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I’m still pacing my room. I don’t dare leave. I can’t sit still. I tried to lie down but my stomach was churning so hard I felt like I was going to be sick.
These walls are more like a prison than ever.
I can’t believe I was so stupid. It worked and Joel calmed right down and it was a really, really good kiss — like areallygood one, but I shouldn’t have done it. Now I just look like one of those other stupid girls who follows him around giving him big, lusty eyes for his money and his body.
And he trusted me enough to open up! We were really getting somewhere with our relationship. We’d turned a corner, started to be real friends. He told me all about how lonely he is and I just had to go and prove to him that there’s no one in the world who will see beyond the name and love him for the person he is.
Obviously, that’s not me. I don’t care about the money or the looks, even if both are great added bonuses. I was starting to really, properly like him.
Now he’ll never be able to see that. It’s a betrayal. That’s what I’ve done. I’ve betrayed his trust.
And the worst bit is, I don’t regret it at all.
With a groan, I throw myself back down onto the bed, my head hitting the pillow, my hands hitting my face. This is so fucking stupid. How old am I? Fourteen?
That was probably my last good relationship, as a teenager. Any romances I’ve ever had have fizzled out after a few weeks because I’m too mean or too career focused or too cold. I guess all those comments are fair. One guy put up with me for almost a year before walking out. We were just about to move in together and he just texted me one day,hey anna, just to let you know i wont be seeing you anymore bc ive met someone else.His name was Henry.
I haven’t thought about him in years. I cried and cried and cried after he walked out on me. It was so cruel to do it like that, in a text. I never saw him again.
If I hadn’t already cried myself raw this week I know I’d be crying over this too. But I have no tears left to give and it wasn’t like Joel was anything more than a cabin fever delusion. I’ll get over it eventually.
The plan is to just stay in my room until my life manages to magically fix itself or time winds back to last month so I can tell Mariana to go fuck herself, or at the very least until I’ve stared at the ceiling for long enough to go completely numb. But then my stomach growls like an angry bear waking up from hibernation, reminding me that I haven’t eaten in hours and hours.
Groaning, I roll over and hug my knees to my chest, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. But my stomach growls again and the realization of hunger spreads through me, making me light-headed. I have to eat something.
I manage to peel myself off the bed, not feeling fully in control of my own body. I drift to the door and press my ear against the wood. Silence. Joel’s not a sneaky guy, and I think the coast might be clear. As quietly as I can, I open the door the tiniest amount and peer through the gap, doing a visual sweep of the outside. It’s dark and still. I can’t quite see Joel’s room from this angle, but the kitchen is empty and that’s the important part.
Quickly, I scurry into the kitchen, turning only the countertop lamp on to try and make it seem like I’m not here. It got dark quickly. November. Streetlights leave patches on the road outside but except for the occasional squirrel, there’s nothing out there. The tranquility is the exact opposite of everything raging in me. I’m sad, I’m angry, but most of all, I’m tired.
I fling open the fridge and have to blink twice at how full it is. The cupboards are the same — restocked with snacks and cereal. And there’s a jug of milk in the fridge. Joel must have ordered a delivery.
That explains the weird crashing about I heard earlier.
Damn my stupid heart! Why is it skipping overmilk?
There’s an eclectic range of stuff and I get the feeling he added stuff into the basket at random rather than thinking through what to get. For some reason, he ordered beansprouts. I don’t think he knows what a beansprout is. Whatever, it means I can make a stir fry. That way I can be out of here in under twenty minutes.
Quickly and unevenly, I chop bell peppers and mushrooms and throw them into the pan. I wish sizzling didn’t have to be such a loud noise, but even if I microwaved something that would still beep. The quiet is putting me on edge. Hopefully he’s just asleep. Or gone. Or anything else.
I’m not that lucky, though. I hear Ben’s door creak open and I sigh in disappointment. This is a confrontation I could do without. Is it better to pretend I don’t notice him?
But the stove’s on and there’s nowhere I can run. Got to hope he forgives me.
“Hey,” he says, orbiting the kitchen like he’s waiting for permission to enter.
“Hey,” I reply because it’s all I can think to say.
“Making enough for two?” His words are the same as ever, thoughtless and joking, but he’s never looked this uncertain before. He’s shuffling his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved tensely in his pockets. He’s waiting for me to say something.
I’m not sure why he’s tiptoeing around me when all this is my fault, but a dizzy rush of relief courses through me. He’s trying to banter. He’s seeing if I still want to be friends with him.
“Still not your housemaid,” I say with as much haughtiness as I can summon. Which isn’t a lot.
But we lock eyes and smile and the knots inside me feel like they’re loosening, just a little. “Never thought you were.”
“Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes at him. “How shocked were you when you realized Ben doesn’t have a cleaner or any servants at all?”
“Hey now, we don’t have servants, this isn’t 1850.”
