I Owe You One (Page 67)

There must be something about my face, because she hesitates, then gets up and knocks on his door, and within thirty seconds he’s coming out himself. And my legs weaken underneath me because I can’t cope with this. I thought I could, but I can’t.

I was hoping I’d see him and think, Ah, he’s not so great after all, but it’s the opposite. He’s as tall and strong and handsome as ever, his woodland eyes wary as they meet mine. I have that weird thought, just as I did in the coffee shop when I first saw him: I know you.

But I can’t know him, can I? Or I’d know why we’ve ended up like this, meeting like two stilted strangers. Didn’t he feel what I was feeling? Didn’t he feel the joy? What happened between us—what happened?

My head is tumbling with anguish, with questions … but somehow I force myself to focus. I can’t keep tormenting myself. He’s with Briony. It’s over. It’s done. You can’t go back in time and do life a different way.

And, anyway, I’m not here because of us. I’m here because of him.

“Hi, Seb,” I say, and my voice trembles, but I carry on resolutely. “There’s something … Could we talk?”

Of course,” says Seb, after a pause. “Come on in.”

He ushers me in and I sit down and for a beat there’s silence.

“Are you … How are you?” says Seb, and I can see by the way he’s sitting bolt upright, his hands making a tense pyramid on his desk, that he’s thrown off-balance.

“Fine, thanks. You?”

“Yes, I’m good.”

“Good.”

The air seems thin between us. Our words are thin. I don’t know how to proceed, how to bring up the subject. But I need to—it’s in me like a ticking time bomb—so in the end I just blurt out:

“James.”

“What?” Seb jolts as though I’ve scalded him.

“You … you never told me about James.”

I’m thinking that maybe Seb can tell me about his brother and we can move on to the subject that way—but it doesn’t work. Seb’s body language immediately crackles with tension.

“Told you about him? Why should I tell you about him?”

“No!” I backtrack. “No reason. I just meant …” I rub my nose, trying to find a different tack. “You always say that you’ve moved on and you’ve dealt with his death and you’re at peace.”

“Yes,” says Seb, his voice dangerously even. “I have. And I am. Your point is?”

“You say that clearing out his room isn’t a big deal. You say you ‘just haven’t got round to it.’ But I wondered …” I swallow several times. “I just wondered … if maybe it was quite a big deal. After all. And if you’d like some help. That’s all. That’s what I— That’s it.”

I break off into a terrible silence. Seb looks as though some sort of volcano is building inside, and I stare at him, in agonized, half-terrified dread.

“You just can’t leave things alone, can you?” he finally erupts in fury. “You have to ‘fix’ them. Jeez, I can see how you got your name now. No, I don’t need any help, thank you. I know you were always itching to get your mitts on that room, but it’s fine; it doesn’t need your interference or anybody’s. I will clear it out in my own time, in my own way. Now please get the hell out of here.”

He’s shaking with anger, and his voice is thundering around the office, and he’s such an intimidating sight, I automatically scrabble to my feet, my legs almost buckling underneath me. But he has to know. He has to.

“She’s going to clear the room,” I say desperately. “Whiny. She’s making it into a home gym. She’s booked the removers. They’re coming at ten A.M. tomorrow, and she says she’s going to chuck the lot.”

If Seb looked like a bubbling volcano a moment ago, he’s suddenly a pit. He’s empty. Hollow.

“No,” he says, as though he can’t compute what I’m saying.

“Yes. She told me.”

“She … wouldn’t …” But his voice is uncertain. As his eyes meet mine, his antagonism has gone; I can see panic growing in them. Childlike panic. And I can feel tears rising again, because doesn’t she realize?

“I know you’re with Briony,” I say hastily, my voice thick and jerky, my eyes fixed on the carpet. “I know you’re a happy couple. I’m not trying to come between you; I’m really not. And you’re right: I shouldn’t interfere. I try to fix everything and it’s my stupid flaw and I’m really sorry. I just couldn’t bear for you to come home and—” I swallow hard, unable to say it. “I just thought you should know.”

I finally dare to raise my head and Seb is staring out of the window, his jaw tight, his gaze transfixed.

“Yes,” he says tonelessly, and I don’t know what he means, but I don’t dare ask. He wraps his arms around his body as if trying to soothe himself, and I’m longing so hard to go over there, to soothe him myself …

But I have to stop thinking like that. He’s with someone. Briony’s the girlfriend. I’m the blip.

I stand motionless, my legs feeling a little firmer, watching him, hardly daring to breathe, trying to guess what’s going on in his head. I’m in no hurry. Time feels like it’s suspended.

At last he turns his head, breathes out sharply, and pushes a hand through his hair. Then he says unsteadily, “I think maybe it’s time for me to clear out my brother’s room. Today. This afternoon.”

I feel an almighty spike of shock but try to hide it. “Right,” I say. “Yes. I mean … yes. That’s a good … Yes.”

There’s another pause. My hands are clenched by my sides, my brain circling uncertainly. I can’t— I can’t offer— After everything he said, I can’t interfere—

Oh God, but it’s bigger than me. I can’t help myself.

“Would you—” I begin, my feet pacing awkwardly on the spot. “No. I shouldn’t even— I mean …” I clear my throat. “Would you like some— No.” I cut myself off. “Sorry.”

“Yes, please.” Seb’s voice takes me by surprise and he looks at me, his eyes so dark and vulnerable I catch my breath. “Yes. Please. I would.”

—

I never knew Seb’s brother, James. I never will know him. But as we sit in his room together, passing things backward and forward, trying to sort and organize, I feel I’m getting a sense of him. He was like Seb in some ways, but more idiosyncratic. He worked from home in graphic design and was super-talented. From the few things Seb says, I think he could get quite ratty when his work wasn’t going well, but he told the best jokes too.

Everything I touch tells me something about him. His hasty handwriting, barely legible, on Post-its to himself. His bags of jelly babies, piled up in the bottom drawer of his desk. Doodles that he drew with Sharpies on computer paper. One portrait of Seb makes me gasp, it’s so succinct and accurate.

“You should keep this,” I say. “You should frame it.” And Seb nods silently and puts it into the “precious pile.” We have a precious pile for the things he knows he’s going to keep (notes, drawings, James’s ancient teddy bear). And a rubbish pile for the things he knows he’s going to get rid of (socks, old bills, all those empty water bottles).

And then there’s the stuff he stares at and can’t decide. I can see it in his face—just the thought of having to decide is overwhelming. So we’re going to put that in storage bags and he can have a look in three months and see what he thinks.

That’s what Mum did. Every few months after Dad died, she processed another batch of stuff. And each time she cried a little but felt a little stronger. There wasn’t any point in her rushing it. And there’s no point in Seb rushing it.

The rest of the world has receded. Everything has shrunk to this room, with its dust motes dancing in the air and smell of the past. We both have bloodshot eyes. Each of us occasionally reaches for a tissue. Seb was first to break down, when he found a photo of him and James that he’d never seen before. He gave one almighty heartrending sob and then furiously apologized, then sobbed again. Whereupon tears rose to my eyes too and I furiously apologized. And he apologized for upsetting me. Until at last I put a hand on his arm and said, “Shall we just not apologize?”

And so we didn’t anymore.

Now I sit back on my heels and take a massive breath, sweeping my hands through my hair.

“I think we’ve done most of it. At least, you know, we’ve sorted it. Except the magazines …”

“Right.” Seb’s face twists a little. “Those. Recycling, I guess.”

“Or you could sell them? Like … an archive?”

I don’t ask if he’s going to cancel the subscriptions. I’m fairly sure I know the answer.

“We need some storage bags, or whatever,” I add, looking at the piles of stuff.

“There’s a shop round the corner.” Seb nods. “It sells those tartan ones.”