Love Your Life(97)

I’m feeling a bit faint. They were a couple? All that time, while we sat in the monastery in our pajama suits, thinking we were all strangers…they were a couple? And Matt said nothing?

    “I mean, I knew that,” I say, trying my hardest to regain some ascendance. “I knew that.”

“No you didn’t.” Her eyes mock me pityingly. “Anyway, I’m in London and I just wanted to swing by. Tell Matt I’m engaged.”

She waves a ring at me, her eyes flashing in triumph. I dimly register that it’s a band of yellow stones and that I really don’t like it. (Which isn’t the point, but you can’t help what your brain thinks.)

“Congratulations,” I say numbly.

“Yeah, thanks. Met him in Antwerp. He’s Dutch. Actually Dutch. Not like, ‘Call me Dutch.’?” She gives a little laugh with an edge to it. “Speaking of which…when will Matt be back?”

“Don’t know. Not for a while. Not for hours, in fact.” I take a step forward, trying to force Lyric backward into the hall. Because it’s come to me that I really, really want her to leave. “I think you should go now,” I add for good measure. “I have things to do. So. Goodbye.”

She takes a step back but then pauses, her eyes running over me as though for enjoyment.

“Fine. I’m off.” She shrugs. “You’ll tell Matt I was here?”

“Oh yes,” I say, with a slightly savage smile. “I’ll tell him.”

As the door closes, there’s a kind of buzzing getting louder in my ears. I think I’m going a bit mad. I knew Lyric was attracted to Matt at the retreat. I could tell by how she looked at him in that fixated way. But how could I ever have imagined she was attracted to him because she was his lover?

Everywhere I turn, I feel wrong-footed. I think I’ve got a handle on who Matt is, I think I understand him and his life…but then something else weird pops up. Secret discussions. Private decisions. Girlfriends he never thought to mention. Why didn’t he tell me? I feel like screaming. Why the hell didn’t he tell me?

    Hardly knowing what I’m doing, I pick up his putter, which is resting against the wall. His stupid bloody putter, symbol of his misery. I lift it high in the air and thwack the leather footstool. And it’s such an excellent feeling that I do it again and again, venting my frustration, my bewilderment, my anger, until my muscles are aching, until I’m panting hard, until—

CRASH!!!

I don’t know what hits me first: the smashing sound or the realization that the putter has slipped out of my hands on the backswing. For a moment I’m so shocked that I can’t even imagine what destruction has happened behind me. Broken vase? But there aren’t any vases in the hall. There’s only—

There’s only—

Oh God.

No.

Hyperventilating, hardly daring to move, I slowly turn round to see what I’ve done—and it’s so terrible I think my legs might give way.

I haven’t.

Please, please say I haven’t….

But I have. It’s a nightmare, right in front of my eyes. I’ve smashed the raven. Matt’s precious, beloved work of art. Only one fragment remains on the wall; the rest is pulverized. There’s a broken piece of wing and a human tooth right by my foot, and I shrink away with a shriek, part revulsion, part dismay at myself, part just anguish.

    Could I mend it? But even as the thought passes through my brain, I know it’s ridiculous. As I pick up the putter and survey the black smithereens scattered across the floor, I feel utterly sick. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to…

Then my stomach heaves as there’s the sound of a key in the lock. The front door is opening, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed, clutching the putter, like the murderer at the crime scene.

“Ava,” Matt greets me—then stops dead. His eyes widen and darken as they take in the scene of carnage. I hear him emit a tiny sound of distress, almost a whimper.

“I’m sorry,” I gulp. “Matt, I’m so sorry.”

Slowly, his aghast eyes travel to the putter in my hand.

“Jesus.” He wipes his face. “You…you did this?”

“Yes,” I admit in a tiny voice.

“But how? What were you doing?”

“I was…angry,” I begin in faltering tones. “Matt, I’m so sorry….”

“You were angry?” Matt’s voice rockets in horror. “So you destroy a piece of art?”

“God! No!” I say in equal horror, realizing how I’m misrepresenting myself. “I wasn’t aiming at the art. I was hitting the footstool! I just…I don’t know how it happened….” I trail off in misery, but he doesn’t respond. I don’t think he’s even listening.

“I know you didn’t like it,” he says, almost to himself. “But—”

    “No!” I say in dismay. “Please listen! It was an accident! I was in a state! Because I get back here from the expo and the doorbell rings and who is it? Your former girlfriend, Sarah. Or should I say Lyric? I had no idea who she was, and I felt like a total, utter fool—”

“Sarah?” Matt looks shattered. “Sarah was here?”