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He doesn’t like girls.
I push myself out of the kitchen and down the hallway in an attempt to distract myself.
He doesn’t want them.
The hallway is bare: no family photos, no paintings. I’d guess this house has been rented out to a bunch of university students living together for the year.
It doesn’t have anything to do with you.
The hallway spits me out to the front yard, and I sit down on the porch.
Don’t be greedy.
I’m not sure how long I spend sitting on the porch with only the beer in my stomach to provide me warmth, but eventually, I return to the kitchen for some water. As tempting as it would be to drown myself in alcohol to escape the twisty feeling in my stomach, I don’t want to make myself sick. I don’t want to throw up. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow morning with a pounding headache.
Standing by the kitchen sink, I fill up a glass to the top with water, then down it all. Then I fill it up again. I want to flush the beer out of my system. I thought alcohol was supposed to cheer you up, but I feel dull and miserable.
A flash in my periphery causes me to turn my head, and I see Lucas and a girl — a different one, blonde this time — walk through the kitchen into the connected living room. I draw closer, standing behind the kitchen bench so that I don’t look like I’m obviously watching, and see them sink into the couch.
“That’s cool,” Lucas says, and if his voice was polite earlier tonight, it’s rapidly losing patience. I can tell when he’s teetering on annoyed, because it’s the way he used to talk to me all the time.
“Right?” the blonde exclaims. “So then I was like…”
Lucas looks around, smiles at her stiffly, nods and says, “Yeah,” then keeps looking around.
The blonde is gorgeous, and even though I know Lucas is gay, I still feel inadequate next to her. Because sitting next to each other like that, they look like they’re meant to be together. Beautiful people are meant to be together. Just look at celebrities.
And if the blonde was a guy…well, that’d be even worse. In fact, there are heaps of attractive guys around. In this house, at our university, in Melbourne. Even back in Maryford. Why does Lucas want someone as plain as me when he could have any of them?
Now the blonde’s touching his arm. Her voice is too low, but from the way she’s looking at him, up through her lashes, I can bet it’s something suggestive. Something like he can take her home, if he wants.
If Lucas was my boyfriend, everyone would constantly hit on him. Just like they already do. If I went to a party with him, I’d have to watch this—unless he wore a t-shirt that said “gay and in a relationship” which is obviously unrealistic, and even then, I bet guys would still try.
“I’m not interested,” Lucas says now. That’s the classic Lucas I know. Blunt, cold.
Pain flashes over the blonde’s face as her brow furrows. “Why not?”
“I’m taken,” he says simply.
I leave my glass in the sink and leave the kitchen, heading upstairs. I don’t want to listen in anymore.
If Lucas was my boyfriend and we walked down the street together, holding hands, people would wonder why someone like him was settling for someone like me.
It’s not that I think I’m undatable. Maybe I thought that in the immediate aftermath of Cleo, but I kind of like myself right now. I know I’m not handsome, but I’m smart and determined. I’m trying to be a better person, and that matters.
But if I walk down the street with Lucas, if I go out for dinner with him, strangers aren’t going to see my personality. They’re going to see a beautiful person and a charity case.
My feet are unsteady on the stairs. I don’t know whether it’s the lingering effects of the alcohol or if tonight has affected me more than I expected, but my skin feels hot and uncomfortable.
I walk through the upstairs hallway, searching for a bathroom. At least the pulsating music and voices from below are dulled. It’s not exactly silent up here — there’s still laughter and some slow music playing from a room — but I feel more alone up here. And that’s exactly what I want.
I find a bathroom and close the door behind me, not bothering to lock it. I’m just going to splash my face with water, stare at my reflection in the mirror and tell myself to get a grip.
I’ve just turned the tap on, cold water splashing my palms, when the bathroom door slams open.
“Shit, soz,” a voice slurs.
“It’s okay —” I start, looking up, and my heart drops.
