Page 70 of The Ghost of Exes Past

‘Then say it.’

‘I didn’t mean any of it.’

‘Then why say it?’

‘Because …’ I stutter, then stop.

‘Because? Just because? Fucking hell, Jake.’

I can’t do anything but stand here, stupid and dumb, and she’s turning away now, laughing.

‘Do you know what’s really worth laughing about?’ Her voice is breathless and messy. ‘The really funny thing is that I didn’t realise until tonight how much that video influenced everything that came after. The good, the bad … With every person I was with, I was just waiting for the moment they’d turn around and do the same. I chose people who were so easy, because there was no threat, and then chose people who would humiliate me because then at least I knew it was coming. I chose people I knew I couldn’t really love. Because loving someone means giving them the power to do what you did … So thanks, Jake. Thanks for all my trauma.’

My chest feels like someone is kneeling on it. She’s never said this to anyone; I can tell by the way her hands are shaking that this is the first time she’s putting it all together out loud.

‘So it’s all my fault?’

It comes out wrong, falls out of me like the wrong lyrics to a song. And her face doesn’t change. She doesn’t flinch or recoil. She just looks at me, nodding slowly, lip quivering.

‘Well, we’re done now, aren’t we.’ She shakes her head. ‘You’ve saved your soul. Now leave.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Belle

The moon outside. The haunted bed. The dresser covered in products. The sofa we were sitting on moments ago. My reflection staring back at me.

My toes against the carpet. My dress under my fingertips, now creased at the hips. My breath, hot and panting. My hair stuck to my cheek.

The wind against the windows. The creak of my weight on the floorboards. The silence so loud, it’s deafening.

My faded perfume. The hint of smoke from the fireplace.

Whisky. The strength of it biting the back of my throat.

Five … Four … Three … Two … One.

The technique my therapist taught me to ground myself in the present, to pull myself out of the past.

I walk to the dresser and reach down, hands still shaking, to pick up my lipstick, which had fallen to the patterned carpet. As I crouch, I look to the mirror, half-expecting to see his reflection behind me, that same smirk, that grin.

I collapse onto the floor, my chest tight, heart thumping.

My lipstick. The fibres of the carpet, the ring on my finger—

He’s gone.

My nails perfectly manicured, a string of lint on the floor—

He’s gone, again.

I told him to leave and he walked out of the room, and that’s twice now this has happened and both times he has left without looking back.

The first time I’d been weeping into Dad’s lap as his car pulled away. I’d found comfort in Jules and then told myself I’d call him in the morning. There was no morning, there was just a phone call from Jake’s mum at 5 a.m. and a sound that came out of me that I didn’t know I could make.

And now he’s walked out again. And in the morning, I’ll be walking down the aisle to another man and there will be no more mornings for Jake again.

I sit in front of the mirror, palms flat against the carpet, trying hard not to hyperventilate.