Chapter Fifty-Two Soundtrack: Hopeless Romantic by Michelle Branch

A bird chirps outside my window. Bastard. It's still dark out.

Is my window open? Have I been burgled? I always sleep with it tightly closed, so that my room is as warm and claustrophobic as a womb.

Something moves beside me. Oh my God. I have been burgled.

Oh.

Oh my God.

It's Nas. Obviously.

I finally open my groggy eyes. The room is still dim, even with a soft, grey dawn peeking through the window, but it's enough to see him curled beside me. Still naked. In this light, he's like a smudged charcoal drawing, gentle, blurry, his knees curled into himself to ward off an attack. His arm around me. His heartbeat slow in my ear.

My bedroom is exactly the same - messy nightstand, mushroom lamp, peeling posters I never framed - but everything is different. This is where we sat at my party, and I felt his warmth instead of his touch, and every thought of him was agony because, for the first time, I could imagine him in my bed.

And now that I've touched him, every thought is still agony. It's like the morning after Christmas. Normal life resumes now, except I don't have to wonder.

My chest is tightening already. Not now, I beg whatever god is listening. Don't do this now.

But I can't reason with this feeling. It's here again. I've forgotten how to breathe. My body is collapsing under its own weight.

Stupid, stupid to want this. Stupid to want anything. What haven't I given him? What can't he reject?

Of course he'll leave in the morning. I knew that and I still opened the door. He'll go and I'll stay here, forever, like I always have. Here, in this Miss Havisham house, here, trapped behind the ghost of my grief.

He'll walk out tomorrow.

Or he'll walk out in a week, or a month. He'll cross the road, or find a lump, or get in a car. He'll get in a car and I'll drive him to his death.

He'll leave, of course. He will always leave.

When my chest crumbles inwards like this, it seems like this is the worst I could feel. But I know that's wrong. I know that so much worse is waiting.

'Morning, El,' he murmurs. The words are enough to release my tears.

'Hey, hey, baby. It's okay. It's okay.' He's murmuring nonsense like I'm a startled animal, but it doesn't stop me from crying. 'El, it's alright. You're safe. Just breathe.' He adapts quickly, rubbing my back, folding a sheet around me so that I'm covered entirely.

'Can I talk to you?' he asks.

'Why?' I snuffle.

'So you can think about something else.'

I moan something that sounds like 'Yes'. Currently, so much snot is oozing from me that everything sounds a bit squishy. I thought nothing could rival the ear oiling.

'I got a few emails last night about our development slate. You were doing your victory dance so I didn't interrupt. But it sounds like, if we want to access more internal funding, we can have it.'

'Really?' I cry.

'Really, El. Straight from Barry's boss. Barry wasn't included in the email. I'm not saying you should stage a coup, but if you wanted a step up, this would be the time.'

'What about you?'

He keeps rubbing gentle circles on my back. 'I'll be there if you want, baby.'

'But you don't want it.' My breathing hitches again.

He rushes to calm me down. 'I love animation. You know that. But I'm not going to abandon you if you need me. I'll wait, help you out. If there's a promotion, you should take it.'

'And then you'll leave?' I knew it.

'Don't worry about it now,' he murmurs. 'Try to enjoy the win.'

I breathe, slowly and deeply, for another minute. I hate doing what he says. But he's right this time. The frantic rush inside me is slowing down. I have enough air again.

'Last night was good,' I murmur.

He laughs. 'Yeah, I liked it.'

'Is it usually like that for you?'

'No.'

'Me neither.'

His breathing jumps. But he responds calmly, 'Told you we were a good team.'

'Sex was always really romantic, before,' I tell him. I don't understand this urge to share but, in the early morning light, curled against his chest, it feels like my words have no consequences. 'Which was great, obviously. I like romance. But I didn't know it could be that... Sexy, I guess? Passionate?'

He doesn't respond.

'Nas? Are you overthinking something?'

'I hate that you know that.'

'I know that, too.'

He laughs.

I confess, 'I'm sorry for taking half of your job.'

'Don't be silly. Look how good you are,' he replies.

'You made it all possible, though. It's all you. If you weren't so good, they wouldn't have needed two of you to manage it all.'

'I should get that on tape. Play it back when you argue with me in meetings.'

'But you still want to leave.'

He sighs. 'I want a change, Eleanor. I want to try something that I love, without any head starts or expectations. Do you understand that?'

'I guess.'

If this sounds childish to him, he lets it go.

'What time is it?' I whisper.

'Who cares?'

I scrabble for a phone and find his on the nightstand. It's charging. When did he open the windows? When did he plug in his phone? I must have fallen asleep instantly, before he tidied everything up. I wonder how long he lay awake, lost in his thoughts.

'Eleanor, for God's sake. Go to sleep.'

'Not tired.'

It's 5:57.

It's 5:57 and I won a BAFTA.

'I have to see that email,' I whisper. 'I have to reply to Barry's boss and tell him what I want to do.'

'It's Sunday.'

'I won a BAFTA.'

He groans. 'Go. Living room. Don't you dare turn on a light in here.'

'Bye.'

With extraordinary courage, I lean down and kiss his forehead. Before he can react, I skip to the next room. I have work to do.

*

I spend Sunday in a delicious haze of emails, Tweets and reaction GIFs. Even my mother is proud of me, though she buries that in updates on her garden. She must have stayed up to watch the ceremony. That's progress.

My hips ache, too. I feel bruised and stiff, but whenever I imagine taking a bath and rubbing my muscles, I hesitate. I don't want to lose the reminder. This morning helped, too: before leaving, rumpled and tired, Nas dragged me into the shower. He dutifully rubbed out all the tension in my back and a few other places too.

I'm still smiling at the memory when my doorbell rings. It's the post, apparently, even though it's Sunday.

'Special delivery,' the courier tells me.

I expect to meet him at the door, but instead, he tells me to wait. A few minutes later, panting, he appears with a huge box.

'Eleanor Abarough, BAFTA winner?' he gasps.

Oh my God. I hate Nas.

'Thanks,' I tell him. 'I'll take it.'

'Can't,' the poor man chokes. 'Instructions say to bring it inside. You're not meant to lift it.'

I follow nervously behind him as he totters into the living room and drops the box. From his satchel, another parcel appears, this one long and thin. 'And these,' he groans.

'Thank you so much. Can I tip you, or...?'

'All covered. Thanks, ma'am. Have a good day.'

'You too.'

The box advertises that, with 8K resolution, an OLED screen, and a vast 75-inch display, this is the best TV money can buy. I stare at the cardboard container beside my tiny, shattered screen for a minute. And then I text Nas.

did you send me a TV?

So you can watch the next award you win

it's too much.

Remember I'm disgustingly wealthy

I'm speechless. I stare at it for another moment. And then I remember the other box, but I know what I'll find before I unwrap it.

I read years ago that in the 18th century, husbands would give their wives a gift on the morning after their wedding. It marked the union and symbolised gratitude for the gift their wife had shared with them.

I'm reminded of that now, as I look down at a dozen perfect, pink tulips.

*

i wish the tulips were my idea but credit goes to @snowwhite249172