Love Your Life(39)

“Hi,” he says in a gravelly voice, and gestures at his ears with his gloved hands. “AirPods.”

“Nice to meet you!” I say feebly as he resumes bashing the punching bag. Then something at floor level catches my eye, and I stare in disbelief. There’s some sort of robot approaching us over the concrete floor. Like the kind people have to vacuum their houses. But this one is holding cans of beer.

Harold spots it at the same time as I do and starts barking frenziedly. I grab for his lead before he can attack it, and we both watch agog as the robot glides toward Nihal.

“I’m sure Harold will get used to that,” says Matt.

“But what is it?” I say, bewildered.

    “Robot.” Matt shrugs. “We have a few. One for beer, one for pizza, one for crisps…”

“But why?” I say, even more bewildered, and Matt peers at me as though he doesn’t understand the question.

“Makes life easier?” He shrugs. “Come and see my room, then I’ll get you a drink.”

Matt’s room has black walls, a gray concrete floor, and the hairless wolf sculpture over the bed, which I try very hard not to look at as I unpack Harold’s things. (Why hairless?)

I set out Harold’s bed and blanket and spritz everything with his essential oils. As Matt enters, holding a glass of wine and a beer, I exclaim, “All ready for the sleepover!”

“In my family, dogs aren’t allowed in the bedroom,” responds Matt, and I laugh, because he has a really dry sense of humor. Then, as I stand up and see his frown, my heart plunges. That wasn’t humor. He means it. He means it?

“Harold always sleeps in the same room as me,” I explain, trying to hide my rising anxiety. “He’ll get lonely if he doesn’t.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine in the kitchen,” says Matt, as though I haven’t spoken. “We can put his bed there; he’ll be very comfortable. Won’t you, Harold?”

The kitchen? Who makes their beloved family member sleep in the kitchen?

“I don’t think he will, actually,” I say. I’m trying to smile in a relaxed way, but I feel super-unrelaxed. My dog is not an appliance, and he’s not sleeping in the kitchen. “He’ll miss me. He’ll whine. It won’t work. That’s just…you know. How it is. Sorry.”

    Not sorry, my eyes add silently.

Matt’s eyes run over Harold, over the dog bed, and up to me again. I’m still smiling, but my chin has tensed and my hands have curled into fists. I mean, basically this is nonnegotiable. And I think Matt’s realizing it.

“Right,” he says at last. “So…”

“It’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “It’ll be fine. You won’t even notice him.”

I won’t mention that Harold always starts off sleeping on his own bed but joins me under the duvet at some point during the night. We can cross that bridge when we come to it.

“I put some stuff in one of the drawers in the bathroom,” I say brightly, changing the subject. “The left-hand one.”

“Cool.” Matt nods. “That’s where Genevieve always used to—” He stops himself and there’s a prickly silence, during which my mind whirs.

There was a Genevieve?

Of course there was a Genevieve. Of course he has a past. We’re grown-ups; we both have pasts. The real question is: What do we want to know about those pasts?

Matt has been darting wary looks at me, and now he draws breath. “Genevieve was my—”

“Yes!” I cut him off. “I get it. Girlfriend. You have history. We both do.”

Matt and Genevieve. No, it sounds crap. Matt and Ava is far better.

“But this is what I think,” I continue before Matt can blurt out something unhelpful like how great she was in bed. “We were lucky. We met in a magical, wonderful bubble. We didn’t know anything about each other. We had no baggage. No baggage,” I repeat for emphasis. “And in this day and age, that’s a precious gift. Don’t you think?”

    “I guess,” says Matt.

“I don’t need to know anything about Genevieve,” I say, trying to emphasize the point. “I’m not interested in Genevieve! Couldn’t care less! And you don’t need to know about Russell.”

“Russell?” Matt stiffens. “Who the hell is Russell?”

Oh, OK. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Russell by name.

“Doesn’t matter!” I make a brushing-aside gesture with my hand. “Ancient history! Baggage! We’re not doing baggage. OK? This is a hand-luggage-only relationship.” I walk over so I’m standing directly in front of Matt and survey his strong, handsome, honest face. “This is us,” I murmur. “Right here, right now. And that’s all that matters.” I brush my lips gently against his. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Matt’s eyes crinkle fondly as he gazes at me. “And, yes, we were lucky.” As Harold pads over to us, Matt reaches down and caresses his head. “As for you,” he addresses Harold in mock-stern tones, “you’d better not snore.”

“He doesn’t snore,” I assure Matt earnestly. Which is true. Sleep-whining isn’t snoring; it’s a completely different sound.