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And now look at him.
He seems happy. And in love. And it makes me sick.
‘You look like you’re about to cry,’ Emmy says softly. She swears and closes down the tab, but I twist away from her. ‘If it helps, her name’s Genevieve.’
I hear her call my name as I rush for the bathroom, but I don’t look back.
I slam the door of the cubicle shut and slide down it, my hands clutched to my chest.
That’s the thing about being with someone: if you choose them, you’re essentially throwing away every dream you’ve ever had. But if you choose yourself first, you become everything you wished to be, and you stumble across love on the way.
And seeing Chase… I could have had that. I could have gone to college and completed that three-year course in wildlife and ecology. One more year, and all that would have been done. I could even have gone to university for another three years and I’d only be twenty-three when I graduate. With adegree.
But I’d chosen Archer. Over absolutely everything. Because I do love him, and I always thought love was everything—that itconqueredeverything. That it was all that mattered. But love isn’t always enough.
You can’t will a flower to bloom out of love; you have to water it and give it sunlight, otherwise it will wither and die. And your soul is a lot like that, because if you don’t do the things that bring you joy and happiness, you’ll perish and brown like a wilting flower.
Maybe if I’d walked away from Archer, I’d be happy. But I don’t regret holding him that night, or keeping him upright as his knees gave. Maybe we don’t see the consequences of our actions until we look back.
But it’s too late now. For me to even attempt to work towards the life I dreamt for myself, because although I regret some of my choices, I don’t want certain parts of my life to change. I don’t want to lose Emmy, and I don’t want to move away from my dad, and although this job sucks major shit balls, I’m comfortable here.
And maybe that’s it: maybe I’m just too comfortable that I’ve settled for something I never even wanted, too afraid of falling to take that leap.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Catch
Archer lounges on the sofa when I walk through the door. A blanket is thrown over his lap, and he punches something into his phone, the game ofRed Dead Redemption 2paused. His bare feet are propped up on the coffee table, and I grit my teeth.
He knows I hate it when he does that, but I'm tired of asking. I want him towantto do things for me. I don’t want to have to ask him to take the bins out, or make the bed, or open the windows, or stop pissing all over the toilet seat.
Being with someone means sacrificing those parts of yourself to make the other person happy, because the last thing you want to do is hurt them.
But I’m not enough.
I don’t think I’ll ever be.
I glance at the mound of pans and dishes and plates in the sink, the breadcrumbs dusting the counter, the dried splashes of oil on the cooker, and as I step out of my heels, I feel bits stick to my bare feet—and I wonder if I should just turn back around and walk out the door and mentally manifest a spell that does it all for me.
Look at you, I think as I stare at Archer,sitting on your lazy, useless ass, doing fuck all, expecting me to clean up every night. I wish you’d never came home, so then at least you’d have an excuse as to why you’ve literally done nothing to help me out. Stupid dickhead. I hate you I hate you I—
‘You’re home early,’ I say. It’s almost muscle memory: throw my keys into the bowl, put my bag on the counter, slide into my slippers, and start with the washing up. But I only manage to complete the first two tasks tonight.
Archer doesn’t look up from his phone as he says, 'Isaac's in the doghouse with his girlfriend so he has a lot of making up to do. Thought I’d use the time to try and complete the last Herbalist challenge—‘
‘You couldn’t tidy up?’
Slowly, he turns to glance at me. ‘I’ve had a long day at work. And I made dinner last night.’ There it is, the catch.
‘I’ve had a long day at work, too. And you’ve made dinner literally seven times since we’ve been together and you haven’t washed up once, not even when I’ve cooked. So don’t give me that.’
He narrows his eyes at me and sets down his phone. But, ‘It’s not really work though, is it? Your job,’ is all he says.
I make a disbelieving noise. ‘Are you actually—?’
‘You literally sit on your ass all day and talk to people sometimes,’ he cuts in.
‘No, it isn’t just—‘
