Page 89 of We Used To Be Magic

‘Did you and Marika, like … engineer this? Before you even spoke to me?’

‘Audrey,no.No, it’s not like that at all – it was an accident—’

I’m moving, all of a sudden, striding out of the room and down the hall. I can’t be here – I can’t hear this but Ezra istrailing behind me, still talking, still trying to explain – explain what, though? What couldpossiblyjustify this?

‘Audrey – Audrey, I was going to tell you,’ he pleads, still at my heels. ‘I swear, the second we were out of the apartment I was going to tell you what happened.’

‘Why wouldyoutell me what happened?’ I cry, wheeling around. ‘You don’t fuckingknow! You don’t – no one knows anything!Anything!’

I’m screaming. I’m screaming at him, and I want him to scream back – to provoke me into unleashing just a fraction of every awful fucking feeling I’ve been forcing down. But Ezra just stares at me, eyes big and wet and wounded, and I hate him for that. I hate him, and I imagine shoving him, then – seeing shock wipe the pity from his features. My hands twitch –

‘I’m sorry,’ he says brokenly, and the shame is awful and immediate and so much worse than anger. I turn away, wedging my feet into my trainers and grabbing my jacket, feeling a weight in the left pocket – my phone. I forgot it was there, just like I forgot that this wasn’t my life. That Ezra was a stranger.

My fingers close around the door handle, and I’m gone.

EZRA

‘OH,HI.’

The dark-haired girl who’s opened the door to Mac’s apartment is holding a crumpled joint between her fingers, smiling in a pink dress and comically oversized blazer.

‘Hi,’ I say uncertainly. ‘Is this Mac’s place?’

‘Nowaaaaay,’ she drawls, smile widening. ‘You’re British?’

‘More so than not,’ I reply, and she laughs like I’ve said something hilarious.

‘Mac said he’d invited someone,’ she says, looking up at me through her eyelashes. ‘I guess that’s you. Are you an actor?’

‘He works at the restaurant,’ Mac snaps, appearing out of nowhere and snatching the joint from between her fingers. ‘And can you stop waving this shit around the hallway? We’re going to get another complaint.’

He ushers us inside, shutting the door with a scowl. The girl just smiles serenely, leaning against it.

‘He worries too much,’ she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder. ‘I’m Courtney, by the way. I live here.’

‘Ezra,’ I say absently, distracted by a small, boxy television in the corner of the furniture-less living room. It’s playing a movie that no one is watching, the dialogue inaudible over the music.The Apartment– the scene at the Christmas party. I love this movie. My mum showed it to me. Then I showed it to Audrey. Then – then nothing. Maybe theTVisn’t even on. Maybe I’m finally cracking up.

‘Ezra!’ Mac says, and with some force. I blink at him, startled.

‘Sorry?’ I reply. He’s looking at me with wide-eyed incredulity – he must have been trying to get my attention for some time, I realise.

‘Yourhand,’ he says. ‘What happened?’

Courtney’s gaze drops, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise.

‘Oh. Uh – stupid accident,’ I say, flexing it slightly. It’s a little stiff and looks gruesome – my knuckles are purplish-red, split open and caked with dried blood. After Audrey left my apartment for what I’m sure was the last time I caught sight of myself in the shiny surface of the fridge – my stupid fucking face, contorted with shame and panic. The wave of self-loathing was so immediate and all-consuming that I don’t even remember hitting it.

Stupid, yes, but not technically an accident.

‘You need to take care of that,’ Mac says seriously.

‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘I sterilised it.’

Translation – I poured vodka over it. Then I poured the rest down my throat, because of course I did. I’ve been steadily drinking and drifting in and out of consciousness all day, paralysed by the utter fucking lack of reasons to do anything else. Then Mac messaged, and I was suddenly so desperate not to be alone that I took a cab straight here.

‘No, babe. It needs wrapping,’ Mac says firmly, putting a hand on my back and steering me away. Courtney offers a half-hearted noise of protest, but Mac ignores her, guiding me through tightly packed clusters of partygoers – more than his apartment can reasonably contain, by the looks of it. It’s a bleak place, low-ceilinged, every wall painted a sickly shade of pale green. Mac’s room is at the end of a narrow corridor, and I flop on to his bed as he shuts the door behind us – it’s clean, clutter free, but windowless. Scented candles don’t quite mask the smell of damp.

‘Courtney the birthday girl, then?’ I ask, looking up at a mysterious brown patch on the ceiling.

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