Love Your Life(99)

“It was an accident,” I say yet again, but my voice is hopeless, and I’m not sure I even believe myself.

“There are no accidents,” chimes in Topher, whizzing into the hall on a child’s scooter, then stopping abruptly as he sees the damage. He glances swiftly from me to Matt, and I can see him taking in the situation. “I mean, there are,” he amends. “There are accidents that are just accidents. They have no other significance.”

“Huh,” says Matt gruffly. I can’t even bring myself to answer. Topher looks from me to Matt and back again, his expression suddenly stricken.

“Don’t break up, guys,” he says quietly, and he sounds more sincere than I’ve ever heard him. “It’s not a breakup thing. Whatever it is.”

    I don’t move a muscle in response, and neither does Matt. My eyes are locked on his. We could be in a martial-arts ring.

Without saying another word, Topher backs his scooter out of the hall, and a few moments later there’s the sound of his bedroom door closing. And we’re still staring each other down.

“Is this a breakup thing?” says Matt at last, his voice flat. “Because I don’t know what the fuck the rules are.”

“I don’t have any rules,” I say, feeling instantly prickly.

“You don’t have any rules?” He stares at me with scathing incredulity. “Ava, you have nothing but rules. Jeez! ‘We’re not telling each other anything. Now just one fact. Now five questions.’ I can’t keep up. I don’t know where I am.”

“You don’t know where you are?” I feel white-hot with rage. “You don’t know?”

I’m fighting two strong impulses. An impulse to make up and an impulse to hurt him the way I’ve been hurt. I guess the hurt impulse is just more powerful.

“I thought I didn’t have any deal-breakers.” My words burst out of me in a wounded stream. “I didn’t even believe in them. But you know something? If I was looking at an online profile and it said, ‘By the way, I’ll lie about my ex-girlfriend and plan to move to Japan without mentioning it,’ that would be a deal-breaker. Sorry to be blunt,” I add, with an edge to my voice. “But that’s just how it is.”

Matt’s eyes move slowly around the hall, over his ravaged art, and back to me.

“Well,” he answers tonelessly. “If I read, ‘I’ll smash up your art with a golf club,’ that would be a deal-breaker for me. I’d click on to someone else like that.”

    He snaps his fingers, and the sound is so dismissive, my heart spasms. But I manage to keep my face steady.

“OK.” Somehow I find a shrug. “Well, I guess we know the truth now. We didn’t fit all along.”

“I guess we do.”

I want to cry. My throat is so tight, it’s painful. But I would die rather than dissolve into sobs. Carefully, I place the putter on the leather footstool.

“Sorry about the art,” I say, my voice barely a husk.

“No problem,” says Matt, almost formally.

“I’ll get my stuff.” I stare at the floor. “And I’ll clean up this mess, obviously.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“No. I insist.”

There’s a short silence and I survey the scuffed toes of my shoes in a weird, surreal daze. My life just shattered, but somehow I’m still standing upright. So. Silver lining.

“So, what, are we breaking up?” says Matt, a harsh heaviness to his voice. “Or ‘having some space’? Or what?”

“You’re planning to go to Japan, Matt,” I say, feeling suddenly bone-weary. “You’re planning to live on the other side of the world for a year. What difference does it make what we call it?”

Matt draws breath to make some response but seems to change his mind. At that moment his phone rings, and he glances at it in irritation—then his face jolts.

“Hi,” he answers, looking confused. “Matt here.” He listens for a minute or so, then winces. “Shit. Shit. That’s…OK. She’s here.” He offers the phone to me, looking grave. “They couldn’t get through to your phone. It’s Maud. Nell’s been taken to hospital with chest pains. They think you should go. Right now.”

    “Oh God. Oh God…” My heart thumping in panic, I make to grab the phone, but Matt puts a hand on my arm.

“Let me take you,” he says. “Please. I’ll go with you. Even if we’re not together…” He stops. “I can still…”

His face is so grave, so honest, so exactly the face I wanted to love, that I can’t bear it. I can’t be near him. I can’t even look at him. It’s too painful. I have to leave. Now.

“Please don’t bother yourself, Matt,” I say, swiveling away, each word like a needle in my throat. “It’s not your problem anymore.” As I reach the door, I shoot him one last glance, feeling my heart implode with sadness. “It’s not your life.”





Twenty-Four




Seven months later

A shaft of afternoon sunlight is falling on my table as I type my final words. The days are getting longer, the air warmer, and spring flowers are everywhere in the olive groves. Spring in Puglia is enchanting. Scratch that—every season is enchanting.