“When did you get back?” she asked, trying to act like she hadn’t noticed anything amiss.
“About an hour ago.”
An hour? That was so late.
“Do you want to . . . come back? With me?”
“I will,” he said. “She’s still wrecked. Let me stay with her for a little bit and I’ll come over.”
“But you’ve been gone all day,” she said. It didn’t come out the way she meant it to. It was sharp. Peevish.
“Her aunt just died,” he said.
“I know that,” Stevie said.
“I just need to make sure she’s okay and then I’ll come over.”
“Are you mad at me?” she asked.
“What?”
“Because I failed,” she said. She lowered her voice, conscious of the other people coming in and out of their rooms, and Izzy just beyond the door.
“This isn’t about you,” he said. “It’s not about whether or not you solved it, like you always do.”
The words were like a slap. Stevie reeled. He’d gotten her feelings, but also her pride. She straightened up.
“It’s fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
She turned and walked away without saying anything else. She expected him to call out, to catch up with her. She lingered for a moment by the one fire door like she was looking for something in her pocket, but he didn’t come. The same when she lingered by the next fire door, and the lobby. She almost turned back but realized that would not work. She had to do this on his schedule now.
She waited with the door cracked halfway open for most of the night, lingering, trying to look ready, but not too ready. Casual. She tried to read, to listen to something, to watch TV. But she had to keep one ear open for any movement in the hall, any sign of a message. Midnight passed. One in the morning. Two.
Her lack of sleep from the night before caught up with her. She fell asleep sitting up, wearing the onesie, the door open a crack all night long.
No one came.
28
STEVIE WOKE TO A STEADY PATTER OF RAIN ON THE WINDOW. A steely London morning. Last night was a waste, and now all she had was . . .
She consulted her phone.
Four hours. That’s how much time she had left before they went to the airport.
Also, no texts from David.
That had been a bad scene last night, a weird argument. He’d had a point—she had been focused on herself, on them. Izzy had experienced a terrible loss. But it was still her last day, and now the last hours, and he’d spent the entire day yesterday with Izzy. Was it so much to want to see the boyfriend you’d crossed the ocean to visit?
Maybe no texts was a good sign. This was how they were—they got mad at each other, walked it off, and came back fresh. There was just so little time.
She took a speedy shower, missing the rainfall-style water and the beautiful-smelling soaps of the day before. She dressed before she was fully dry, her jeans clinging to her damp legs as she pulled them on. She stared at her stuff scattered around the room. Dirty clothes, bags, some jam for her mom, some weird tea, a book about murders . . . all these cords and adapters and things to charge and documents to find. She needed to pack. But she also needed to see David immediately. She would bring him over here while she packed. She had to take the fire safe back over to Izzy, anyway. In the confusion of leaving Merryweather without Izzy or David, she had ended up taking it with her.
She hustled down the hall, bypassing the far-too-slow little elevator, and taking the stairs far too quickly. She half ran through the lobby, past the sad Christmas tree, then ran up the steps to David’s room. She knocked. Nothing. Tried again. Tried the door. Locked.
She texted him.
Where are you?
Down the street getting a coffee, he answered.
I’ll meet you outside, she replied.
She considered running the fire safe up to Izzy, but that would take too much time. She took it outside with her and waited on the front steps of Craven House, shivering in the chill. It took David at least fifteen minutes to come back with his coffee, which was ridiculous. Every second counted now. She tried to compose herself. Look patient. Not desperate. Cool. Like it was no big deal. Just a girl with a fire safe about to catch a plane and leave her boyfriend.
He finally appeared from around a parked van, the coat snapping around his ankles. He was wearing a worn green T-shirt and jeans, as well as a black knit hat. He had put no effort into this, she knew. He probably hadn’t even showered. This kind of effortless bullshit was part of his appeal. She both resented it and felt it tugging at every part of her.
“I got you a coffee,” he said quietly.
Already, her ice was starting to melt.
“Thanks,” she said, accepting it. She expected him to sit on the step next to her, but he remained standing. He wasn’t smiling—which made sense, as they were about to be parted. But his expression was distant. Distracted, almost.
“Do you want to . . . sit?” she asked.
“How about we walk for a minute.”
Stevie nodded toward the heavy fire safe.
“I’ll carry it,” he said. “Let’s walk.”
“I have to pack,” she said.
“Ten minutes. Look at the view.”
She could maybe do ten minutes, though her pulse was quickening.
They walked the familiar path in the direction of the river, but David’s steps were slow.
“You didn’t text last night,” she said.
“No. Sorry.”
“Or come by.”
“You said not to.”
“I said whatever,” she clarified. “I didn’t say . . .”
There was no time for this, much as it irritated her. He had wasted the last night they had together on semantics and pettiness.
“You haven’t asked how Izzy is,” he said, sipping his coffee.
“How is she?” Stevie asked.
“Pretty bad. But getting English about it again. Stiff upper lip. She’s going to speak to the undertaker today to plan the funeral.”
This was not something Stevie had considered. Funerals were . . . things that just happened. She didn’t know. She had never been to one. But to have to plan one yourself? Call an undertaker?
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Not your fault.”
“No. I know. But . . . it still feels . . .”
It’s not about you, he had said.
David stopped, even though they had not gotten to the riverside yet. They were standing on the street by the bus stop. He drained his coffee in one long final gulp and dropped the cup into the trash.
“Are we . . . crossing the street?” she said. “Because I kind of need to pack, and I thought you could come with me while I do it?”
He rubbed at the tip of his nose.
“I know,” he said. “I get it. I . . . I get it.”
He had no idea what it was he got, and she had no idea what he got twice. Stevie felt something in the left side of her chest, around her heart. It felt to her like her blood had started running backward in her veins.
“What’s happening right now?” she asked.
It was in the way he moved his chin—down, a little to the left. His eyes were focused on a delivery bike chained to a pole. He kept widening his eyes slightly like he was trying to wake up. He pulled the lapels of his coat closed over his chest.