Page 51 of What It's Like in Words
By the time we started eating, the sun had set and he was telling me about an idea he had for a column to accompany his book. Hetold me that it came to him during a shift at the bar as he listened to one of the regulars opine about last week’s paper. Do you get it? he said with momentum. The author will be Charlie.
The journalist?
No, Enola, he said sarcastically, the ballet dancer. Then he interrupted himself: Fuck, this risotto is good! Your mate might havewon MasterChefif she had done this.
It was now or never. There wouldn’t be a better time to tell him. I put my fork down and told him that I had some news. He made a noise but didn’t look up from his plate.
You know that agent that Amy put me in touch with?
He froze.
She’s asked for my full manuscript.
He choked on a mouthful of risotto and took a sip of water. That’s great, honey, he said, thumping his chest. I thought that he was going to speak once the mouthful cleared, but he didn’t.
Yay! I said like a child at a birthday party that none of her friends had turned up to. He continued eating, and I flashed back to standing by the cabinet of ornate dogs in my underwear.
I offered seconds, but he said he was full. I asked a question about his column, but he said that he might not do it after all. I went to the bathroom, and when I returned, the table was cleared as if the evening had never happened.
IDIDN’T SEE HIMfor the rest of the week, and his messages were sporadic and short. I hoped that he might apologize, but he didn’t. (Are you surprised?asked Ruth.) I felt like I was back in those two weeks after our holiday, and I struggled to write or muster excitement about sending my book to Diana. I suggested meeting twice; the first time he was working and the second he had plans with Steph. But then on Sunday he messaged:
I can come over after my shift if you like.
I opened the door and he instantly made a point of saying that it had been a long one—a warning to me. We watched television like we were waiting for the episode to finish and then got undressed the same way. I put on my flowered nighty that he enjoyed teasing me about. When I first wore it he joked that I belonged in a nursing home and gave me aMario KartT-shirt to wear instead.About time you wore something sexy, honey.But tonight he didn’t say anything, and I felt like the punch line of the same joke.
We got into bed, and he checked his phone and smiled. The light was on as if he was waiting for something, so I kissed him, but his lips were pursed. I made a comment about how it had been a while, and he asked me what that meant. I told him that I missed being with him. I wasn’t sure what else it could mean. He put his phone down. You know I’m just depressed right now—don’t take it personally, Enola. But it was hard not to take it personally when every time Steph messaged, he smiled. I knew that I had to talk to him, but I also knew that might mean an argument, so I geared myself up to speak like I was preparing to jump off something. But I mistimed it, and we spoke at the same time.
Are you going to turn that light off? / Is everything okay?
I wanted to take my question back, but it was out there, half-cooked. He asked what I was accusing him of now.Here we go.I told him that it was just a question. He snorted like that was a technicality. I wrung my nighty tightly. He hated when I second-guessed him, but I knew that something was wrong, just as I had known that something was wrong in Kenya. I kept my tone gentle and my posture unconfrontational. I said that things had felt tense.
What are you talking about?
Since I told you about Diana.
Who’s Diana?
He knew who Diana was. I wasn’t sure whether he was pretending that everything was okay or trying to undermine me, but I explained again. Okay, and sorry, what’s the issue there? he asked, like he waspoised to write down my answer. I unraveled the nighty and said that he hadn’t seemed happy for me.
If you want to talk about anything or if you’re feeling—
He interrupted me with a breath. Do you really think I’m that insecure?
No!
You think I’m that pathetic?
Of course not!
Then you must think I’m jealous or something.
I—
Because I think that the problem isn’t whether or not I’m happy for you—which I am—theproblemis that I didn’t show my happiness in the exact way that you wanted.
I could feel my heart now, and it was harder to keep my tone soft.
So, everything’s okay?
