Chapter 14 #2
I feel vile. Dirty.
I thought it would bother me more than it wasn’t his first time. But it didn't. I wouldn’t want it to have been any different, or with anyone else. He was perfect. Lol his DICK is perfect. I mean really really big, but soooo perfect. Fuck, I love him so much.
Yeah, I’m officially a piece of shit.
For willingly engaging in what happened last night. For craving him. For coming for him. For marrying the man Lark was supposed to have her happy ever after with.
I’m so fucking sorry, I think, squeezing my eyes shut and picturing her face.
I close the diary. I’m about to drop it back into the box and promise myself never to pry into her past like that again. But something stops me. Instead, my pulse thudding heavily, I close the box back up.
And I keep the book.
“I found an old school notebook of Lark's,” I lie for some reason to Melinda. “Do you mind if I…?”
She smiles politely. “Of course not. Anything you want—”
The loud, metallic buzzing of an alarm goes off, next to a little lightbulb on the kitchen wall under a brass placard that says, “Madame’s Dressing Room”.
Jesus Christ, I’d forgotten about these.
Speaking of Downton Abbey, these buzzers are a holdout from a century ago. They’re location-based “I need something” servant bells—one in the master bedroom, others in the dining room, study, and dressing room that Medusa, AKA Felicity spends so much of her time and my dad’s money in.
She’s recently decided she’s going to be a “mogul”, and has bought in—hugely, I gather—to this total pyramid scheme multi-level-marketing company called PetalGlow Essentials.
Basically, she now sells scammy essential oils and yoga leggings—or, is supposed to be selling scammy essential oils and yoga leggings.
So far, she just buys cases of them and then spends all day posting selfies of her and Chanel posing in front of them.
For all his prickishness, even Dad never used these fucking buzzer things, because they’re obnoxious and they reek of snobbery.
Unsurprisingly, Felicity, has absolutely no problem using them all the time. Honestly, the snobbery is probably a selling point for her. It also wouldn’t shock me if she’s currently buzzing for Melinda because she needs someone to film her latest TikTok dance.
Melinda’s usually calm demeanor flickers as her mouth sets.
Well, there’s one thing we have in common: complete and utter disdain for the newer-model Mrs. Marchetti.
“I must attend to Madame,” she says quietly, standing. “As I was saying… Anything you want from either of their room is yours, Dove.”
I smile at her. “Thanks, Melinda.”
Back in the carriage house, I change into pajamas and then nuke some leftover Thai takeout for dinner.
I really should learn to cook someday.
Once the Pad Thai is warmed up, I sit cross-legged on the couch with the bowl in my lap and Lark’s diary in my free hand. I pack away my guilt and page back a few entries from her gushy recount of losing her virginity to the same fucking man I’m marrying.
Dear Boo,
I just want it to stop. Sometimes, it comes out of nowhere. I’m happy, and I’m fine, and everything is normal, and then IT comes. Like a shadow or a dark cloud moving across my thoughts.
I HATE IT.
I hate how it grabs onto me and doesn’t let go. I hate how fucking crazy it makes me feel.
I don’t even know what’s real or not when it gets bad. I don’t know who I can trust.
I don’t know who I am.
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth as a cold shiver ripples down my spine.
What the fuck.
I know Lark had some issues, like me. But it was way less. She got anxious sometimes, or got mild seasonal depression. She could be a touch scatterbrained. But she took meds for the anxiety, and it was never that bad, from what I recall.
This paints another picture.
Why didn’t I know she felt like this? Why didn’t she ever tell me?
My heart twists. Maybe she did, and I forgot.
My eyes drop back to the page.
Sometimes I wake up screaming. I’m so scared of what’s inside me.
I’m so scared of it taking over.
I just want it to stop. Please.
The wind starts to blow a little more angrily outside. Another chill ripples down my spine, and before I can stop myself, my eyes flick to the door, checking to make sure it’s locked.
It’s like the lingering anxious sensation you get after pausing an especially freaky part of a horror movie. You’re back in “the real world”, but the terror you just felt through the screen lingers, making you wonder if that chainsaw murder might be hiding in your closet, too.
I close the book shakily.
What the fuck.
How have I not remembered how bad Lark’s mental health was? Like, at all? Or is it not a memory thing, but a her thing? Was she just really good at masking this side of her, and hiding all this shit that she was apparently dealing with?
My insides knot as I set the Pad Thai I no longer have any stomach for on the coffee table, along with the diary.
I’m so scared of what’s inside me.
I’m so scared of it taking over.
I just want it to stop. Please.
I quickly head up to the loft to get ready for bed. Pajamas, teeth, meds, then I find myself starting haggardly at myself in the cold glare of the bathroom mirror.
Another anxious, shuddering shiver creeps down my spine.
What the fuck was inside my friend that made her so afraid?
And what’s inside me?