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A whole minute passes. I count the seconds in my head, fighting the urge to turn over.
Then, eventually, I hear the door close again.
I wait for him to go into the bathroom. But I don’t hear anything, and something about the way the air in the room is still tells me he’s not there.
I turn over. He’s gone out again. Probably back to the living room, to sleep on the sofa.
I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling. My eyes prick with tears. I’m upset that I’m relieved, and also because I feel a deep, overwhelming sense of sadness.
All endings are sad, aren’t they?
Turning onto my tummy, I bury my face in the pillow, and close my eyes.
*
The next day, after breakfast during which Cam and I don’t meet each other’s gazes, we Uber back to the apartment.
We don’t say much in the car. Cam looks out of his window, and I look out the other side, watching the shops and apartments flash by.
When we get home, we let ourselves in, and he takes the bags through to the bedroom. I go into the kitchen, feeling suddenly nervous. I put on the kettle, more for something to do than because I want a drink.
Cam comes back out and leans a hip on the worktop.
“Do you want a cuppa?” I ask.
“No, thanks.”
I study the kettle, then switch it off. Finally, I turn and look at him.
“I think we should talk,” he says.
“Okay.”
He doesn’t say anything, though, and we look at each other for a long time.
“Why did you sleep on the sofa?” I ask eventually.
He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I know you were upset about what Pete said. I didn’t think you wanted me in the bed.”
“It wasn’t just what Pete said. It was the fact that you didn’t stand up for me. You should have told him it’s not acceptable to make fun of my brother. Of anyone who’s gay, in fact. Christ, Cam, this is the twenty-first century. How can you just keep quiet when someone says things like that?”
He studies the floor. I still think he’s handsome, in a softer, less rugged way than Henry. He looks tired, though, and worn down.
“I think we need to be honest,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know how to put right whatever is wrong between us.” He takes a deep breath. “I know I fucked up by seeing Vanessa, because even though I feel that she helped me, I know you see it as cheating. And I get why. I just wish you could understand my motivations.”
“I do.”
“Then why can’t you deal with it? Why do I feel as if you’re accusing me, every time you look at me?”
It suddenly seems very quiet. I can’t hear anything—no traffic, no voices. It’s as if all that exists is me and him, in this room.
There’s no place to hide anymore. We can’t paper over the cracks any longer. They’re getting too wide and too deep.
“Honestly?” I say eventually. “Because I don’t know that I can get over what you did.”
