get over Cian, I can’t imagine there ever being a day when I won’t feel so utterly devastated about what’s happened between us.
His head drops, his long straight eyelashes pointing down before he stands abruptly.
‘You’re leaving?’ I ask.
‘I think I should.’ He tucks in the chair and rests behind it. ‘This is tough. Sitting here and talking with you like nothing’s happened.’
‘Of course. I get it. Fine.’ I step forward to hand him the tub.
‘I don’t want this, Zoe.’
‘Give it to your dad,’ I say, putting it on the table.
He huffs, then it happens, I literally throw myself at him, I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him close. ‘Cian, I’m sorry.’
He holds me with exactly the right amount of pressure.
Am I really giving this up?
‘Zoe, I hope you know it’s not about me thinking there’s nothing worth staying for, because that’s not what I meant.
You’ve always been more than worth it. The way I feel about you.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to say it.’ When he pulls away, I’m surprised I don’t fall where I stand.
What was he going to say? And why did he think I didn’t want to hear it?
Perhaps hearing it is exactly what I need.
‘Was it the timing?’ he asks. ‘I’ve wondered if it was the timing that was bad or if it was me.’
‘It was never you,’ I say.
He gives me one of his half-nods then picks the tub up from the table. This is it, he’s really leaving, and I didn’t even try to make him stay.
That night, as I lie on my bed, Eric stands in the doorway. ‘Are you alright?’
‘No.’
He comes in and props himself against the headboard. ‘Should I not have let him in? I didn’t really think it through. I should have told him to go. Shouldn’t I? Say something,’ he prods.
The tears roll down the side of my face onto the pillow. ‘I am so lonely.’
‘You should talk to someone.’
‘I don’t want to. I only want to talk to him. He makes every-thing better.’
’Why are you letting him go?
‘Because he needs more than I can give him,’ I cry. ‘He needs someone who’s ready to love him properly, not another woman making him doubt he’s worth it.’
After a while, Eric shuffles down to give me the most awkward hug of my life, yet it’s so sweet it makes me cry more.
‘Do you want to have dinner and watch that series with me?’ he asks, as I sit up and wipe my face.
‘Which one?’
‘The one about the man who murdered all those old ladies.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll order some dinner first.’
When Eric leaves, I grab my phone off the charger to find a message.
Cian: These cookies have an unusual taste.
After a few seconds I send:
Me: It’s the secret ingredient, can you guess what it is?
Cian: Sand?
I let out a short burst of laughter. God, I hate him, and I can’t believe I let him go.
Cian: I’m sorry.
Cian: I’m sorry for everything.
Me: Me too.