Page 73 of Weekends with You

“Yes sir,” Cal said, chuckling a little to himself at the newfound sense of urgency. “One Saturday roast, coming right up.”

Cal was going to miss us, and we knew it because he let us pile into the kitchen while he was working and pick bits and bobs from cutting boards and pans, and he didn’t say a word about it.

We cracked open beer after beer, passing the time while we waited for the meat and veg to roast. Henry spun a record from a band he’d shot when he was in Iceland, and their music filled the apartment with gentle strumming and gravelly voices.

I imagined what we looked like from the outside, how someone might see us if they were looking through our windows like a snow globe. All eight of us crowded in the kitchen, passing cutlery and setting the table, singing made-up words to songs we didn’t know, dancing barefoot on the concrete floors.

Eventually, two roast chickens sat proudly in the center of the table, surrounded by sky-high piles of Yorkshire pudding, buttery vegetables, and golden, crispy potatoes. We passed dishes around, shoveling food onto each other’s plates and gushing over how well Cal had done.

The imaginary onlooker would have seen eight friends who had become a family, telling stories and bickering like siblings under the warm glow of the oversize lamp hanging overhead. They would have seen us dissolving into laughter as we reminisced about past Warehouse Weekends, bad dates, and wild nights, argued over the best takeaway pizza, and asked prying questions about one another’s futures.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Cal said, leaning back in his chair and linking his fingers behind his head, “but I’m actually going to miss this.”

“I knew it,” Liv said. “You’ve loved us all along.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, here.”

She threw a crumpled napkin in his direction, which he caught with one hand and threw into the trash behind him.

“We have become a bit of a family in here, haven’t we? Feels like we’re really losing one of our own,” Jan said, wiping a fake tear from his eye.

“Not for another few months, you know,” Cal said, but we waved him off.

“Before you know it, everyone’s going to move out and we’re going to be left here to rot. Or to fill the rooms with strangers so we can still afford the rent,” Raja said, dropping her head to Jan’s shoulder.

Henry stood up from the table, wordlessly stacking plates and cups in his arms to bring to the kitchen.

“Got somewhere to be?” Finn asked, cocking his head. “What’s the rush, mate? We’ll help you do the washing up when we’re not too full to move, you know.”

“Just figured I’d get a jump on it,” Henry answered, his back to us.

We exchanged concerned glances around the table as he dropped the plates into the sink.

“What’s his problem?” Margot asked at a volume Henry could definitely hear.

“Maybe he’s pissed because Lucy’s new guy is coming over tonight,” Liv whispered.

“Liv, come on,” I said, and she hung her head for a second, regretting the joke.

“Maybe he’s pissed because he’s just cornered himself into doing the washing up,” Jan said.

“Or maybe he’s just trying to keep this place clean,” Henry called from the kitchen.

“Living alone is changing you, mate,” Jan said. “I thought our mess didn’t bother ya?”

“That was before I lived alone,” Henry said from the other room, his tone unreadable.

When he was away, it seemed like he never wanted to come home. And when he was home, it sometimes seemed like he didn’t want to be away. I was sure I’d lost the privilege of asking the kind of personal questions required to sort this out, but I wished someone else would. Mostly because I knew Liv was wrong, and this had nothing to do with Oliver and everything to do with whatever Henry was going through and not telling us.

“Now, would one of you get in here and help me do this washing so we can start really drinking?” he asked.

“Aye, he’s back,” Jan said. “Now we’re talking.”

We gathered the rest of the dishes from the table, forming an assembly line in the kitchen. We scraped bits into the trash, squeezed leftovers into Tupperware, and fought over who would wash and who would dry. Henry’s shoulders came down from his ears as soon as we changed the subject, and I immediately hated myself for noticing his shoulders at all.

A text from Oliver brought me back to the moment.

On the way. Can I bring anything?

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