Chapter Fifty-Three Soundtrack: Love It If We Made It by The 1975

Thank God Barry doesn't care about us, or his job, or anything beyond his new purebred puppy, because it's so obvious that I'm sleeping with Nas. This morning, Nas strode in and pulled his desk across the room, scraping the hardwood floor, just to play footsie during video calls. When Barry asked about the change, Nas simply said, 'Optimising,' and Barry nodded and left.

Optimising. I laughed about that for five minutes.

There's a truly unsettling energy from Nas today. His leg is bouncing frantically against the desk, which, since it's now against mine, is shaking my desk, too. I have glared at him twice but, uncharacteristically, he didn't take the hint.

'Nasir, if you keep moving that leg I'm going to remove it.'

'Are you hungry?' he asks.

'Politely, what are you talking about?'

'You just seem hungry.'

'I'm annoyed about your leg. Otherwise, I'm fine. Thanks for the coffee earlier, by the way.' I gesture to the now-empty mug.

'It's just coffee. Not a big deal.'

'I know,' I say slowly. 'I'm just saying thanks.'

'Okay, well, anytime. But not too often, because coffee isn't good for you.'

'Are you hungry, Nasir?'

'No.' Finally he stops shaking his leg and returns to his computer. This may be the first work he's done all day. I've not received a single bitchy email from him. Usually his first arrives before breakfast.

Is he sick or something? What is going on?

I examine him carefully, now that he's finally looking away. He looks okay. Healthy, even. He's got more freckles across his nose, so he's probably had some sun, and his glasses are clean and sparkling. Teeth shiny. Arms flexing. If a doctor modelled a physically perfect 30-something man, Nas would be a great start.

I still feel that squirming, tense warmth in me when I look at his hands. I know his hands now. But I'm at work, so enough of that.

'You're staring at me,' he says. Normally, he'd drawl this and it would infuriate me. But today, he almost sounds insecure.

'Are you sick? What's going on?'

Abruptly, he says, 'I'm seeing my parents tonight. You'd get along. They also think I'm too dramatic.' He looks up sharply from his keyboard.

'They sound like smart people. I wonder where you came from.'

'Do you want to find out? I mean, not like literally, obviously, seeing where I came from, but... Do you want to meet my parents?'

What the hell?

Like, what the actual hell?

I wish he'd look back at his computer because his scrutiny is unbearable. God knows what my face is doing.

But it is so, so weird for him to ask that. We have slept together once. Well, twice, but same sleepover. I don't think we've even been on a date.

'Won't they think it's weird that you're bringing your colleague?' I try to ask this casually.

'My colleague. Right. Because that's what this is.' He's angry now. Cold. That veil of indifference is back over his eyes.

'We're friendly.'

'What kind of friendships do you have?'

'I thought you loved casual flings.' This is true, kind of, but I mostly say it to give him a route out of this conversation. Because with the creeping anxiety that still blooms when I imagine a relationship, he couldn't have picked a worse time to be this pushy. Weeks ago, I thought losing his friendship would be devastating. Lo and behold, right after we've had sex, we're already arguing. How can this have gone wrong so quickly?

'I won't be casual with you,' he says.

'Is this serious?'

'Why wouldn't it be?'

Car.

Funeral.

Alone.

But how can I explain that? That I'm scared to date anyone, that the thought of it physically sickens me, but especially him? That if I'm hurting him now, at least I'm not killing him later? He'll thank me for it. Not now, but he'll understand.

I can't possibly express that. The churning anxiety is already clawing at my throat.

So instead, I say, 'Because we're... us.'

And I lose him.

His face shutters completely. It's like he's on a movie poster: there's nothing behind his gaze.

He stands to leave, and with that Hollywood timing, he says, 'By the way, I've loved you for three years. I figured you knew, but just in case.'

1-0 Ellie. He said it first.

*

Losing Nas would ruin anyone.

I thought that in a rush of arrogance an hour before climaxing on his face. Best not to risk anything, I thought. Best to keep this simple.

I've loved you for three years.

What does that even mean? Loved me by snapping at me and pushing me and driving me mad? What kind of love is that?

I'm processing all of these questions in a very healthy way: by lying on the floor of our work cinema, staring up at the ceiling and hoping I'll disappear forever.

How can he love me when he doesn't know me? He's only been to my flat twice. We hardly talk outside of work.

And our fight today was his fault, even though he'll be too proud to admit it. I knew from the moment he arrived that he was stressed. He was even walking stiffly, like when his director didn't show up in January and...

How do I know that?

How can I tell what he's thinking from the tension in his shoulders?

I know Nas. I know him as intimately as anyone I've ever met. He can't hide anything from me. Surely he knows me, too, even if he's still filling in the details.

So how couldn't I tell that he loved me?

'I've learned not to underestimate you.'

'Of course you like pickles.'

'I'm always flirting with you.'

'A question and an answer, all at once.'

'I kissed you because I had to.'

'I hated myself for wanting you.'

'I never want to hurt you.'

'I've loved you for three years.'

All this time. He's been telling me all this time.

Nas pays for my flight. Nas carries my bag. Nas takes me home, fixes my show, and tucks me into his bed. Nas insists I'm in charge of my projects. Nas brings me to the event he can't face alone. Nas walks me home when I can't climb into a car. Nas kicks everyone out of my flat so I can sleep. Nas, Nas, Nas... It's all Nas.

Every inane thought, every unconscious habit, every snappy comment or thoughtless remark or whispered insecurity, Nas has seen. Nas tells me he is too quick to judge, but he has judged me and he still wants me. He has wanted me for years—loved me for years.

What was Nas afraid of? Being my secret.

And what was I afraid of? Everything else.

I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if I'm brave enough to try.

With that dire thought, I shut my eyes and try to forget everything I've done.