“Don’t worry, he seems to be physically incapable of saying no to me. Last week he let me hang up wind chimes on the porch. The question is, do you want to talk with Erik? Or would you rather forget about him and pretend he never existed?”
“I . . .” I thought about being with him the previous night. And then, later, about discovering what he’d done. Could I forget? Could I pretend? “I want to talk with the Erik I had dinner with. And breakfast. Before I knew what he was capable of.”
Mara nodded, sad. “You could pick up next time he calls. And confront him. Demand an explanation.”
“What if he laughs it off as something that I should have expected?”
“It’s possible that he’s trying to call you to own what he did and apologize,” she said, pensive. “But maybe that would be even worse. Because then you’d know that he knew exactly the harm he was doing but went ahead with it anyway.”
I think that’s exactly it. I think that’s why I hated Erik’s I’m sorry, and why I hate that he hasn’t looked at me in several minutes. It makes me wonder if he’s aware that he ruined something that could have been great out of greed. And if that’s the case, then I didn’t imagine it: the night we spent together was as special as I remember, and he still threw it into the garbage chute—A New Hope Princess Leia style.
“I saw Denmark won against Germany,” I say, because it’s preferable to the alternative. The silence, and my very loud thoughts.
He turns to me and exhales out a laugh. “Really, Sadie?”
“Yeah. Two—no, three nights ago.” I look down at my hand, chipping at what little is left of last week’s nail polish. “Two-one. So maybe you did have a point about Neuer—”
“Really?” he repeats, harsher this time. I ignore him.
“Though, if you remember, when we had gelato I did concede that his left foot is kind of weak.”
“I do remember,” he says, a little impatient.
God. These nails of mine are just embarrassing. “Even then, it probably had more to do with Denmark playing exceptionally well—”
“Sadie.”
“And if you guys can sustain this level of play for a while, then . . .”
There is some rustling from his corner of the elevator. I look up just in time to see Erik squat in front of me, knees brushing against my legs, eyes pale and serious. My heart somersaults. He does look thinner. And maybe a bit like he hasn’t been having the best sleep of his life in the past few weeks. His hair gleams golden in the emergency light, and a brief memory resurfaces, of pulling at it when he—
“Sadie.”
What? I want to scream. What more do you want? Instead I just look back at him, feeling like the elevator has shrunk again, this time to the pocket between my eyes and his.
“It’s been weeks, and . . .” He shakes his head. “Can we please talk?”
“We are talking.”
“Sadie.”
“I’m saying stuff. And you’re saying stuff.”
“Sadie—”
“Okay, fine: you were right about Neuer. Happy?”
“Not particularly, no.” He looks at me in silence for several seconds. Then he says, calm and earnest: “I’m sorry.”
It’s the wrong thing. I feel a surge of anger travel up my spine, bigger even than when I learned about his betrayal. There is a bitter acid flavor in my mouth when I lean forward and hiss, “I hate you.”
He briefly closes his eyes, resigned. “I know.”
“How could you do that, Erik?”
He swallows. “I had no idea.”
I laugh once. “Seriously? How—how dare you?”
“I take full responsibility for what happened. It was my fault. I . . . I liked it, Sadie. A lot. So much so that I completely misread your signals and didn’t realize that you didn’t.”
“Well, what you did was—” I stop abruptly. My brain screeches to a halt and finally computes Erik’s words. Liked it? Misread? What does that even mean? “What signals?”
“That night, I . . .” He bites the inside of his cheek and seems to turn inward. “It was good. I think . . . I must have lost control.”
I freeze. Something about this conversation isn’t quite right. “When you said you were sorry a minute ago, what were you referring to?”
He blinks twice. “The things I did to you. In my apartment.”
“No. No, that’s not . . .” My cheeks are hot and my head’s spinning. “Erik, why do you think I stopped picking up your calls?”
“Because of the way I had sex with you. I was on you all night. Asked for too much. You didn’t enjoy it.” Suddenly, he looks as confused as I feel. Like we’re both in the middle of a story that doesn’t quite make narrative sense. “Sadie. Isn’t that the reason?”
His eyes bore into mine. I press my palm against my mouth and slowly shake my head.
Eight
Three weeks ago
We haven’t touched all night.
Not at the restaurant. Not in the car. Not even in the elevator up to his Brooklyn Heights apartment, which is larger than mine but doesn’t look it because Erik is standing in it. We’ve been chatting like we did over dinner, which is fun and great and kind of hilarious, but I’m starting to wonder whether when I fooled myself into believing that I was bravely hitting on Erik, he actually thought that I was inviting myself over to play the FIFA video game. He’s going to say Come, I want to show you something. I’ll follow him down the hallway jelly-kneed, and once I’m at the end he’ll open the door of the Xbox room and I’ll quietly die.
I stand in the entrance while Erik locks the door behind me, shifting awkwardly on my feet, contemplating my own mortality and the possibility of making a run for it, when I notice the cat. Perched on Erik’s spotless living room table （which appears not to be a repository for mail piles and take-out flyers; huh）。 It’s orange, round, and glowering at us.
“Hi there.” I take a few steps, cautiously holding out my hand. The cat glowers harder. “Aren’t you a nice little kitten?”
“He isn’t.” Erik is taking off his shoes and hanging his jacket behind me. “Nice, that is.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cat.”
“Cat? Like . . . ?”
“Cat,” he says, final. I decide not to press him.
“I’m not sure why, but I pegged you for more of a dog person.”
“I am.”
I turn and give him a puzzled look. “But you have a cat?”
“My brother does.”
“Which one?” He has four. All younger. And it’s clear from the way he talks about them, often and with that half-gruff, half-amused tone, that they’re thick as thieves. My only-child, “Have this coloring book while Mommy and Daddy watch The West Wing” self burns with envy.
“Anders. The youngest. He graduated college and is now . . . somewhere. Wales, I believe. Discovering himself.” Erik comes to stand next to me. He and Cat glare at each other. “While I temporarily watch his cat.”
“What’s temporarily?”