Page 128 of Summer After Summer

When I check my phone, there’s a message from Matt, asking if I’m okay. I text him back and tell him I’m taking the day off; I’ll be in touch later. I don’t wait for his reply because I only want this morning to be good, not tainted by anyone’s regrets, including my own.

My phone is sitting on top of a folded note. There’s a gleaming glass of water next to it and two painkillers in a dish. The note says, “Stepped out for supplies. Fred.”

I pick up the pills, swallowing them down with the cool water. I feel better already, but unsure of whether I should get up. I look around the room for my clothes, but they’re missing. Instead, there’s a robe slung over a chenille chair, like Fred’s left crumbs for me to follow.

I go to the bathroom and find soap, shampoo, and an enormous shower. I use all of them, luxuriating in the warm water, the first “American” shower I’ve had since I’ve been in the UK.

When I’m done, I wrap myself in the robe and use the toothbrush and toothpaste left for me. I try not to think what it means that he has all of this available in his apartment, that this might be a routine and means nothing special. But then the words he said last night come back.

I love you, he said.

And I said it back. At least, I think I did.

I run my fingers through my hair, wiping a streak of steam off the mirror. My face is red from the hot water, from too many matches in the sun, from the blush I have remembering last night.

What am I doing here?

I have no idea, but since it’s the first time I have no idea what I’m doing in years, I decide to go with it. What’s the worst that could happen? Fred and I don’t survive this. I know what that is. I’ve lived through that more than once. So fine. It’s fine. All of this is good and fine.

The smell of freshly roasted coffee hits me, and I follow it to the kitchen. Fred’s there, in jeans and an old T-shirt, and here he is, teenage Fred—Fred, the way he looked when we first met ten years ago.

He turns to me and smiles. “Do you like omelets?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Who’s cooking them.”

“You’re in luck then.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll see.”

He pats a chair under the counter and pulls it out for me. I take a seat, and he gives me a cup of coffee. It’s delicious, a level of bean I don’t have access to in my normal life, and that’s true of this entire place. It’s large, even by American standards. I can’t imagine what it costs here in London.

I pour cream into my coffee, that fresh full cream of England, and sip on it slowly, savoring it.

“You’re doing well,” I say to Fred.

He’s at the stove, adding ingredients to a pan, and it’s already smelling delicious. “Thank you.”

“I mean this place … it’s amazing.”

“Corporate housing.”

“You’re shitting me.”

He turns and grins. “I know, right?”

I watch him cook for a few minutes while he fills me in. How the owner of the company he works for has taken him under his wing, which he told me already. How he has a bunch of real estate and he let Fred have this place for nothing. The plans Mr. de Keurig has for him in the company. And then Fred puts the best-smelling eggs I’ve ever had in front of me. They’re full of vegetables and cheese and smoked salmon, and it’s a combination I would’ve thought was disgusting, but it’s delicious.

“Amazing,” I say. “This is amazing.”

“Thank you.” He digs into his eggs. “What do you want to do today?”

“I should hit for a while.”

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