Page 62 of Come Back To Me

“Oh,” I say casually. “Did he say anything before he left?”

I try to keep my voice nonchalant, but there is an urgency inside of me. I want to run out into the street and call his name. He can’t just come in like that and then leave without saying goodbye. I need to know what he wants to do. I can’t be kept suspended like this.

“No. Just handed me twenty quid and left.”

I don’t know if I feel confusion or disappointment more, but what had I expected? Maybe he just needed to see how he felt one last time. I suppose he could have even been walking by when he saw me inside, Trafalgar was a popular place for tourists to be wandering around. But he’d said,“I’m here for Yara,”like that had been his plan all along.

When I go back around to check on Penny, she hands me a scrap of paper. There’s a strange expression on her usually impassive face. I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s written me something, I think. A note, or a telephone number maybe. I unfold the tiny strip of paper and blink down at it, confused. Two numbers are written inside in red ink and nothing else.

“Did he say what this meant?” I ask her, holding it up.

She shrugs. He’d written 49. I recognize his handwriting right away, scratchy and slanted. 49? Was it a room number? A date? Should it have triggered a memory of something from our past? I shake my head, tears pooling in my eyes. I turn away before Penny can see me and tuck the slip of paper into my shirt pocket.

I take a cab home that night. I can’t bear the thought of standing in the Tube squashed against all those people when I feel like I’m about to cry. The piece of paper David left with Penny sits open on my lap, the number 49 staring up at me like an accusation. I don’t remember. If he’s trying to trigger something from our past, I’ve forgotten. I search the internet for the meaning of the number. The San Francisco 49ers, a ski resort in Washington state, the DC comic episode 49 where Batgirl makes an appearance. None of it means anything to me. When the cabbie leans back to tell me we’ve arrived, I’m thoroughly confused and already planning on buying another bottle of wine to carry me through the night. I hand him his money and walk a block to the corner shop. I could e-mail David, ask him what his note meant, but I’m too prideful. He obviously thought it would mean something to me. David was the aware one in our relationship. He knew the wine I liked to drink, and he knew my favorite color. When the time came for him to choose a wedding cake flavor and our honeymoon, he did so without pause—because he knew me.

I choose a bottle of white this time. White wine makes me loopy. I’ve been known to strip off all my clothes and try to run outside naked after drinking too much white wine, but I’m desperate to feel something, even if it’s something that makes me behave badly. I carry my bottle up to my flat and search the cupboards for something to eat. I’ve not been shopping for food since before Ethan and I saw the flat. Everything else has been boxed up for the move. I’m too depressed to leave, so I text Posey and ask her to come over and bring food. I expect her to swear at me, tell me to go to hell like she normally does, but instead she texts back:Be right there. Want a curry?

I send her a thumbs up and finish off my bottle. By the time Posey arrives, two brown paper bags cradled in her arms, I’m drunk off my ass and singing Britney Spears circa 2001 at the top of my lungs.

“God,” she says. “I don’t even know who you are anymore. You were always more of a Mandy Moore girl.”

I launch into a shrill rendition of “Candy” while I unpack the bags she set on the counter.

“So why are you drunk at six o’clock in the evening?” she says. Her voice is light and teasing, but I know she wants her question answered truthfully.

“David,” I say, opening the plastic tub of rice. “He came into the restaurant.”

She doesn’t look surprised. “Of course he did,” she says. “And what did he say? Does he need you to be a muse for him again?”

I stop in my spooning of curry to look at her.

“I don’t know why he came,” I say. “He just left while I was in the loo without saying goodbye.”

“Figures.” She licks the dishing spoon clean and I make a disgusted face. “Artists are dramatic that way.”

I reluctantly tell her about the slip of paper he left with the number 49 written on it. I figured she’d make fun of me for not remembering what it meant, but she looks thoughtful instead.

“It’s not an anniversary date then?”

I shake my head. “No. And I’ve ruled out apartment numbers, bus numbers, inside jokes, and songs.”

“Maybe that’s it then. He’s writing a new song and giving you ample warning.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s it. There’s something I’m missing.”

“So why not just e-mail the guy and ask?”

“I feel stupid, I guess. I feel as if I’m supposed to know.”

Posey shakes her head. “Your inability to communicate is going to fuck up your life for good, you know that? And where’s that wanker boyfriend of yours? You walk out on him too?”

“Ethan found out I met with David and won’t talk to me.”

Posey closes her eyes like my drama is overwhelming her. “I suppose you haven’t contacted him either to talk things over.”

“He’s the one mad at me!”

“Oh my God, Yara! You’re such a narcissist. You met with another man—one you used to be in love with—and didn’t tell Ethan about it. How do you expect him to feel? That’s not how a partnership works. I’m not going to tell you what to do, but now seems like the time to apologize to him if you’d like to salvage that relationship.”

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