21
ST. ANNABEL
“You started without me?” I gasp as soon as I walk in to see Harley on the floor shuffling cards, wearing her glasses and her hair in an up-do that enhances her high cheekbones, with Daniel sitting opposite her.
He is separating Skittles into small little bowls by colour, which isn't a surprise because whenever he comes over I find him reorganising my bookshelf. Sometimes, in the middle of the night.
“Yes,” she responds offhandedly, concentrating on the cards in her hand.
“But I begged you to wait,” I pout as I drop my ballet bag on the floor and walk towards them both. “You said you would.”
It is nearing eleven pm but Gigi kept us even longer today because she didn’t think any of us were good enough. Even her favourite child, Devon, received a stern talking to.
“We figured since you’re a sore loser, we get in a game of our own,” Dan answers this time, a smirk on his brown face that is clouded in humour.
I gasp in disbelief, “I am not a sore loser. This is a defamation of character.”
“You want me to recount every time you have thrown a tantrum after losing anything? We’ll be here all day, blondie.”
I frown, refusing to believe it has been that noticeable everyone agrees. Groaning at them both as they look at each other hiding smiles, Harley says to me, “Get showered and come back, we’ll wait this time.”
I give them both a thumbs down and run up the stairs, “I’ll be quick!”
The first thing I think to do when I get to my room is text Arden, we have been texting casually since the day he brought me home.
After the other day at university, I felt even more compelled to do so.
Like I needed to speak to him in some way.
I can feel my resolve slowly withering away and sooner or later I will say Yes, let’s be together.
ME
Am I a sore loser?
I gently place my phone by the nightstand and enter the shower. I make a quick do of showering, changing into my custom Dark Phoenix pyjamas that Dan made for me that I just make my way downstairs, with my matching x-men flask in hand.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear Dan on the phone to someone, “You promised, J.”
I go into the kitchen to get something to refill my flask with, battling with the decision between spirit and scotch so I just decide to mix both.
“What’s the issue?” Harley asks Daniel when he gets off the phone.
“Jamie couldn’t get the limited edition vinyl for me that he thought would at his job,” he answers.
“My Jamie?”
Daniel nods.
“Your Jamie?” I say incredulously, stepping into the living room. “Since when was he yours? You said he was annoying.”
“He’s a little annoying but he’s my friend.” she hushes me then looks back at Daniel. “Who’s the artist?” And he mentions a singer I haven’t heard of. No surprise there, I mainly listen to rock bands from the 90s, classical albums including Stass’s and a popstar or two.
“Shame, I’m sure you’ll find it.”
“Hopefully,” he says.
“I’m sure a much needed game of blackjack will cheer you up, come on let’s play!” I yell, the alcohol buzzing through my veins.
An hour later, we both say goodbye to Dan, who promises to call me in the morning. I lay flat on the ground and tell her, “Ugh, you’re right. I really am a sore loser. How could I not have won a single game? And how did you win every ?”
Harley softly chuckles at my reluctant admission, “Come on, I’ll teach you how to be better.” She begins to reshuffle the cards, “The idea of you not being the best at anything evidently sends your brain into panic mode. The equivalent of a system failure.”
She continues, “It’s not your fault. Clearly, your father didn’t teach you any other way to live.”
“He’s not just my father,” I say, giving her a pointed look.
“Yeah, well, he’ll always be more yours than mine.” She shrugs, like it’s the simple truth she’s baring out to be accepted by all, herself included.
“I don’t think that’s true and I don’t think it’s what you want either.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“How did you get so good at cards anyway?” I ask, pivoting our conversation.
“My mum used to play with me, whenever she was sober enough to be coherent.” My eyes flicker to the flask that sits on the floor next to me, I had just taken a swig out of it.
Harley doesn’t speak a lot about her home before here.
I assumed it’s because it’s too difficult, rehashing the details.
But maybe, I’m the one who has been too self-absorbed to ask.
“What was she like?”
“Loud, angry, extremely bold, funny sometimes,” she says with an eye roll and it gets a smile out of me.
However, Harley’s lips downturn. “There were times when she’d hit me, I had gotten so used to being slapped by ten years old that I didn’t flinch anymore when it came.
I mean usually it happened when she’d had at least 4 bottles in her so I learnt to gauge her mood early.
I’d try to hide our cash so she couldn’t go buy anymore or I’d throw away beer, one at a time, so she didn’t realise that she wasn’t the one who drank it.
“Ultimately, she is sad. She is a sad woman and it overshadows or enhances every other trait. That’s who she is. Nothing more or less,” Harley concludes.
“I’m sorry you had to live like that,” I tell her, and I mean it because I am sorry that she went from dealing with one sad person who drinks to another sad person who drinks.
I think in some ways you never truly stop being depressed, like how an alcoholic is still an alcoholic after many years sober.
“Don’t be. In the end, because of her and him , I gained a sister. I have you,” she says. Her eyes twinkle but mine instantly sheen with tears at the words ‘sister’.
“That’s the first time you’ve ever called me that,” I whisper.
My lips wobble because such a simple word holds so much weight.
To me, it means the world. I’ve only ever had Stassie and now I get her too.
Yet, there is the voice in the back of my head that yells at me, telling me I’m not good enough to be her sister.
That she deserves someone who doesn’t drink everyday to curb away the hollowness that echoes inside her.
Harley shrugs again, “It’s what you are. Denying it gets me nowhere.” Then she looks up and sees that I’m on the verge of tears and tuts, “No waterworks, Bel. We still have a game to play.”
I smile brightly, discreetly dabbing away at my eyes. “Alright, teach me your best tricks so I can beat you next time.”
“You wish.”
???
When Harley and I finally call it a night, I head back to my room, only just realising I had left my phone upstairs in the first place. I pick it up to see there are notifications informing me I have missed three missed calls from Arden, I immediately call him back at once.
Once he picks up, I say to him, “Usually most people get the hint after the first two or three tries.”
“I’m not most people,” he replies arrogantly.
“I’d hate to be the person who makes the mistake of thinking so,” I say with a smile. The sound of his voice perking me up. “Sorry, I left my phone upstairs. Dan, Harley and I were playing cards.”
“How come I’m never invited to these things?”
“Just to watch you and Harley bicker for two hours?”
“I’m a grown man, I don’t bicker. I’m honest. It’s not my fault if people don’t like what they hear,” he tells me.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you.”
I lie down in my bed, because his voice is as comforting to me as the sound of the ocean. Arden asks, “Is the card game the reason you asked me if you are a sore loser?”
I relay to him what Harley and Daniel told me.
“It’s true, you’re a sore loser,” he says without a second thought.
I frown, “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. Being a sore loser isn’t a bad thing, it just means you’re passionate about winning and don’t care what anyone else thinks. If there’s anyone who understands that, it’s me. We're winners, Saint. And winners don’t settle for anything but the very best.”
“That was good. Are you going to put that in your future autobiography?” I cheekily tell him, after his heartfelt monologue.
He laughs at my joke, “I’ll put you in the dedication.”
“What were you doing before I texted,” I ask him, not wanting the conversation to end.
“Late session with Gaz,” he says, talking about his tennis coach he’s had for years. “Then I picked up my ridiculous Halloween costume.”
I grumble thinking about his Batman costume and more specifically the fact that it is a couples costume.
“It’s bothering you, isn’t it? That you didn’t get to delegate a list of costumes this year?”
“No,” I lie, wondering how he quickly picked up on that, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
“I can bet you have the list tucked in delicately in the drawer in your nightstand.”
My cheeks turn pink, despite him not being physically here to see it. “Oh, fuck off. I make the list of what we wear every year, I just don’t understand why everyone wants to be different this time.”
He laughs, and that sound does something to the mechanics of my delicate heart. “Humour me. Tell me what you have written down.”
I begrudgingly bring out the list from where he rightfully guessed it’d be. “I, of course, Selina Kyle.”
“Of course,” he says.
“You and MJ will have been Patrick Bateman and Wonder Woman.”
“Why do I have to be the serial killer?”
“It came to me in a dream.”
“Naturally,” he says mockingly.
“Shut up and let me finish,” I say and I can tell he’s fighting off another laugh. “Dan I actually do have down as the devil and like the angel he is he’s the only one who listens to me. Fuck, that was a secret I shouldn’t have told you, but he told me earlier what he’s going as.”
“I’m sure there was no coercion involved in making that happen.” He truly couldn’t help the sarcasm that oozes out of his every word, could he?
Ignoring him, I carry on. “Dev as Betty boop because I want to see her in a bob.”
This sends him into a laughing fit, “You know she’d rather die than do that.”
“She refuses to cut her hair longer than three inches during her trims. Personally, I think she’d look cute.”
“Hmm,” is all he says.
By the tone of the short word, I call him out. “You don’t agree, do you? I’m going to tell her you said that.”
“Finish your list,” he nudges me along.
“Harley as her namesake, Harley Quinn.” I kind of already bought her outfit too, there’s still time to convince her.
“You think you can get your sister into all that makeup?”
“I can be very persuasive.”
“I believe that you believe that.”
“You don’t think I’m persuasive?” I glare at the empty room.
I can see his smirk in head right now, then the thought of Harley has me thinking back to our conversation earlier. I tell him what she said, “She called me her sister earlier. She actually said it out loud.”
“How did it make you feel?”
“Mostly glad… but also a little sad. All I’ve ever wanted was for her to acknowledge what we are but it terrifies me. Her saying one measly word made me realise this is another person to disappoint when they realise I’m not good enough. That I’m not the girl the world sees me as.”
“You’re not disappointing anyone, Saint. The pressure you place on your shoulders will break you if you let yourself think like that.”
Then I bring up the other elephant in our life, the reason I’ve refused to give him a solid answer. “What about MJ? If I give in to you like you ask, to let myself succumb to you. What do you think that will do?”
“It just means you love me enough to think what we have with each other can overcome everything else.”
“What is it we have, Arden? It’s been years. You’re trying to make a home out of a maybe. How do we even know we’ll work?”
“There’s one thing I believe, and have known for years. We were meant to exist as one. Maybe we forgot it once, but never again.”
I pinch my eyes closed, wanting to believe his words.
To soak them in and embrace it as a God given fact but I can’t.
“Good night, Richard.” I cut the call, not waiting to hear him say anything else.
Rubbing my chest to soothe its ache, I tuck myself in between my sheets putting the list back in the drawer.
Soon after, a message pops up. It’s Arden.
RAT
Remember, Saint. A sore loser is a person who knows
what they want. I want you and I won’t give up.