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What I wanted to say was ‘no’. But what I ended up saying was ‘fine’. Because I knew she would just keep pestering me until I gave in.
***
Deb sank into the couch, unpeeled the plastic slip off her Winfield Blue packet, and slipped out a smoke. I knew the day would come when she thought it’d be okay to light up a cigarette in the lounge room, considering she did it in her bathroom. She slipped out a zippo lighter from her bra and sparked up her smoke, then sucked in a deep drag; I watched the ash form on the tip. She held the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds, then let out a puff.
She was still in her black shirt but thankfully had put some jeans on. Her hips were muffining over, and she had to keep doing the zip up, which she did with a grunt. She didn’t smell like her usual jasmine and patchouli; she smelt like sweat, tobacco, and depression. Vibrant Deb was dead, and the only thing she cared about was her cigarettes, bread, booze, and Indie music.
I walked away, unable to stand there and watch her like that. It was too much. Seeing her succumb to depression in that way was breaking my heart, and I had no say in the matter. She would just flick off my opinions like an ash on her cigarette. In truth, I was at a loss for what to say or do to help her.
After I tucked her present away in the cupboard, I sank my head into the pillow and thought about work again and how badly I wished it was Wednesday. It wasn’t fun living here anymore. Deb and I didn’t hang out like we used to. We’d stopped telling each other secrets, shopping, and laughing endlessly about silly things. At this rate, she could be out of work for months, and I’d be coming home to a house that stank of stale cigarette smoke because she was too lazy to open thewindows. As annoyed and worried about her as I was, the truth was, I just really missed my friend.
I grabbed a cookbook about Italian cuisine from my side table to distract myself and read about pasta until the words were blurry. My plan had been to have an afternoon nap, but between Deb’s music and all the worry, I was wide awake.
Minutes later, my phone vibrated – it was Seb again.Hmm, wonder what he’s up to now.
Seb:Hey baby, what’s doing? Want to chill? x
I thought about it for a moment and considered my options: I could read more later, watch Netflix on my own, or I could have Seb join me. Why not? I couldn’t get to sleep anyway, and he’d been away for two weeks. He could entertain me with his recent antics and get my mind off Deb. And, as much as I hated to admit it, I found him very nice to look at with his bronzed skin, muscly body, and russet eyes, which I’m sure he knew all too well. A small fragment of me was attracted to his cockiness, even though most of me hated it, and I did miss the feeling of a warm body pressed against my back, cuddling me. Complicated thoughts and relationships seemed to be the story of my life.
Me:Come over, if you’d like.
He arrived ridiculously quickly, and I mean within minutes. I suspected he was in the neighbourhood or might’ve been out the front texting me. He strolled in with a grin fixed on his face, wearing a black T-shirt, a leather jacket, and faded denim jeans.How he manages to wear jackets all the time in this heat is beyond me. Style over comfort, I suppose.His jacket even looked about a size too small – to emphasise his guns, most likely.
‘How’s my babe going?’ He maintained his grin as he slid into bed next to me.
His hair was gelled back, and his eyes were bloodshot, and I nearly gagged as I caught a whiff of beer breath.
‘Do you want a breath mint or something? I have some in the drawer,’ I said politely, my eyes pointing in the direction of the nightstand drawer.
‘Are you saying I stink?’ His eyes flickered with hurt.
‘Your breath just smells potent with beer.’
‘Oh, loosen up, hot stuff.’ His tone was laced with agitation.
I burst out laughing at ‘hot stuff’. I’d always loathed that phrase, probably because I’d heard so many bogans use it as a pick-up line in pubs.
He rummaged through the drawer until he found the mints and tipped three into his clammy palm – the remaining mints jingled as they slid back to the bottom of the tin. He closed the lid and placed the tin on the table.
‘Is it hot in here or what?’ he asked while chewing loudly. His sweaty forehead answered the question for him.
‘Maybe take off your jacket?’ I arched my brow at the problem.
‘Yeah, that might help.’ He sat up, slipped his arms from the jacket, and chucked it onto the floor, then reached over me and picked up the book, which still lay by my side. ‘Cookbooks, eh? I never understood how people read these for entertainment. So boring. Hey, maybe you could cook dinner for me sometime soon? Show off your wife-material skills.’
I ignored his question, bristling slightly at the putdown of my reading choices. ‘Do you cook much?’
‘Never. I can’t cook to save my life.’ He let out a happy-go-lucky laugh.
So that explains why we always get takeaway or eat out.‘It’s not that hard if you follow a recipe. I could teach you if you want?’
‘Nah, I don’t have the patience for that shit.’ He shook his head as if it were some absurd thing to suggest.
‘Right.’ I nodded, unsure of what to say next. God, this was more awkward than I expected.
He moved closer to me and stared at me with that ridiculously intense gaze of his, then grabbed my breast.
I pushed his hand away and furrowed my brows. ‘Ow. They’re tender,’ I said.
