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She clenches her jaw and crosses her arms. Still saying nothing.
“You slapped me in the face for accusing you, for fuck’s sake.”
And now I’m starting to get pissed off. Because this girl has some nerve.
“Lie number three. After the art gallery. You said the reason you had cupcakes on your wall was because all that stuff came from your childhood bedroom. And I, like a fool, said ‘OK.’ And it really was OK. It really was. I was on board with the lies. I bought into them. Because I like you. I like you a lot. And I was willing to forget all about my silly Sexpert accusations because you told me it wasn’t true.”
She blinks at me. Three times slowly. And says nothing.
“And you invite me on a date to meet your best friend. It’s a big step and you were very excited and blah, blah, blah. But then… but then I get there and I go looking for the bathroom and accidentally find something else instead. Evidence I didn’t need because I already knew. But by that time I was lying to myself just as much as you were lying to me.”
She lets out a long breath of air. She didn’t know this part.
“And look, this is… I mean this is not really a big deal. Y’know? I mean, not really. I mean it’s a big deal insofar as it’s a big deal to Pierce and it’s clearly a big deal to you, but in the grand scheme of things… Eh.”
She’s starting to tear up a little.
“I mean, hell, we were really only just getting to know each other. It’s a good thing we didn’t get too far down the path and I started telling you anything real, because God knows what would have happened then. I mean I’m working on some shit at work that… Well, it’s the kind of thing you can only share with people you trust. So…”
A single tear falls now. It hurts, but I can’t stop. I wish I could. But I can’t.
“But I kept hoping and hoping and hoping. And no, you didn’t hurt me. Per se. Not really. But I’m not gonna lie, I really, really thought that you’d make the right move. The solid move. You can see where this is going, right? How, when I came to you today, practically begging you to tell me the truth and take Pierce up on his offer, I had high hopes that you’d come through. That you wouldn’t turn out to be that girl. The liar that it turns out you are.”
I pause. Wanting her to tell me anything. Wanting her to defend herself and say… I dunno. That she made a mistake? That she wasn’t thinking clearly? That she panicked, and she takes it all back?
I dunno.
But it doesn’t matter. Because she says none of that.
She just nods her head. Breathes through her nose several times. Then nods her head again and…
Walks out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – EDEN
You know you’ve been a terrible friend to someone when bad things happen and you can’t bring yourself to call them and cry about it. Because they needed you to be there for them once, and you weren’t.
And maybe you are a bad friend and a liar, but you’re not a hypocrite so you know that you don’t deserve the sympathetic ear of that friend.
That’s why I don’t call Zoey when I get home from Andrew’s intervention.
I don’t deserve her.
I was a bad friend. I was only thinking of myself. And I don’t deserve to be consoled over the absolutely humiliating experience I just went through.
It’s my own fault, anyway.
So I cry. I take off my pretty dress. I take off my jewelry and wash the makeup off my face. And I pull my perfectly mussed-up, just-fucked hair into a ponytail.
I change into shorts and a t-shirt and lie down on my bed face first hugging my pillow.
And I cry.
Alone.
Not because I was humiliated. Not because I have no one to talk to.
But because I was a bad friend to both of them.
And I have no one to blame for my sadness but myself.
I get up in the morning like it’s just another day because I have to.
I take a shower. Put my hair up in a ponytail. Slide my glasses on. And put on my uniform.
Wait.
I stare at my reflection the mirror and ask myself an honest question.
“Why the fuck do you wear this ugly-ass outfit every goddamned day, Eden?”
I don’t really know. Partly it’s because I’m trying to hide my breasts. It’s always the first thing people notice when they meet me, which makes me super self-aware and uncomfortable, and I figure button-downs are just one step up from baggy sweatshirts in the conceal-the-cupcakes department.
It’s a good enough answer for me, so I move on and ask another question.
