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‘Where is the storeroom, exactly?’
‘Take a right out of this door, walk all the way to the end of the corridor, then take a left, keep walking until you reach the painting of Jesus on rollerblades, and then the storeroom is through the door next to the sculpture of mushrooms wearing hats. Just put the boxes anywhere they’ll fit.’ As I head out of the room, narrowly avoiding knocking the top box off the pile, I just about hear her say, ‘And make sure to keep the door wedged open—the handle’s a bit temperamental.’
Right, end, left, rollerblading Jesus, stylish mushrooms. Got it.
29
3, 2, 1, game over
A V A
My boxes aren’t particularlyheavy, but I’m relieved when I finally find the storeroom. The door’s propped open with a plastic tub and Finn looks up from his crouched position as I approach.
‘I wondered where you’d disappeared to,’ I say, slightly out of breath as I step over the tub, almost tripping on it as I do. ‘Thought you’d run away.’
Finn smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He stands up and relieves me of the top two boxes from my pile. ‘Just got roped into helping Rosetta.’
The narrow room is lit with a single fluorescent strip, lined with overflowing shelves, boxes precariously stacked at the far end and various tubs of craft supplies piled on the floor. I look around for somewhere to put my final box.
‘Did she tell you she has arthritis?’ I say. ‘That’s so fucked, to be an artist who can’t paint anymore. The universe was a dick with that.’
‘It’s shit,’ he agrees, squeezing one of the smaller boxes into a gap on a shelf. ‘The universe is a dick about a lot of things.’
I’m about to say something when I hear a strange noise I can’t place. We both realise what it is at the exact same moment. The plastic tub holding the door open slides forward with a crunch into the storeroom and the door closes with a loud slam. Finn leaps forward to try the handle but it’s too late.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I must’ve nudged it when I was coming in.’
He tries the handle again and when it doesn’t budge he lets out a low, ‘Fuck.’
‘You’re not claustrophobic are you?’ I ask, nervous I’ve unintentionally made him live out his greatest fear.
‘No,’ he says, forehead against the door.
‘I’m sure Rosetta will be here soon to save us,’ I say, attempting to lighten the atmosphere that suddenly feels incredibly taut. ‘Our knight in chiffon armour.’ He turns around and slides down the door to the floor, arms resting on his bent legs, knees bobbing in agitation. ‘Are you sure you’re not claustrophobic? You don’t have to be all macho and pretend. It’s just me.’
‘Just you,’ he repeats with a quiet, disbelieving laugh. ‘You’re not “just” anything. I wanted to head home, that’s all.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I swallow and turn away so he can’t see the hurt on my face. I thought we’d been having a good time. We’ve been laughing all evening. It’s been easy.
‘Hey, that’s not what I meant,’ he says softly, standing up again.
‘It’s fine.’ My voice is too breezy as I move to the end of the room and feign interest in a pot of buttons. ‘I’m sure you have things to do that don’t involve me.’
He leans against the shelving unit. ‘Not really, no.’ I move along to analyse another shelf, this one filled with miniature animal figurines, and he continues, ‘That’s kind of the problem.’
‘How is that a problem?’ I chance a glance at him.
His brows draw together. ‘Because we spend all this time together, but every day it gets harder and harder for me to…’ He doesn’t finish his sentence, instead saying, ‘When I said I wanted to go home, what I meant was that being near you sometimes drives me crazy, and going home would be a lot easier than desperately trying to keep my thoughts to myself while stuck in a closetwith you.’
I ignore the warning bells in my head, focusing on turning a tiny clay horse around in my hand. ‘What kind of thoughts?’
He runs a hand through his hair and then rests it on the back of his neck, bowing his head as he expels a long breath. When he looks at me again, there’s a fever in his eyes. ‘I’ve realised I don’t even want to spend time with people if they’re not you. No one compares.’
‘Why?’
He rubs a hand along his jaw with a frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ I put the figurine back on the shelf and don’t look at him when I continue, ‘I don’t understand why you’d want to spend time with me.’
