Page 101 of Crosswind

"I called to give notice," he says. "And he immediately…”

"I heard," I say.

He waits.

"Right," I say. I open my laptop. "You'll need to book a moving van." I look up. "Do you have much?"

"Not really," he says. "I never fully unpacked."

I look at him.

"Since April," I say.

"Since April," he confirms. Slightly sheepish.

"Patrick."

"I thought I'd be here," he says. "I was right."

I close the laptop. "I'm coming with you."

"You don't have to…”

"You have until tomorrow evening," I say. "I'm coming."

The apartment on the Czaar Peterstraat is smaller than I expected and exactly as described — half-unpacked, the feel of somewhere that was never quite inhabited. A sofa. A bed. Books still in boxes beside a bookshelf. The kitchen mostly bare. The wardrobe open, a few jackets hanging at odd intervals like they forgot why they were there.

Patrick stands in the middle of it and looks around.

"It doesn't feel like much," he says.

"It isn't much," I say. "That's not a criticism."

He looks at the sofa. "I like the sofa."

"It's better than mine," I say. "Mine goes on Marktplaats. Yours comes."

"The lamp." His grandmother's, in the corner.

"Obviously."

"The books." He nudges one of the boxes with his foot. It doesn't move. "There are more books than I remembered."

"How many boxes."

He looks at the stack beside the bookshelf. Counts. "Four."

"Pilot," I say. "Four boxes of books."

"I read," he says.

"I know you read." I look at the rest of the apartment. "What else."

"That's — honestly, that might be it." He opens the wardrobe. Three jackets. A suit bag. Running shoes. He looks at it for a moment. "Maya took most things when we split. And I haven't bought anything since because…” He stops. He looks at me. "Because I've been at yours."

"Ours," I say.

He blinks.