Chapter Fifty Soundtrack: Call Out My Name by The Weeknd

By the time Nas arrives, right on time, I am literally shaking with excitement. Or fear. Or both.

He greets me with a kiss on the cheek and lets himself into the flat. I can't help but notice that he's fucking gorgeous. Like yes, obviously, but something about tonight: his soft eyes behind his glasses, his hair, combed neatly back except for that unruly curl, and his quiet confidence as he leans against my kitchen counter. He's looking at me without shame or hesitation, assertively, like he has the right to. And he's smirking.

It's just a lot to deal with.

'Eleanor, in the nicest possible way, you're giving off a really stressful vibe right now.'

I realise that I'm standing perfectly upright beside him, my hands clenched into fists. 'Look, it's a big night for me, even if it doesn't matter to you, alright?' I snap.

'Hey, it's okay. I'm only teasing.'

My body unclenches. He's teasing me. Maybe all the little jabs have just been teasing.

Well, not all of them. But a lot.

I'm starting to suspect that, even though he is judgemental, his rudeness may have been matching my energy, which was... Well, bitchy is a strong word, but pretty bitchy.

'Sorry,' I tell him.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I groan.

'What?' he asks.

'I keep getting emails about next week's pitching and it's just really not helping the nerves.'

'Turn off your phone, then. Worry about it tomorrow.'

Oh. That's a good idea, actually. With his dark eyes on me, I slowly extract my phone and power it off, possibly for the first time since I bought it.

'Congratulations,' he adds. 'On the nomination. I didn't tell you before, because...'

'Because?'

'Well, I guess because I enjoyed annoying you too much.'

'Yeah, I remember that.'

'In hindsight, I guess we could have talked about other things instead.'

'Like what?'

'Well, you not being engaged. The raging sexual tension. All of that.'

'You know, Nasir, I think that's the most direct thing you've ever said to me.'

'That's exactly my point.'

'I guess I could have been more honest, too. But... this might sound stupid, but try not to judge, okay?'

'I actually can't promise that.'

'Try. So, I guess... even though I wasn't engaged, obviously, because... you know... Emotionally I was. I hated being attracted to you. I still hate it, kind of. It comes with all of this guilt.'

'I get that.'

'And I want to get that out of my system. The guilt. The tension between us. A fresh start.'

'Clean slate?' he asks.

'Clean slate. I'm ready to move forward, I think.'

Maybe this isn't entirely true. There's still that weight in my chest, that darkness on the edge of my thoughts. I still feel a one-two punch whenever desire comes: first I want Nas, and then I'm angry at myself. But what's the point in telling him that? We've just agreed to get this out of our systems. I don't need to unpack things any more than that. Not tonight. I can only do so much.

He asks, 'Shall we watch the BAFTAs?'

'Yes! Yes, please.'

We move to my couch and sit demurely apart. He slides an arm behind me, though, and I lean back into his warmth.

And then we both stare at my silent TV, which has a huge crack through the screen. I haven't used it since my party. It definitely won't turn on.

'You didn't replace it?'

'I've been too busy commissioning award-nominated TV.'

'Hmm.'

'Okay,' I say, 'Let's watch it on my computer.'

'Okay.'

We find a patchy VPN to stream the live coverage and spend a few minutes squinting at the grainy red carpet. Finally, we agree to ignore this and instead order a takeout. I've learned my lesson about cooking. By the time it's arrived, we're settled back into the couch and I kick Nas out to go collect it. My category is coming up soon, and there's no way I'm missing it.

At least, I think it's my category. The video keeps cutting out.

But yes, it is! They're reading out the nominees. And there it is: Pendleton.

I glance over at Nas and realise that we could be in black tie, drinking champagne and surrounded by celebrities, at the pivotal moment in my career. And there's nowhere I'd rather be than sitting on my couch, watching on a laptop, with Nas's arm around my shoulder.

'And the BAFTA goes to...'

The video cuts out.

'What?!' I shout, as Nas jumps up and yells. 'Shit! Shit!'

I smack the laptop cable but it's no use. The live stream is replaced by white noise.

'No! No! Did we win?'

Nas is pacing through my living room and mutters, 'Shh, I'm on Twitter. Wait, you have to have an account now? What is Elon doing?'

'Twitter?'

'I'm in!' He pumps a triumphant fist. 'I'm on the hashtag. I'm checking... I'm checking...'

He looks up from his phone with a soft expression.

Staring at me, he says, 'Ellie... Ellie, you just won a BAFTA.'

I screech. I jump up and down. I grab him around the waist and he picks me up, or I trip, or some combination of both, because we tumble on the couch and I'm laughing so hard I might be sick.

'I just won a BAFTA.'

'You just won a BAFTA.'

'Please refer to me by my full title: Eleanor Abarough, BAFTA winner.'

My stomach is churning with elation. It's been a physically challenging day.

'Oh my God,' I murmur. 'I did it.'

'You did it.'

'I have to tell everyone.'

'Yes, immediately. I'm gonna pop some champagne.'

'Leave it. I already feel sick.'

I'm already texting Mei the news. Nas glances over at me and I pause. 'That's your smile of defeat,' I tell him.

'My what?'

'You only smile like that when I'm winning.'

'It's not defeat.'

'What is it, then?'

His smile widens. 'I guess I'm just really proud you, Eleanor Abarough, BAFTA winner.'

*

i've been away for the last week (i'm actually writing this from the past and scheduling it... hi, future me!) so i'm sorry if i've missed any comments / messages / votes! every new reader makes me feel like a winner too. please excuse the terrible joke.