Loved Her Wrong

Two Days Late

Elias was not avoiding Jonah.

He was simply allowing the situation to settle.

There was a difference, he thought, between refusing to speak to someone and recognising that a conversation might be better postponed until both parties had something useful to say. Jonah had admitted that he was not ready to explain himself. Elias had agreed to wait.

That was reasonable.

It was also convenient.

The following Saturday, Elias worked until three in the afternoon, bought groceries on his way home, and spent an hour correcting an assessment report that another adjuster had submitted with the wrong property number. He thought about Jonah twice. The first time was when he passed the bakery where they had bought pastries. The second was when he found himself reaching for his telephone at half past six.

He put it down again.

If Jonah wanted to talk, he could call.

The thought was not unkind. It was simply the sort of thought Elias preferred: clear, orderly, and requiring nothing from him.

At seven twelve, his telephone rang.

He was washing a plate and nearly let the call go unanswered. Then he saw Jonah's name.

He dried his hand and picked up.

"Hello?"

There was no answer.

Elias glanced at the screen. The call had ended.

He waited a moment, then called back.

The line rang four times before switching to voicemail.

Elias frowned.

He left a message.

"It's Elias. You called. I was in the kitchen. Give me a ring when you get this."

He hung up.

It was a perfectly adequate message. It communicated everything necessary without sounding worried, annoyed, or overly interested.

He returned to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, he checked his telephone.

No missed call.

He checked again before bed.

Nothing.

On Sunday morning, Jonah left a voicemail.

Elias listened to it while making tea.

"Morning, Elias. Forecast says rain by evening, although I admit the evidence is weak. I was trying to catch you yesterday. Sorry I missed you."

There was a pause, followed by a soft rustling sound.

"I've been thinking about what I said the other day. I still want to tell you something. A proper thing, not one of my usual reports about atmospheric conditions. I thought perhaps we could meet this week."

Another pause.

"Anyway, give me a call when you're free. No rush. I know you're busy."

The message ended.

Elias stood beside the kettle, telephone in hand.

It was a cheerful message. Jonah had deliberately made it sound ordinary, giving Elias room to respond without feeling that he had been summoned to an emergency.

But there was something in the way he had said a proper thing that made Elias uncomfortable.

He had heard that phrase before.

He thought of the yellow raincoat, the damp towel, and Jonah standing at the door with his hand on the handle.

If I told you something difficult, would you listen before deciding what you thought about it?

Elias set the telephone down.

He could call immediately.

Instead, he looked at the clock.

He had promised himself a quiet Sunday. His laundry was unfinished, the kitchen needed cleaning, and there was a report he had intended to review before Monday. He could call Jonah after lunch, once he had finished the things that needed doing.

That was reasonable.

He put the voicemail aside in his mind and made breakfast.

At eleven, he began the report.

At one, he ate.

At two, his mother telephoned to ask whether he had received the parcel she had sent. At three, he went to the shops because he had forgotten washing-up liquid. At four, he sat down to write Jonah a message and discovered that he could not decide what to say.

Sorry I missed you.

It sounded as though Jonah had been inconvenienced by a telephone call.

I heard your message.

It sounded like an acknowledgement of a delivery.

Let's meet this week.

That was better, but it made the decision sound like a business appointment.

Elias deleted the draft.

He would call instead.

On Monday, work was difficult. A contractor had submitted contradictory photographs, a client was disputing an estimate, and Colm Fenwick had asked for a revised report before the end of the day.

Elias worked through lunch.

At half past five, he remembered Jonah's message.

He took out his telephone.

Then a colleague approached his desk with a question about a claim that had been incorrectly assigned to the wrong department.

Elias put the telephone away.

He would call that evening.

That evening, he arrived home late and found the kitchen tap leaking. He spent forty minutes attempting to fix it before admitting that the problem required a plumber. By the time he had eaten, showered, and prepared his clothes for the next day, it was nearly ten.

He looked at Jonah's name on the screen.

Calling now seemed inconsiderate.

He could call tomorrow.

On Tuesday morning, Elias told himself he would telephone during his lunch break.

At twelve fifteen, he went to the staff kitchen, sat at the small table beside the window, and dialled.

The call rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He imagined Jonah in his workshop, bent over a piano, unable to reach the telephone.

The ringing continued.

Then the call went to voicemail.

Elias ended it without leaving a message.

He could try again later.

He returned to his desk.

At three, he received a report that needed immediate attention. At four, a client telephoned. At five, Colm asked him to stay and review a claim before it was sent for approval.

Elias stayed.

When he finally left the office, it was raining.

He walked to the bus stop with his collar turned up, thinking about the message he had not returned and the conversation he had not arranged.

He could still call Jonah.

He would call the next day, when he had more time.

On Wednesday morning, Elias sent a short text.

Sorry I've been difficult to reach. Can we speak later this week?

He checked it before sending, removed a sentence that sounded defensive, and pressed the button.

The message delivered.

He waited for a reply.

None came that morning.

At lunchtime, he checked again.

Nothing.

At six, he checked once more.

Still nothing.

Elias began to feel a small, unreasonable irritation. Jonah had wanted to talk. Elias had acknowledged that. He had made an effort to call and sent a message explaining that he was busy.

There was no reason for Jonah to behave as though Elias had done something unforgivable.

He had not refused to listen.

He had simply been late.

That evening, he left his telephone on the table while he cooked. Every time it lit up, he looked towards it.

The messages were from his mother, his bank, and a colleague.

Jonah did not call.

On Thursday, Elias tried once more.

The call rang until voicemail answered.

He did not leave a message.

He put the telephone down and returned to work.

The following week passed in the same fashion. Elias called once, received no answer, and decided that Jonah would respond when he was ready. He had made his intentions clear. He had offered to meet. He could not force another person to have a conversation.

He told himself this was respect.

He told himself it was patience.

He told himself that a friendship could survive a few missed calls.

He was not wrong about that.

But something had changed.

Jonah's name stopped appearing on his screen. The Thursday weather reports ended. The small, ridiculous observations about clients and pianos disappeared from Elias's evenings.

At first, he assumed Jonah was busy.

Then he assumed Jonah was annoyed.

Eventually, he stopped making assumptions at all.

He returned to the familiar routines of his life. Work, groceries, laundry, sleep. He put the tuning fork in his desk drawer and left it there. He passed the piano every morning without playing it.

Weeks went by.

When he thought of Jonah, he reminded himself that the next move belonged to Jonah.

It seemed fair.

By the time the season changed, Elias had almost persuaded himself that the silence was temporary.

Then, one evening, a news report mentioned flooding in the northern part of Calder's region. The camera showed swollen rivers, emergency crews, and a road closed beneath brown water.

Elias watched long enough to establish that the flooding was nowhere near his flat.

He turned the television off.

He did not know that a man he had once called a friend had been caught in that weather.

He did not know that two people had gone to the mill weir and never returned.

And he did not know that the silence he had been waiting to end was about to become a question he could no longer ignore.