He Bet I Wanted Nothing, So I Left Him Nothing novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Eleven Days

Tristan overhears her video call with her London supervisor, she tells him she is leaving, and he tells her not to come back; she buys the flight.

For two days I did not ask what "the real one" was.

I confirmed the placement instead, and I noticed that Tristan's phone now lay face down wherever he put it.

The video call came in on Saturday morning, while he was in my kitchen burning toast.

The screen showed a man in a grey wool jumper, sitting in front of a wall of filing boxes.

"Miss Quillen? Piers Ward. I'm your supervisor, God help you."

He had dark hair, steel-rimmed glasses and a dry, unhurried voice.

"I wanted to say hello before you land," he said. "It's raining here. It will be raining when you arrive. Bring a coat."

"I will," I said. "Thank you for the welcome."

"Don't thank me yet. Your first week is a stack of cholera records and a very bad radiator."

I laughed. It was the first real laugh I'd had in days.

Behind me, the toast alarm started going off.

"One more thing," Piers said. "Your fellowship covers a flat near the department."

"You won't need to find money for rent. I mention it because my last student skipped meals to pay hers, and I won't have it."

"That won't be necessary," I said.

"Good. Send me your flight when you have it. I'll meet you."

He ended the call.

I looked up.

Tristan stood in the doorway with a plate in one hand. His other hand held a black piece of toast.

"Who was that?"

"My supervisor."

"You have a supervisor?"

"For the placement. In London."

The word hung in the kitchen between us.

I had meant to tell him gently, and I had practiced it in the shower.

In every version, he asked me why, and I said it was a good opportunity.

In every version, he said he was proud of me.

"London," Tristan said.

"The department wrote to me weeks ago. I told you. You said we'd talk about it later."

"I thought you meant a conference." He set the plate down. "How long?"

"A year. Maybe two."

He laughed.

It was short and surprised, and then it kept going.

"Ellery. You can't afford a bus pass."

"The fellowship pays for housing. And the research post pays me."

"The flight alone is nine hundred dollars."

"I know what it costs."

"So you've got it?"

I didn't answer. I had nine hundred and twelve dollars in my account, and I wasn't going to tell him that.

He saw it anyway.

"You don't," he said, more gently. "You're doing the thing you do. You go very quiet and make a plan that doesn't add up."

"It adds up."

"You'd have to ask someone for money."

"I'm not asking anyone."

"Then how?"

"I'm buying the ticket myself."

He studied me. I watched the whole year of him arrive in his face at once: the food trucks, the plastic flowers, the test.

He was trying to find the trap.

"You'd really leave," he said.

"I'd really go."

"Because of me?"

"Because I was accepted, Tristan."

He rubbed his face with both hands.

"Okay. Okay. You want to go to London. Go." His voice was getting louder.

"But you don't get to come back and cry on my couch when it falls apart."

"I told you from the start what this was. If it isn't enough, you can leave."

I had heard that sentence before. He had said it on our first night.

"I remember," I said.

"Then say it. Tell me why you're doing this to us."

"I'm not doing anything to us."

"You're walking out."

"You said I could."

The smoke detector had quit shrieking. In the quiet, he looked more frightened than angry.

For one second I wanted to tell him everything.

I wanted to say: I was outside the lounge. I heard you tell them it would take finesse.

I did not say them.

If I said it, he would have an answer ready.

He always had one, and I would spend the next ten days defending myself.

"I'll miss the heater," I said instead.

He didn't laugh.

"If you go," Tristan said, "don't come back."

"All right."

He stared at me, waiting for me to bend.

When I didn't, he picked up his coat and left, and the door shut behind him without a bang.

I stood at the counter and scraped the toast into the bin.

Then I sat at my desk with the plastic flowers in the vase and opened the airline's site.

The cheapest ticket was a one-way, leaving on the twenty-first.

I typed in my card number. My hand was steady.

Confirmation: Departure the twenty-first. One way.

My balance said twelve dollars.

I looked at the number for a long time.

Then I put my phone on the desk, face down, and began to pack.

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