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“I know,” he says, voice weak and broken. “I know, I know, I know. But I can explain. Charlie…I’ve loved you this entire time.”
My ears start to ring. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I have since we were kids.”
“No, you don’t,” I repeat, louder and angrier.
“Every time I was rude to you…it’s because I wanted you so much.”
“You weren’t just rude,” I say. “You were a dickfaced asshole.” His diary flashes in my mind, every word hurting me. “You called me ugly, you shoved me around, you made fun of my body, you rolled your eyes at me, you pretended I was invisible, you sniggered if I raised my hand in class and tried to contribute, and any time I was proud of something, you’d be sure to put me down. And you think you can get on your knees and expect me to forgive you? You’re trying to manipulate me.”
He shakes his head rapidly. “No. No, I’m not. I’m sorry, Charlie, I really am. I hate myself every time I think about high school. I hated myself for what I said to you on the couch, when I held you down. I know it’s unforgivable. I’ll do anything to make up for it. Whatever you want, just say it and I’ll do it. I will.”
My eyes start to burn. It’s as if my brain has suddenly processed everything he said in the past ten minutes, because I’m no longer just pissed — I’m devastated. I’m reminded of how much Lucas hurt me, and I’m suddenly noticing how much he’s hurting me now. My throat feels sore, the way it does when I’m about to cry.
“Too bad,” I say, as hard as I can. Thank god my voice doesn’t break. Thank god tears don’t fall.
I can’t do this any longer. I turn and disappear into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me and leaving Lucas kneeling on the floor.
*
The next morning, I wake up at 6:30, earlier than usual. I don’t linger in bed, figuring if I get up now, I can get ready quickly and slip out of the house without coming face-to-face with Lucas. I’ve got work in the afternoon, so I plan to spend this morning studying at uni and definitely not thinking about the way Lucas looked at me last night.
Who knows? Maybe it was all an elaborate prank. Because there’s no way Lucas actually got on his knees and confessed his love to me.
The memory makes me angry, angrier than I thought possible, and I stomp into the kitchen, only to stop short when I see Lucas by the sink, making his protein shake. He’s wearing a black singlet and his gym shorts, and his headphones are around his neck.
As soon as he notices me, he turns so that his back is to me, quick enough that I can’t get a look at his face. “I’ll be out of your way in a sec,” he says. His voice sounds normal enough. True to his word, he cleans up after himself in record speed, and then he’s out the front door.
I don’t see him for the rest of the day, not even when I return in the evening.
Every day for the next few weeks follows the same pattern. If I open the bathroom door to find Lucas brushing his teeth, he’ll apologise politely, then get the hell out of there. If I’m in the kitchen and he needs to get something from the fridge, he’ll give me a wide berth, almost as if he thinks that if he gets too close, I’ll bite.
We don’t bother each other about flatmate stuff. When he goes grocery shopping, he doesn’t ask me to go with him, like he used to, but buys everything himself, including packets of frozen blueberries. I leave his half of the mail on the kitchen bench. When I pay for the internet, or he pays for the electricity, we send each other screenshots of the bill and wordlessly transfer the other half.
I wish I could say that other than the inconvenient fact I live with Lucas, life is great, but in reality, it doesn’t feel like I’m living at all. Instead, it’s like every day, I’m wading through thick, suffocating jelly. I go to class. I study, to distract myself. I read, to distract myself. I watch movies, to distract myself. I take more shifts at work, to distract myself.
When Hugo asks how I’m going, I pretend I’m fine. I still haven’t seen Gilly since his birthday. According to Hugo, Gilly’s freaking out because he’s so busy, still going out every night while also dealing with his endless assignments. So, while Gilly and I have exchanged a few texts, I haven’t updated him about what’s going on in my life. It kinda sucks, because while he’s an unserious guy, I know he’d make me feel better.
I also still haven’t spoken to Cleo. It’s not like I’m dying to, but I can’t believe it ended the way it did: without a word and only the knowledge that she had slept with Lucas.
For a couple of days, I tried to contact her. I just wanted some sort of explanation, some sort of apology, or at the very least, acknowledgement of what had happened. But no response.
Today, two and a half weeks after everything went down, I check her Instagram. Maybe I can find answers there, even if it’s something as small as a post of her in a fancy restaurant — proof that she’s living life as normal, that what happened hasn’t affected her in the slightest.
But when I search up her username, nothing comes up. I go through my following list — she’s not there. Not in my followers either. Where is she?
Oh.
She’s blocked me.
The truth is, I don’t want to talk to Cleo. Not really. I don’t want to stand in front of her, ask her why, and see her facial expressions as she conjures up an explanation. But surely even hearing the painful truth from her is better than this: lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and imagining the worst.
Maybe I pushed her to do it. Maybe I wasn’t attentive enough, or kind enough, or attractive enough, or assertive enough, or smart enough, or athletic enough, or sophisticated enough, or cool enough, or funny enough.
Maybe every sweet thing she said to me was a lie. Maybe she always planned to get with Lucas, ever since the moment she laid eyes on him. Maybe she was just keeping me around as a distraction. Maybe she just saw me as someone to lavish her with praise and attention and fun dates. Maybe in her eyes, I was simply better than nothing.
I should have known.
