Toronto had felt solid when I arrived here.
Safe.
Certain.
For the first time since landing, it doesn’t.
Chapter 22
Mark
For the first fewdays after the call, I keep expecting Philip to mention it.
He doesn’t.
Not Whitstable. Not the photo. Not the fact that he admitted he nearly stayed.
Instead, the next message I get is a picture of a burnt bagel with the caption Toronto continues to disappoint me.
I stare at it for a full ten seconds before replying.
That sets the tone for the next four weeks.
Heath updates.
Work complaints.
The occasional sarcastic observation about women in my comments section.
Everything exactly where it was before.
Except not quite.
Philip stops calling.
Stops sending the late-night messages that drift too close to anything honest.
Whenever a conversation edges towards that night, he turns it neatly back towards safer things.
Heath.
Work.
Weather.
Anything that keeps us firmly in the long distance friendzone.
I tell myself I’m reading too much into it.
That one overlong phone call does not automatically equal emotional breakthrough.
Still, by the time the first Saturday of August rolls round, there is an unpleasant little part of me wondering whether we said too much that night.
Whether Philip woke up the next morning and decided distance was the better option after all.
I go for a run because sleep gives up on me just after six and a run at this time will guarantee me an empty Whitstable beach.
By the time I turn back into the lane forty minutes later, sweat cooling on my back, the early morning sun is illuminating the cottage.
