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“Did you love her?”
“It is possible to love someone and hate them too.” His eyebrow twitches. Has he been reading my thoughts? My dilemma concerning Gianni over the last few months has revolved around my conflicting feelings for him. I’m attracted to him, yes. He stirs things inside me I have never felt before. He leaves me breathless every time I’m near him. A flutter of excitement rises in the pit of my stomach when his eye catches mine in those private little moments that are simply for the two of us. But I also hate him. I hate how inferior he can make me feel and how he can belittle me with a single word or a disdainful glare. How can you love someone who makes you feel like that? And more to the point,whywould you?
“What happened?” I’m clutching onto this thought, trying to maneuver away from the idea Gianni is simply incapable of loving anyone. It catches against my instincts like a torn nail—every movement snags on my clothing, reminding me that the whole thing will tear away at some point.
“We’d argued. It was why she lost control of the car.” I can picture this as clearly as if I’d been sitting in the back seat. Maybe this is because I’ve had so many arguments with Gianni that this scene comes naturally to me. I see him lose his temper, shouting at her over the noise of the engine as she throws the argument back, gripping the steering wheel as a torrent of Italian fills the car.
“What were you arguing about?” I want it to be something trivial, like whose turn it was to empty the dishwasher. I want to see some normal married life in amongst all of this. Gianni doesn’t answer, so I quickly move on.
“Were you happily married?”
Gianni scoffs as if he’s got food caught in his throat, a dry scrambling sound that makes me want to clear my throat. “In most people’s eyes, we were.”
“What about your eyes?” He shuffles up the bed, adjusting his legs as he pulls on the back of his neck, a little gesture of his which means he’s uncomfortable.
“I saw a beautiful wife who I loved and thought I could make happy. I was wrong.” He’s forlorn, and his eyes turn back from the sheets to meet my quizzical gaze.
Silence trickles into the room, and I know what’s coming. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked me already. I wonder if he’s been holding back because of the shock. Maybe he doesn’t want to push me too far.
“Chloe.”
I glance at him and know it’s time. I need to face this.
“Who is Carl?” He asks.
It’s a good question. One I didn’t learn the answer to until it was too late.
I learned what he was capable of that day in the school corridor.
I still feel Jenny’s grip on my arm as we float down the corridor, happy and carefree. We spot the commotion up ahead, a gathering around one of the lockers. Sniggers and gasps tell us whatever it is, it’s bad. I feel sorry for whoever the unfortunate victim is.
But as the crowd parts, I realize they are huddled around my locker.
The graffiti is written in black permanent ink. The words are bold, the style almost artistic as if the graffiti artist took their time to make sure the words were displayed with style and purpose.
No wonder there is a crowd.
Jenny lets go of me as if I’m a sinking ship. She doesn’t want to be dragged down with me. The crowd forms a silent circle around me, their eyes asking questions, their judgmental stares wondering what I’ve done to deserve this. I am bobbing about on open water with no buoyancy aid, and at any minute, I will be pulled under. I will gasp for air, my lungs will fill with water, and the crowd will watch in great fascination.
“Who did this?” I hear them whisper.
I know.
I see Carl, the pen grasped in his hand, his infuriating grin getting wider with each word he writes.
I stare at the words again.
It is like reading my own tombstone.
Across my locker are the words ‘Rich Cunt for Sale.’
I want nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, but I feel I owe Gianni some explanation.
“He was a boy my parents fostered for a while,” I answer. I’m struggling to formulate what to say.
“Your foster brother?”
“He never earned that title,” I shoot back. It is hard to hide my anger, but I’m also scared. Scared of what to tell him and what he’ll think of me.
