Page 51 of Omega’s Fold

I take the clothes out and I put them in the laundry basket. I close the lid of the basket.

I stand in the middle of the bedroom and I breathe through my nose and the apartment smells of nothing.

On Monday morning, I am at my desk at seven forty-five. I do the morning. I do the meeting. I sit at the head of the table and I take Richard through the waterfront revisions. I answer the structural engineer’s questions and I make a joke at one point that is apparently hilarious because the room laughs, and I notice myself laughing along with the room.

I’ve still not got used to having him not somewhere nearby and that is absolute madness because I barely know the guy. It was two weeks. This is why those bastards at the Bureau make us do it.

After the meeting Richard walks me back to my office.

“Good to have you back.”

“Good to be back.”

“How was it?”

“Fine. Glad to leave,” I say, lying.

He nods. He does not press. Richard does not press on personal matters. Richard considers my personal life to be about as interesting as the wallpaper, and on most days I have been grateful for that. I am grateful for it now.

“About the partnership conversation,” he says, with his hand already on the doorframe. “We’ll take it up properly when waterfront’s at planning. You’re on track.”

“Thanks, Richard.”

He goes. I close the door and I sit down at my desk and I look at the harbor for a minute. The water has whitecaps on it from the wind, and a ferry is crossing.

I should be relieved. I am back. The job is here. The partnership is on track. The cohabitation is over. Life is back to normal.

I am not relieved. I am not anything in particular. I am a man at his desk on a Monday morning.

I open my email and I work.

Three days later I call Wyatt.

I do it from my office at half past six. The juniors have gone home. Richard has gone home. The cleaner is doing the floor at the far end of the corridor and I can hear the hum of her machine.

I have Wyatt’s number on a piece of paper in my wallet. I take the piece of paper out and lay it flat on the desk, then I dial it on the office landline.

It rings four times.

“Hello.”

“Caleb. It’s Julian.”

A pause.

“Is your brother there?”

“No.”

“Is he in the barn?”

“He’s working.”

“Could you go and get him?”

Another pause. I hear the kitchen behind him. The fridge door opens. Matthew, somewhere further off, asking a question I cannot make out.

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Caleb says.