The Square Root of Summer(58)

I go outside and no one’s dancing there either, so me and the bottle stomp around on our own for a bit in the flower bed, because it’s the only place there’s room. The darkness dances with me, hand in hand. We never got the yellow tulips in the end, for the funeral, and it doesn’t matter, except it still does.

I top up my mug, and wander round the edges of the garden, looking for Thomas. More people say “hey” as I pass them. Ned’s friends, boys in bandanas. When I reach the big stone Buddha, I stop and lean against it, gulping in air. It takes me a couple of seconds to realize I’ve basically joined Jason and Meg.

Great. Perfect. Unholy long division. Meg’s floating dreamily back and forth to the music, wearing ballet flats and generally being petite and adorable and not a great galumphing secret giant. She sees me staring and waves, cautiously. Her other hand is entwined with Jason’s.

“Gottie!” she calls out. “Isn’t this party insane? Can’t wait for later. I’m going to get drinks. You want?”

“Hi. No,” I shout, waving my half-empty bottle at her. I lost the mug, somewhere. She nods and moves off through the crowd. Then to Jason I say, “I wish you’d disappear down a wormhole.”

“What?”

“Nothing, I said ‘Hi.’”

Jason nods warily. I don’t think he can hear me, so I say experimentally, “You’re a monumental arsehole.”

“Yeah!” he shouts back. “Strong tunes!”

It’s not quite right, though. I don’t want to call him an arsehole. I want him to hear what I have to say, to acknowledge me—to acknowledge us. To admit that we really were something, once. I lean forward to shout it at him, grabbing his shoulder with my bottle hand, a bit more forcefully than I mean to. He staggers and steadies himself on my waist, then I cup my other hand to his ear and say, “We were in love.”

“What?” he shouts. Then looks around and leans into my ear, saying quickly, “Yeah. We kinda were. Listen, Margot. After Grey—”

“After Grey, you were awful to me,” I interrupt. I’m not sure he hears me. I’m not sure it matters. I kiss him on the cheek and walk away. I’m officially done.

Somehow I make it back inside, fight my way through the kitchen, collect something from the fridge, then carry my bounty through the sitting room, where people are lounging around talking. It’s quieter in here. Then somehow I’m outside Grey’s door. I haven’t been in here since Ned and I cleaned it out.

It’s practically silent, inside. I’m on the other side of the house from Ned’s stereo and all the people in the garden. I leave the lights off and tiptoe through the mess on the floor—it’s like a Thomas bomb exploded, scattering felt-tips and comics and cardigans everywhere. Travel Connect 4 on the piano. It’s not quite all the things he described in his Toronto bedroom, but it’s enough that it doesn’t feel like Grey’s room anymore.

Which makes it okay to climb onto the bed in my shoes, a piece of Thomas’s cake in one hand, the bottle in the other. Somehow, it’s almost empty. When did I drink that?

I put the cake on the duvet, then arrange myself cross-legged in front of The Wurst. I hold up the bottle, in a toast. That’s what Ned’s whole party is about, isn’t it? A toast to our grandfather. In the corner, darkness slides down the wall.

“What are you doing?”

Thomas is in the doorway.

“Hi!” I yell, then wince. Readjust to nonparty volume. “Sorry. Hello. I know this is your room, sorry.”

“That’s okay. What’s going on?” he asks, shutting the door. “I’ve been watching you and you seem a little…”

Unhinged. Out of control.

“Nothing’s going on,” I say. “I couldn’t find you.”

“You didn’t look very hard,” he says mildly, coming to sit next to me. “Every time I try to cross the garden to talk to you, you run away.”

Do I? I haven’t even noticed Thomas in the crowd. I’ve been keeping an eye on the darkness.

“If you’re still mad about Manchester, if you didn’t want to kiss me…”

“I did! I do! I’m running away from the wormhole, not you.”

Thomas frowns. “Are you drunk?”

The darkness climbs onto the bed, nestling in the shadows between the pillows. And I kiss him, really kiss him. Not like it was in the kitchen. Or sweet, like the churchyard. There’s darkness all around us now, so I kiss him like I want the world to stop. At least, I try to.

I launch myself, hands everywhere, pushing him backwards onto the bed. My arms are under his T-shirt, my mouth open and pressed to his closed lips. He’s not responding and I try harder, putting his arms under my vest, start fumbling with my own bra strap. The darkness slides closer.

Gently, he pushes me away.

“G,” he says, sitting up. “Don’t. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. What? Nothing. It’s fate, like you said. Don’t you want to?” I throw myself at him again in the half dark, try to put his arms round me. There’s so little time left.

“Slow down a second,” he says, holding me at arm’s length. “Hang on. You’re acting strange.”

He breaks off, and I fill the silence.