I Owe You One: A Novel(100)

“You think I’m a doormat?” I say, breathing hard.

“I didn’t say that. But I think you need to start thinking less about what you owe other people and more about what you owe yourself.”

I know what he’s saying makes sense. But at the same time, he’s making me feel so stupid. Such a mug. And I can’t bear it.

“So, what, just stop caring?” I lash back.

“It’s not that!” he says hotly. “But you have to care for yourself! You have to be strong. Don’t let them make you feel bad about yourself. Try to … I don’t know. Block them out.”

“Oh, right.” I hear my stream of hostile words before I can stop them. “Easy. Block out my family. Like you block out your brother? Shut the door and turn the key and look away? Just because you can’t see a bin full of bottles doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

There’s a monumental, terrible silence. Seb looks like I’ve bludgeoned him.

“How do you know what’s in that room?” he says at last, and his voice has lost all its volume and spirit.

“I’m sorry.” I rub my face. “I … I took the key. I looked.”

The atmosphere has disintegrated. I take a step forward, trying to be conciliatory, but Seb doesn’t react. His face is pale and distant, as though I’m not even here. I look at the plate of fudge and suddenly realize that if he’s been making it since he was seven, he probably made it with his brother.

“Seb—”

“It’s fine,” he says, looking at me as though I’m a stranger. “It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not fine.”

“It’s fine,” he repeats. “Let’s not talk about it.”

His face is all closed up and his voice has lost all its warmth. I feel like I’ve been excommunicated.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” I say in a defensive rush.

“Like what?”

“Like I meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You pried into my dead brother’s room behind my back.” His tone is unforgiving. “What were you meaning to do?”

“I didn’t ‘pry’!” I say in horror, even though a small voice is whispering, Yes, I did pry. “Seb,” I begin again, trying to reconnect, “I know you’re sensitive, I know this has been awful for you, but I’m sure James would—”

“You have no idea!” he cuts me off furiously, then pauses, regaining control. “You have no idea about James. None.”

His gaze is so hostile, it brings tears to my eyes. I’ve had a hell of a day, and I came here for comfort and instead I’ve messed up. I shouldn’t have invaded Seb’s privacy. I shouldn’t have blurted it out. But can’t he forgive me?

“It seems like neither of us can say anything without hurting the other,” I say, my voice trembling. “Maybe I should go.”

I’m so desperately hoping that Seb’s face will change, that he’ll sweep me into his arms and we can say sorry to each other six hundred times and make it better in bed.

But he doesn’t. He’s silent for a few moments, then says, “If you think so.”

So I gather my things with shaking hands, my breaths coming short and shallow. And I go.

I travel home in a daze, sitting on the tube, staring at my distorted reflection. I can’t quite comprehend what just happened, how we went so far and so badly so quickly. And it’s only when I get home, to my own bedroom, that I bury my face in my pillow and start to sob.





Twenty-three




I wake up with a splitting headache and only one thought: Seb. I must contact Seb. The entirety of last night is in my head, as clearly as though it happened five minutes ago. I still can’t believe how we veered off track. I have to talk to him, apologize; we have to make this right.

It was only a spat, I tell myself. All couples have spats. We were both tired and stressed and said stuff we didn’t mean. We can fix this.

I grab my phone and send a text to him:

Are we OK?

Then I flop back on my pillow and stare at the ceiling, trying to self-heal my headache. I’ve seen a book in Nicole’s room called Meditate Your Way to Health, but what are you supposed to do when your head hurts too much to meditate?

I try to focus on a beach, but the only beach I can visualize is dry and scorching and kind of dystopian-looking, with blinding white sand and harsh cliffs and a vulture trying to peck bits out of my eyes while it screeches in my ear. So in the end I get up, wrap my robe around myself, and stagger down the stairs to find some aspirin. I’ll follow the Drug Your Way to Health regime, I decide. Just for this morning. And I’m on the bottom step when a new text pings into my phone, making my heart lurch with nerves. It’s from Seb.

I don’t know, are we?

I gaze at it, my temples throbbing. I don’t know how to reply. If I say yes, do I sound too complacent? Obviously I’m not going to say no. What I really want to say is, I don’t know, are we? but that sounds like I’m copying him.

The main thing, I tell myself, is that he replied. Within two minutes. So he’s thinking about me too. And maybe the best thing is not to text again yet but to call him later, only I must have an aspirin first …