Chapter 11 #2
Max howls. We both crease up for about five minutes.
“And . . .” Max finally draws a full breath. “How are you feeling now? Still thinking you’re not long for this world?”
“I think, probably . . . I’ll survive the night,” I say. “Yeah. I know it sounds bonkers. I don’t know. I think I had some sort of twenty-four-hour nervous breakdown.”
Once we’ve stopped laughing, Max contemplates me. His eyebrows furrow like he’s putting two and two together. If he’s opened the letter, is he suddenly realizing that’s why I sent it? Because I was thinking I’d be dead by the time he read it?
He grabs my now totally empty glass. “More tequila,” he declares.
He’s rattled. I can tell from his vigorous deflection, which is extreme even for him. His movements have become jerky. There’s an edge to his voice. He’s upset that I was leaving, or that I didn’t tell him, or both.
It’s pathetic, but I can’t help but be thrilled he cares.
Max makes my next cocktail in silence. I can’t think of anything to say either. Changing the subject feels like ignoring the elephant in the room, but clearly the conversation about me leaving the country is closed. Eventually he hands my glass back to me and heads for the bathroom.
The time is now.
I put the drink down beside me on the floor and spring off the sofa, toward the bookshelf.
I carefully lift the envelopes, trying to preserve the position they were put down in as I rifle through them.
Bill, bill, taxes, bill, bill . . . Christ. Being an adult is shit.
His lamentably dull post makes me want to move back in with my mum immediately.
Look at all this laborious admin just for your money to be taken for basic human rights like the internet.
Ugh. My letter isn’t here. Then I notice the dates. They’re all from months ago! Clearly, Max is not a fan of admin either. Where is his recent post, goddamnit?!
The toilet flushes and I fling myself back onto the sofa.
The bathroom door opens and Max steps out. I try to look “casual” but have obviously forgotten how human beings sit, because I accidentally cross my arms through my legs like a pretzel. Thankfully, Max doesn’t seem to notice.
“I didn’t realize how late it was. I should go to bed,” he announces.
I look at my phone; it’s ten o’clock. Max is usually up until at least one. “Since when did you care about how late it is? What about the drinks?” I gesture to the two full glasses sitting out on the table. “What about the bad film? I was thinking Sharknado.”
“I have an important shoot tomorrow,” he says.
“Oh?” I ask.
“Yeh. In Paris. Have to be up early for the Eurostar.”
“Oh.” I’m about to say, You didn’t mention it, but that would be a bit rich coming from me. “But what if I’m dead by morning? I hear four hundred and fifty people a year die falling out of bed.”
He doesn’t laugh at my joke. He goes into his bedroom and returns with my pajamas (namely, the “Live, Laugh, Love” T-shirt I bought him once as an ironic birthday present) and toothbrush. He hands them to me with a blank expression. Is he annoyed at me . . . or am I overanalyzing?
“Do you want the bed?” he offers. “I can sleep on the sofa.”
“No,” I say. “No, it’s fine. You have a big day tomorrow.”
He nods. So cold. I’m not imagining it. I guess he found the whole thing funny at first but now he’s processed it a little more, he isn’t about to let me off that easily.
We get ready for bed, barely saying anything else to each other. Even though it’s tense I can’t help but enjoy the sight of us brushing our teeth in tandem next to each other in the mirror. Like we’re back together. I catch his eye a few times in the mirror and smile but his face is deadpan.
“Night, dude.” He puts his toothbrush back in the cupboard and pats me on the shoulder.
Dude.
“Night, man,” I reply sarcastically.
I watch his back as he walks away and shuts his bedroom door. I stand for a moment, wondering whether he’ll come back out, but he doesn’t. Eventually I retreat to the living room.
I spend ten minutes quietly hunting more thoroughly for Max’s post, but there’s nothing. It could be lying unopened in his bedroom. Or in his post cubby downstairs? But if I slip downstairs now I won’t be able to get back in without a key. Rats.
Read or unread . . . I won’t find out this evening. I give up and lie back on the sofa. I’m none the wiser about whether he’s aware of how I feel about him, but either way, he knows I was fleeing the country.
Now I’m alone, I can’t help but think of everything that’s happened today.
I think of Angie, Dami, Mum, Max next door, all going to bed furious with me.
Even though I’m no longer convinced I’m about to die, the resonance of Sue’s reading keeps running through my mind.
I think of the Tower card. A fall from grace, the burning to the ground of what we thought we knew, the destruction of everything we’ve built.
I stare at Max’s ceiling, knowing I’m not going to get a wink of sleep. I’m going to lie awake all night thinking about how in one day, I’ve managed to make everyone in the world that I love hate me.