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I deserve his absence.
I deserve his silent treatment.
I deserve what those men did to me.
You asked for this, Archer said to me. And I had, hadn’t I?
I don’t want to cry in front of Cassie and Demi and give them another reason to laugh at me, and I certainly don’t want Chase’s pity.
The piss soaking every surface inside the portaloo and the wet tissue discarded on the floor makes me cry even harder. I need to sit down, but no way am I going to park my arse in here; I press my hands to my chest instead as if I can somehow hold myself together.
I bet everyone thinks I’m having a shit.
The thought cleaves through the haze in my head, and I burst out laughing, but then I cry again—
Suddenly the door swings open and a girl in a lime mini dress staggers back, her drink splashing up. The portaloo door is the only thing keeping her from falling.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says in a thick Welsh accent. I think? I don’t know; maybe she’s Scottish.
She goes to close the door, but I wedge it open with my boot. ‘No, it’s okay. I was just leaving.’
I wasn’t, but I can’t stay in here forever.
She blinks at me. ‘Why are you cryen?’
Before I can reply, she squeezes into the portaloo and locks the door. She sets her drink on the side, and her perfume—like jasmine and a hint of lemon—engulfs me. She draws me into a tight hug, but it just makes me cry even harder.
‘Sweetay,’ she says. ‘What’s the matter? Has something ‘appened?’
Definitely Welsh.
‘My boyfriend,’ I say thickly. ‘He left me.’
Her arms tighten around me. ‘Oh, well, fuck hem. You’re beautiful.’ She says it likeboo-tiful. ‘You don’t need hem.’
‘It’s my fault, though.’
‘How is et? What ‘appened?’
‘Do you think…’ I sniffle. ‘Do you think what I’m wearing is asking for it?’
She pulls back to shoot me an incredulous look. ‘Is that what he said to you?’
I nod and swat my tears.
‘Are you fucking joken me? I can’t fucking believe this, y’know. How dare he say that to you? And he just ran away like a little bitch and made it all about hem and his feelings when you’re the one who’s hurten?’ She wipes under my eyes. ‘I’m gonna tell you something I ‘aven’t told my family because I’m probably never gonna see you again, okay? Two years ago, I was raped when I was walken my dog, and guess what I was wearen? Jeans. And a hoodie. You tell me I was asken for et. You tell me et was all my fault. Because when men do this kind of shit, it’s not about us; they do et because they think they can. So, my advice to you is wear those shorts, because you look absolutely bootiful, and that’s all that matters, and don’t let this turn you cold and distant. Enjoy the rest of the festival and feel what you have to when you get home. This isn’t your fault, sweetay.’ She smooths my hair back from my face and wipes under my eyes again.
I stare at her and try to envision her jeans, her hoodie… I try to conjure a world where she’s my friend, and she came to me for help. I wouldn’t tell herI told yousooryou asked for it. I’d remind her, over and over again, that it’s not her fault. That her boyfriend should have comforted her instead of abandoning her, that he’s a dick for making the situation all about himself whenshewas the one who neededhim.
So, why am I putting myself to blame? Why would I tell this girl one thing and myself another? Why is it so hard to be kind to myself?
I guess, sometimes, you just have to imagine what you’d say to someone else in your situation.
I know what I’d say to Archer.
Suddenly, my guilt and shame evaporates into boiling hatred for him.
Fuck him.
