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“Mum, he’s unbearable,” I whisper in my phone before sitting down on the toilet.
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Frederic is your brother. He loves you.” Did she hit her head on 5th Avenue while shopping with money we do not have?
“He doesn’t love me, Mum. Do you know what he told me when I was going to get ready for this party? He said and I quote, ‘You better look pretty or else no one will take a second look at you.’'' Repeating those words again is just as painful as the first time. It bloody hurts. But Frederic enjoys it. He always feels the need to point out things he finds so flawed in me.
“Darling, he’s just stressed about our money issues.”
“And I’m not? I’m the one getting married after all.” Why does she still only see the good in Frederic? Any goodness in my dear brother has been replaced with bitterness and hatred.
“Hush hush now, darling, no need to get frustrated about it. Marriage is not a death sentence.” I throw my head back and groan loudly. But the knife is already twisting in my heart. I thought Mum would be on my side and try to stop my brother’s delusional ideas, but sadly, she agrees with Frederic and it leaves me feeling more alone than I already am.
“Darling, don’t forget you're doing this for your family. A family that loves you so dearly. Father wanted nothing more than the best for us, and our problems would hurt him terribly if he was still here.” Dad was the head of our family and I loved him beyond words, but to Mum, Dad was everything and vice versa. Life looks different now, and those words coming from my mum always make me forget what I want to achieve in my own life because I want my family to have everything my father worked so hard for but we lost in a few years.
“Okay, Mum,” I whisper, hoping things will soon change for the better. “I have to go now.”
“Goodbye, darling. Have a great night. I’m headed to bed. Hopefully that waste of a husband of mine stopped his snoring.” I sigh, hearing the line disconnect. A bitter taste is on my tongue, and it soon spreads over my entire body when my phone starts ringing yet again.
The name Frederic Clairwater displays on the screen. Every second that passes, I think about not answering it. But I know I’ll regret not picking up; he’ll make sure of it.
“Fucking shit,” I mumble, feeling my heart rate rising already. Do I pick up and let him ruin my night even more or do I decline the call and face an earful after he finds me? Frederic hates being ignored and shares that annoyance so freely whenever we are alone.
“Bugger off,” I mumble again with my heart pounding even more, as something else starts to rile me up. Annoyance. Anger. Helplessness.
I know what this phone call is about. It’s to remind me of my place. How he expects me to be by his side the entire time, meeting potential husbands, while he scans the lot for an unsuspecting woman he can shag and dump.
“Narcissistic prick,” I whisper-yell at my phone, ignoring his call while stuffing it in my sparkling silver clutch.
“Take that, Fred.” I grit my teeth as I pull up my underwear and flush the toilet. I’ve never punched anyone, but Frederic … I want to punch his perfectly sculpted nose that he paid to have done a year ago.
As I push open the door of the stall and take in my blotchy red face in the mirror, my pulse races even higher.
“No.” There goes the perfect facade. This is what anger does to my face. It makes me red, and I bet it’s because I haven’t given it an outlet to dissipate. Oh, how I wish I could just scream. To release all this pent-up aggression. There’s a lot of it. The tension rules over my body, and my stiff shoulders are hard to move.
I quickly march to the sink and wet one of the towels before pressing it against my cheeks and neck. It doesn’t really do much. The damage is already done. It'll take me more than an hour to calm down. Because that’s the thing with adrenaline. It takes ninety minutes to recover from a surge of that potent hormone. But who cares about flaring red skin to begin with?
“I know who does,” I say out loud, not even bothering to whisper. I drop the towel before I walk out of the bathroom. My hands still feel the coldness the water left behind, and I try desperately to remain focused on it. To have it calm me down, keep me sane, instead of continuing to freak out.
“I know you.” A low voice snaps me out of my head.
“Excuse me?” I say, turning back around to take a look at the man I had already passed while walking out. When my eyes fall on him, leaning against the white wall with gold details, I want to run back into the bathroom and sit out the remainder of the party.
I’m done meeting people I don’t want to meet.
“And where would you know me from?” I snap, staring his way. He doesn’t know me, and the only thing I want to tell him straight away is‘wrong moment to approach the fuming sister of Frederic Clairwater.’ I’m a ticking time bomb, and I swear I’m ready to explode. I’m talking full-blown ready.
“One of my friends told me you looked familiar, and he’s absolutely right. I know you from somewhere.”
“Doubt it.” I pivot to walk away from him.
“You know what … why don’t you remind me of your name?” Chester Boyd says, with a small smile on his handsome face and a flirtatious tone to his voice as his blue-greyish eyes skim over my face as if he’s trying to still piece together where he knows me from.
He leans against the wall with his arms crossed. He’s relaxed, confident and so damn smug. It’s infuriating.
My heart slowly starts to speed up because this is the man I have observed for two weeks straight. I’ve watched him kiss his one-night stands goodbye passionately. I’ve seen him cup their breasts while their hands crawled into his sweatpants. I’ve seen him slap their arses when they climbed into the cab.
But that was when he was nameless.
I know his name now, and my perspective of my hot, single neighbour has changed completely. He screwed over my life as much as Frederic did. Chester Boyd is another reason why my brother is so focused on finding me a husband.
