The rain is slackening. There’s no car in the driveway. Still, when I let myself in I try to walk normally, but the house is empty. My hand moves to where my phone should be, then drops. I head to my room, lie on my bed, but only for a few minutes. I get up and fetch my mum and dad’s cordless. ‘Hello?’ ‘Jel, hi. It’s Stewart. You busy?’ ‘… No. Getting ready to go out.’ ‘Got a few minutes?’ ‘To talk or meet up? Cos—’ ‘Just to talk.’ ‘Okay. What?’ ‘Just … something you said, earlier. About not everything being your idea? I—’ ‘Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too and I, ah, I’m glad you phoned, actually, because I shouldn’t have said that? That sounded really, I mean, I wasn’t—’ I’d intended to ask her about that other odd remark, from the fateful night itself, about knowing how I felt about her, which has kind of only just resurfaced – certainly as flagged for any particular significance – maybe due to just thinking back properly to that night, finally, or because I’ve been puzzling over the thing she said earlier today about it not all being her idea or whatever, but she’s sounding really defensive now, like she’s trying to head off whatever it is I’m trying to find out about, and I just know there won’t be any point trying to take this further.
