Page 66 of The Outcast

I nod at this. I need time to process too. “I’ll give you time, Kate, but you need to talk to me: shout, scream, whatever it is. Don’t disappear. Tell me you’re taking a breather, not walking away forever. I just felt …”

She nods, hair slipping forward from its mooring behind her ear, and I push a strand out of her face and tuck it back.

“I get it, Fabian. It’s a deal.”

“I don’t want anything sitting between us.”

She finishes wrapping the bandage, securing the end in that complicated way only medical staff seem to be able to do.

I trail my hand down her arm, sliding my fingers back through hers, and she considers our joined hands, swallowing.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing. You’re forgiven. You might have to burn those sheets, though.” She tips her head down to the bedcovers, and I laugh at how extreme that sounds.

“I’ll set fire to the bed too if you like,” I say, and she smiles.

“I think that’s a little over the top.” Looking around the room, she gives a little shiver. “I just don’t want to see the covers …”

I can’t even think how I’d be if I’d seen her with someone else in bed. The thought curdles like sour milk in my gut. I want to reassure her with my hands and my mouth, spend all day and night worshipping her body, but except for that kiss, she’s not leaning into me, like she’s not staying. I’m not sure why.

“Are you sleeping here tonight?”

She shakes her head.

“Is it the covers? The bed? Me?”

She shakes her head again, like she doesn’t trust herself to speak. “I just need to take it one step at a time.”

What the fuck does that mean?

27

Fabian

Bloomingdale’s is dead at 7 p.m. on a hot Tuesday evening in July, and the sales assistants are chatting quietly while surreptitiously staring at me out of the corner of their eyes. I glance down at my roughed-up shorts, faded T-shirt, and bandaged arm: I’ll bet they don’t get many customers that want to buy a bed and look like me at this time of night. It’s like a morgue in here, and the staff look about ready to be in one too.

After Kate left, I forced down painkillers and slept as they kicked in, waking late, scarfing down leftovers that were floating around on the kitchen counter. Then I came straight here having decided, with the conversation about bedcovers, that Kate and I need a bed that is ours. Never mind the sheets, I am replacing the whole thing, and I want something really fucking special. I wander around between the beds, lying down on two or three, and they’re all so comfortable I think I might never leave this department. My own bed dates back to when I first moved into the apartment after college, and it sags, forcing you to roll toward the middle.

As I round a corner into another section, I’m suddenly standing in front of a wooden four-poster bed with curtains in a white gauze material that cover the top and sweep the floor. Ha! This is way better than a dozen roses, right? And, my God, it’s even got red petals strewn across the covers and pillows, all artfully arranged like in a show house. The idea of laying Kate down on this … I fling myself down and close my eyes, sinking into the soft cushions and quiet, drifting away on the thought of lying next to her and turning over to …

“Pretty good, isn’t it?” A voice interrupts my fantasy.

My eyes fly open to find a round gray-haired lady with twinkling eyes leaning over me like a bird looking at a worm. I grin up at her and she says, “Don’t smile at me like that, young man, I might be tempted to jump on there with you.”

I sit up on the edge, laughing. She’s dressed in a smart black outfit: She’s a member of staff.

“How much is it?”

She names a figure that would make even Janus’s eyes water, but the money for Jeff’s project in South Africa has just come in. I’m not at all sure about that job if I’m honest. The money was too good, and the evidence was almost too convenient. I’ve done no work for weeks, and I need to do some more of my own digging into it. Whatever. I’ve got the money now, and although I know I should use it to pay off some of the debts that sit like dark clouds on the horizon, I’m nowhere near that sensible.

“It’s handmade in Connecticut, solid oak. They put a plaque on the base of the bed in brass with your name on it.”

“Sounds amazing,” I say. “How long would it take?”

“Twelve weeks,” she says, and I make a face.

I look at the bed and smooth my hands over the soft cotton.

“I kind of need it today,” I say, and her painted eyebrows shoot up. I give her what I hope is my best persuasive grin. “It’s a special occasion. Could I buy this one?”

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