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While last night he was drunk and harmless, though utterly bereft, this morning he’s wretchedly cold and hard to reach. He’s gone back into himself.
“Do you want me to come to the funeral?”
“No,” he rushes to say, but then glances at me, sighing. Going back to staring at the world, he says, “It’ll be a frenzy. I don’t want you photographed. You’d do well to get on with your life, Mira. You look good, by the way.”
He’s barely looking at me this morning. I feel the same—like this must be a dream, not real. This can’t be happening. The jocular sparring we used to enjoy and the real friendship we once both found comfort in evaporated the moment he kissed me. This, whateverthisis, is just pure pain. Nothing but. That’s all we’re left with now.
“You look like shit, Albie.”
“Thanks,” he chuckles.
“You know what I mean. If I find out you’ve gone back on the hard gear…”
“Nope,” he says, sarcastic, “that’s why I look like shit. Just booze and misery these days, that’s what I live on.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Take it to mean what you want.”
I’m about to bite back, because he was the one who decided to abandon me, when he realises what he’s said and bites his lip with regret.
“I apologise, Mira. For everything.”
“Apology not accepted. You’re a dick and an idiot if you think I can’t handle whatever it is you mistakenly think you’re protecting me from.”
I’m barely able to breathe, my back’s right up, and I know my face has turned a furious shade of scarlet. He pulls down his sunglasses and finally stares at me with truth in his eyes.
“Don’t for a second imagine you know about the pressure I’m under, Mira. You don’t know and I can’t tell you. It’s not just you, it’s… it’s… I can’t say.” His chin wobbles and his eyes prick with tears.
“Albie—” I can’t bear to see him in this pain.
He stands up and shakes his finger at me, looking away and restoring his sunglasses.
“Please,” I beg. “Please let me in. I miss you so fucking much.”
He chases to the door despite what I’ve said and has his hand on the handle when he turns and looks at me over his shoulder.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
Then, he’s gone.
I never thought the crater of despair he left me in before could ever be topped, but this? After I was there for him last night and watched him crumble?
I ought to listen to his message this time.
He doesn’t want me. It’s all dissolved. Everything we had. All those card games, cuddles, and all the ways in which only I knew what it was he really wanted… all gone.
I refuse to cry. Instead, I glare at the luxury of his room and realise he must’ve come here with no luggage whatsoever, because he just stormed out with nothing and there’s not a thing lying around, except for his almost-empty whisky bottle.
Maybe he’s right and this life isn’t for me.
I do look well. People have been telling me that more and more.
It obviously has nothing to do with my love life, which is non-existent, but everything to do with the fact I no longer work for them.
I press the butler button and within two minutes, he’s at the door.
“Miss, anything I can get for you?” asks the man in his Irish timbre.
