Page 80 of We Used To Be Magic

I thought that I was lying, earlier, telling Audrey I wasn’t free tonight. But no – my phone pinged with a message from Edie almost as soon as I hung up:

Are we still on for tonight?

Turns out I’d simply forgotten about the plans I’d made to spend the evening with my ex-girlfriend, instead – much better.

I thought said plans would involve another bar, honestly, and that’s half the reason I hauled myself off the sofa to leave my apartment, abandoning aTwilight Zonemarathon and a half-empty bottle of vermouth in favour of an ice-cold old fashioned and conversation with someone who’d never heard the name Julian fucking Mars in the entire course of their life. But it didn’t quite pan out that way – when I messaged Edie to ask where I should meet her, she replied with her address.

‘Sorry,’ she says absently. ‘It was a long day – I couldn’t face going out. And I have alcohol here, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘Ha ha,’ I say, wondering if she realises that I’m already drunk. I think Audrey did when she called me earlier. I didn’t hesitate to answer, though, knowing full well that it might be the last time I get to hear her voice. She’ll see Marika tonight, and Marika will tell her everything I said about Julian. Maybe that in itself will be enough to unravel the truth and Audrey won’t be alone in carrying it any more. It’s good. It’s right. But Marika will tell her more than that, I’m sure, including the weird, underhand way I went about things-

‘There are glasses above the sink,’ Edie continues. ‘Wine in the fridge.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. Edie’s fridge is jarringly immaculate, I see – her vegetable box has actual vegetables in it. I grab the wine and glasses, taking great pains not to spill any as Edie grates cheese into a saucepan. She’s making risotto, and it smells good enough to make me realise that I haven’t eaten today. Still, I’m a little unnerved by the effort she’s gone to – to be nice? To show me how much better she’s doing than I am?

‘Were you working today?’ Edie asks, lowering the flame and turning towards me.

‘Just an early shift,’ I reply, handing her a glass. ‘You?’

‘Nine to five and all that.’

‘What a way to make a living.’

She smiles, swirls her wine and says nothing for a moment. Then:

‘I’m sorry if I was harsh, last time. About you working in the restaurant – it wasn’t my place.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s not.’

‘Lucky I’m not the type to hold a grudge, then.’

‘I know. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

‘Ha.’

‘I’m serious,’ she says quietly. ‘The way we left things – I really wish I’d handled it all differently.’

Me too, I think, taking a hasty gulp of wine. The week before we broke up is excruciating to remember. School was finished by then, and Edie’s parents had (very kindly) agreed to host me for a few days before I left for New York. They lived out in the country, so I’d envisioned Edie and me passing long, sun-dappled days trekking through fields and lying in sun-warmed grass, kissing, talking, reading aloud. All nauseatingly twee in hindsight, sure, but cut me some slack – I was in love.

The reality was a little less idyllic. All Edie wanted to do was sit inside and read in silence. Or watch films – again, silently. In fact, she barely spoke at all except during meals with her parents, and though I fantasised that she might creep along the corridor to my room one night, she never did. She never even kissed me, which at the time I was (deludedly) willing to chalk up to my freshly broken nose.

The morning that Edie’s dad dropped me off at the airport, she followed me out of the car and up to the departures buildingto say goodbye. I remember being touched by how genuinely upset she looked, still under the impression that she’d eventually be joining me.

‘See you later, then,’ I said, attempting to keep things light.

‘Ezra – there’s something I need to tell you,’ she said haltingly, unsmiling. ‘About New York. I don’t – I should have done this sooner.’

‘Okay,’ I replied, dread pooling in my stomach. ‘Is it logistical or personal?’

‘Personal,’ she said, twisting her hands together agitatedly. ‘I’m not – I don’t know how to say this …’

‘Are you breaking up with me?’ I blurted out, hoping to get her denial out of the way so I could breathe again. But she didn’t deny it. She just sighed, and the sound cut through me like a knife.

‘Oh,’ I heard myself say.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and it felt as though the ground beneath my feet was melting, pulling me downwards. I vaguely remember gripping the handle of my suitcase like it might somehow anchor me, my palm slick with sweat.

---