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Fiona
My heart’s racing as I hang up the phone, stealing another quick look around the restaurant, searching for Boyd. Since I started trying to edge my way back into his life, trying to convince him to meet with me so I could explain things, he’s never been the one to initiate contact.
He barely returns it as it is, and I’m usually soaking up whatever breadcrumbs of conversation he allows, wondering how I got to this point.
It doesn’t feel degrading, necessarily, because I don’t think he’s toying with my feelings, but the struggle to keep in contact with a man who truly isn’t interested is exhausting.
I did an extra set of yoga with Heidi last night in the apartment I share with Bea just because I’ve been so on edge, trying to figure out how to make things right between us.
Heidi stops by most evenings when she’s in town from Unity, joining me for nighttime yoga and milkshakes after.
After apologizing for not being able to get on board with my relationship over the summer, relenting that she had been a little jealous but was working on it, I’d admitted to working on my own things, like keeping up with my prescriptions and trying hard to follow through with the mindfulness exercises I practice regularly now.
It’s a start, anyway.
Our friendship isn’t perfect. Maybe it never was. But we’re trying, and I’m learning that sometimes that has to be enough.
“He could probably file a restraining order against you, at this point,” she said last night as we cooled down, Bea watching from the couch as she flipped through the script for a modern retelling of The Canterbury Tales. Heidi and I quit drama over the summer, but Bea is still at it, working harder than community theater really requires.
“If he wanted to, he would’ve done it by now,” I replied, shrugging. “It’s been weeks since the funeral, and it’s not like we’ve had any sexual contact since. So, what could he possibly be gaining from this?”
“An ego boost?” Bea asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shook my head, saying he’s not like that, but now as his harsh voice rings in my ear after our call, I wonder if maybe I was wrong about him altogether.
Maybe he is stringing me along, and maybe I’m stupid for playing into his hand.
Anxiety claws up my neck as I take another sip of water, resisting the urge to fall into compulsions I’ve worked so hard to rid myself of.
Rewiring your brain isn’t easy—it requires constant, daily effort, and even with the refilled prescription on my dresser at home and the guided meditations I do each night before bed, I still have to actively keep from practicing avoidance.
Leaning into the nerves instead of away, I try to position them toward things that are okay to be worried about. Like the waiter across the restaurant trying to balance six drinks on a tray clearly built for two.
Or the couple in a corner booth diagonal from me that looks to be in the middle of a heated argument, their faces growing more and more red under the dim Opulence lighting as the seconds pass.
A hand grips my shoulder, making my nerves spike, and Romeo’s face appears close to mine; he dips, kissing my cheek, and slides into the booth across from me.
“Sorry about that,” he says, the hint of his Italian accent curling at the ends of his words. “Long line for the bathroom.”
I nod, wrapping my fingers around a breadstick from the basket at the center of our table just for something to do. Truth is, I only agreed to go out with Romeo when Nico suggested he was interested, and only because I knew Boyd had problems with the Bianchi boys. Kieran too, for that matter, although no one ever gave a concrete reason why, and since I know the rumors about Nico being a manwhore are untrue, I figured maybe they are about Romeo, as well.
We’d gone on one date back in June, and I hadn’t heard from him until last night, when he called asking if I could meet him at Opulence. And since Boyd isn’t exactly trying to wine and dine me, I figured what was the harm in free food and decent company?
A waitress drops by to take our orders, and Romeo answers for me, rattling off menu items in their native Italian language. When she disappears to place them, he folds his hands on the table and rakes his gaze over my face, smiling.
“Who were you on the phone with a moment ago?”
I blink, taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, slut.” He leans forward, his smile turning malicious, and fists his fork, pointing it toward me. I jerk back in my seat, startled at the sudden shift in atmosphere as something sinister clouds around us. “Are you fucking Boyd Kelly again?”
“What?” I ask, confused as to how he could even know I had in the first place. With the exception of Nico, who is in California and barely speaks to his brother as it is, no one that knows about Boyd and me is also friendly with Romeo.
Something is very, very wrong here.
Dread creeps into my fingertips, and I pull my hand from the breadstick, settling it in my lap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His dark eyes narrow into evil little slits, menacing and a complete flip from the guy I went on the other date with. “Call him back, tell him to come meet us. I’d love for him to watch me fuck you on this table and then slit your throat. Bet your pussy tastes better than that bratty little sister of his.”
