“What’s up, Sol?”
I turn to face him, my breath stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat. “We did it,” I manage to say. “It’s done. They saw you. They love you. I can handle it from now on.”
He looks confused. Why is he not more relieved?
“I’m sorry again for changing our story, or if I was too...touchy.”
My insides spin. I look into his eyes, trying to read him. There is no sarcasm in his tone this time, only regret.
“I was handling it the best I could,” he says.
I tell the butterflies in my stomach to be quiet and find another place to live.
“It’s okay, Erik. You were good.” Too good...
“I still need my payment.” He offers me a cunning smile, and I nod when I remember that I must fulfill my promise and help him with his project.
“We’ll find some time this week, okay? I need to sleep now. Godnat.”
When I’m at my door, he says something in Danish in response to my “good night,” which, unfortunately, I don’t understand.
“What was that?” I ask, looking over my shoulder as I turn the knob.
But he just smiles and walks to his room without another word.
Thirteen
If I knew I would meet Martin at the coffee machine first thing Monday morning, I would have stayed at my desk and handled my hangover without caffeine.
“Hi, Sol,” he says casually, arriving from behind me and placing his cup under the dispensing spout as I move aside to put sugar in my espresso. “Did you and Erik arrive home safely yesterday? You two looked quite drunk.”
“We were fine,” I say, and Martin sneers like he is above such prosaic things as drinking alcohol, particularly on Sunday evenings.
I know what he’s getting at with this. He wants me to talk about Erik and how we are living together—the hottest gossip in the office this morning. I’ve gotten stares from at least five people who are not in our Fun Season group. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I can usually tell when others talk about me behind my back.
“Are you hungover?” Martin keeps being annoying.
I shake my head, opening another sugar sachet. “Nope. All good.” And I give him a smile that communicates, Conversation over. On you go.
His cup gets filled, and he brings it to the counter next to me to add honey. “I’m not sure I believe it,” he says when I’m about to go back to my desk.
I look at him. “Believe what?”
“You and Erik. So sudden...”
I stare at him, incredulous. “We are together. Why is that hard to believe?”
Keep a calm face, Sol. Don’t give yourself away.
Martin’s smile is victorious. “You really don’t know? Did he not tell you about Lena?”
Lena. Oh my.
“Of course I know about Lena,” I say.
I was cleaning my room the other day and found a hairpin deep inside the drawer of the night table the former occupant left there. I already had my suspicions since the day Erik told me he didn’t want to live with a woman. I shouldn’t judge him when I don’t know his history, but my certainty grew after finding the hairpin, and now it has been confirmed.
“I’m glad he’s finally moved on,” Martin says, stirring his coffee.
I hold my cup tight with both hands to not let them visibly tremble, then I take another sugar sachet just to avoid standing still.
“We used to be good friends, Erik and I, but you must know that already.” Martin glances at me. “We haven’t talked in a while, but we have a few friends in common, so I hear a little about him occasionally.” Martin looks at me again as if expecting me to engage in the conversation. I remain quiet, however, staring at my coffee. “I’ve heard, for instance, that Erik abandoned his hockey team and hasn’t been joining the game jams or any other events of our gaming community.”
I wonder what his point is, but I still don’t say anything.
“When she left, it was tough on him.” Martin looks as emotionless as the beetle I named him after. I register the information. Lena left Erik. It broke him. “The last thing I’d expect is that he would commit the same mistake again so soon after.”
Anger builds up in my gut, and I must use every ounce of self-control in me to avoid exploding.
Martin is playing a foul game, saying so much crap between the lines of his falsely cordial words that I want to spit in his face.
“I am not a mistake,” I find myself saying, dry as a fallen autumn leaf.
“It’s no surprise you like Erik. Women tend to have a soft spot for him,” Martin says with a casual tone loaded with disdain. Jealousy. Like he wants that kind of attention. Like he feels invisible when near Erik.
“What people don’t usually know,” Martin goes on, “is how quickly Erik Storm can discard you—and disregard you—when your wants don’t align with his.”
I swallow hard. I have just discarded Erik, breaking our deal at the first sign of trouble.
