Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Kelsey
Something has changed.
Something massive.
A sense of unease has hung around the apartment since that bloody Halloween party a month ago. The only person completely oblivious to the awkwardness is Amy. She skips in and out from work to the bar, to the gym, and she doesn’t notice the deathly silence.
No one talks anymore. Just Amy, rambling on about all the insignificant crap that fills her life. Today, I want to throat-punch her. Demand peace.
“Do you want sugar-coated cereal or plain?” Amy asks me again.
“Fuck’s sake, Amz,” I hiss. “Neither. I’m on a fruit diet, remember?” She rolls her eyes. “And don’t start with all your lecturing about a balanced diet,” I add to stop her before she starts.
“Kelsey, what you put in your body is your business. But get your ass in gear. We’re on the supermarket run this week. This list is bloody huge, so you’re coming.”
“Can we not just live on pasta this week?” I whine.
“No, get a bloody move on. And put a smile on your face. You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp,” she says, before skipping off in search of bags to bring the groceries home in.
My life is fucking falling to pieces around me. Everything I thought I knew feels off. My precisely planned future is under threat.
Sitting on our bed, the sheets are soft beneath me.
I grab handfuls and twist them in my fists.
Silent tears run down my cheeks as I quietly fall to pieces.
Nothing has happened yet, but carnage is just around the corner.
The rising panic of loss takes hold. The necessity to take steps to protect myself from the pain is at the forefront of my mind.
When I lost my mum in my teens, it was the most frightening experience of my life. She was my support system, a constant fixture. To me, she was a superwoman, keeping our home life stable, putting everyone else’s needs before her own.
My dad has never been good at looking after himself, always needing a woman’s influence to navigate day-to-day tasks. He’s capable at work and a clever man, but common sense―not so much.
Mum always said he would have put the laundry soap in the dishwasher, then wonder why the kitchen was full of bubbles.
I remember the day he did that, trying his best to help around the house, only to create more mess.
Then there was the time he set the oven on fire while cooking toast. The scorch marks were on our kitchen ceiling for years.
I smile sadly at the memories, bittersweet, all of them.
When she died, Ben was there for me through the tears and tantrums. He’d hold me close and rock me gently to sleep, never once complaining or running away from the girl falling apart in front of him.
We were so young back then, barely adults, trying to navigate our way between school and university. Without him, I don’t know how I’d have survived. A few times, I did think about ending the pain, weighing up the consequences of the most final decision I could ever make.
But I couldn’t leave my poor dad alone in this world. He needed me. His mental health plummeted without her. He struggled to get up each day.
I remember sitting at the kitchen island with him on a rainy midweek afternoon.
He was still signed off work due to stress.
We sat and nursed our cups of tea, not speaking, both lost in our thoughts.
The house felt incredibly empty with no Mum running around, ordering us about. There was really nothing to say.
Six months previously, she found a lump on her breast and immediately booked an appointment at the local clinic.
The doctor took one look at the imperfection and referred her straight to the hospital.
My parents attended the appointment together to get the results of the tests. I try to visualize the scene.
They sat across from the sympathetic doctor. He broke the news firmly but with compassion. There was nothing that could be done. Her cancer had spread to incurable levels. We were talking weeks, not months. Two weeks later, she was gone.
It was so rapid that I hadn’t had time to process the initial diagnosis before she was dead. I think it took all those six months for Dad to accept she was gone permanently.
It was that rainy afternoon that he broke down for the first time and cried. Long, heartfelt sobs echoed through the empty house. Losing Mum so quickly and unexpectedly has made me terrified of change. That’s probably why I have held onto Ben so tightly.
Even when he found out about my infidelity.
I hung on with a death grip, using my tears, and ultimately, my loss, to keep him around.
He struggled to move on from my affair with Sam, but I promised him it was a stupid mistake.
I begged him to give me another chance. Then I blamed him for it happening at all, telling him if he showed me more attention, I’d never have strayed. Neither of us believed that.
Ben has always been my rock, and I can’t imagine life without him. There was no way I was letting him go without a fight. To my relief, he stayed.
The tables have now turned, and I was doubting Ben’s feelings for me. He wasn’t as in tune with me recently. Since Halloween, his mind has been elsewhere. I thought I was imagining it at first. The glances toward her. The way his breathing increased ever so slightly when she entered a room.
Bex has never been beautiful. The kind of woman men used to overlook entirely.
But something has changed in recent weeks.
Her confidence is growing, and she holds her head up with pride.
People are noticing her. I couldn’t deny it anymore.
My Ben was noticing her every day. He watches her as she moves around the apartment.
Knowing him as I do, after almost a decade together. I know him well enough to be confident that he’s not acted on his feelings. But I need to protect myself from the loss. I need to be in control of this situation. I need to make the next move on my terms.
The lack of control is frightening, that feeling when the world is moving around you. When you’re standing, watching it spin, and you can’t reach the stop button. I’ve never doubted his feelings for me until now. Anger bubbles to the surface again.
How dare he lose interest in me this way?
How dare he not want me?
As irrational as it sounds, even in my own head, I’m at a loss as to why on earth he would prefer her over me. We’re meant to be together. We are the ultimate teenage dream. He has no right to ruin the story, but I can feel him slipping away. I need to hurt him first.
Three suitcases and ten grocery bags. That’s all I needed to pack up all the worldly possessions I have in this apartment.
Ben is on shift today for twelve hours. I have plenty of time to clear out all my stuff.
I haven’t decided how I’m going to tell him it’s over yet. That I’m going back to my dad’s.
The taxi is organized to arrive in an hour. I’ll be long gone before he gets home. Part of me is excited about the upcoming situation. I love a bit of drama. It’s a trait I don’t particularly like about myself, but one I love to indulge in every now and again.
My suitcases are heavy and crammed full.
Hauling them, one at a time, down the three flights of stairs is back-breaking.
Time is marching on, and I panic that someone is going to get home early, ruining my escape.
My keys lie on the dining table alongside an envelope marked Ben.
I want my exit to be worthy of a soap opera.
I want to shock him.
Just to be gone. I want him to want to know why. To chase me for answers.
The taxi pulls up at the curb, and the tall, lanky driver unfolds himself from the front seat.
He lugs my three suitcases into the trunk.
Opening the rear door, I take a long final look at the building I called home.
Then, before losing my shit, I climb in to the SUV.
The door slams shut, and we pull out into the late morning traffic.
The journey passes quickly, even though it takes an hour to drive.
My mind flips from sadness to excitement as I wait for my phone to ring.
We come to an abrupt stop in front of my childhood home.
Everything looks the same as it has for the past fifteen years.
The roses in the garden are pruned to perfection, and the small fishpond has a fountain that bubbles away happily.
The house is a standard two-up, two-down townhouse in the suburbs of a small town near London. There’s nothing exceptional about it, but it’s home. Dad didn’t want to change anything after Mum died. I know the house will remain the same until he takes his final journey to meet her.
My feet are slow on the path, and I stand, looking up at the only house I’ve ever really called home.
My father is standing in his usual position at the living room window, his brow creased with concern.
Next thing I know, I’m running and jumping into his arms at the front door.
He’s warm, cozy, and safe. My defenses drop.
The tears fall freely as I let myself melt into the safety of my father.
“What’s happened, poppet?” he whispers into my hair. “Has someone hurt you? Where’s Ben?”
I look up into his worried eyes and shake my head. “We’ve broken up, Dad. It’s over. I’m home.”
Then my sobs start again. Big wet tears fall as I lay my head on his chest, soaking into the cheap shirt he wears. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and then leads me inside.
As I sit on the sofa in the front room, my breathing finally starts to steady.
The room is clean and warm, the decoration subdued, and most items are in tones of cream and beige.
A bright orange cushion piques my interest; there is a slogan written across the front in squiggly black writing. I squint to try to make it out.
The words Hot Stuff followed by Cuddle this and think of me throw me completely. Why the hell would my dad have a cushion saying that? It must be a joke from his pub friends. I return to my self-pity.
Dad sets a cup of tea down in front of me, but not before carefully placing a coaster with a picture of our late pet dog, Bertie, underneath.
My mother hated rings on the table from mugs; it drove her crazy.
Concern percolates from every pore of him as he watches me.
I’m normally the one who is in control and sorting situations.
This reversal of roles is making him uncomfortable. He’s struggling with what to do next.
“So, poppet,” he ventures, “what’s Ben saying about this? You two are such a team. This has come as a shock.”
“Well, the thing is, he probably doesn’t even know I’ve left him yet.” He looks at me dumbfounded but stays silent. Taking a deep breath, I continue, “I’m not sure what I want. I need some time to think. It was easier to pack up my stuff and leave. The letter I left for him explains it all.”
My admission is embarrassing. I brave a glance in his direction.
My dad looks as though I’ve slapped him hard, his eyes questioning, unsure what to make of what he's just learned. He gazes at me for what feels like hours before settling onto the sofa across from me. The old seat creaks under his weight; always a big man, he’s gotten huge since my mother passed.
“I just couldn’t deal with the conversation, Dad. I needed space,” I stammer.
He turns disappointed eyes on me. “And you don’t think Ben deserves a bit more respect than this? How many years have you been together?” His voice is quiet, but I can hear the anger. “Or is there something you’re not telling me?” I shake my head.
“No, Dad. I just didn’t want to have the conversation, so I decided to walk away. I’ll talk to him, just not yet.”
He stands and walks back into the kitchen. I can feel his disapproval from here.
My phone has been buzzing all night. Twenty-five missed calls and twelve voicemails. That was the kind of reaction I was hoping for.
I smile to myself. Bloody hell, it worked.
Ben obviously found my letter around five o’clock in the afternoon, because at half-past five, my phone started ringing.
Frantic messages asking me to call him, begging me to respond so he knew I was alright.
I hadn’t told him I was coming here, knowing the unknown would freak him out more.
Hell, I’m such a bitch, but a snarky smile crosses my lips. I love this control. And he doesn’t even realize I have it.
Finally, he gave up and called my dad. He would put this off as long as he could stand to because he wouldn’t want to cause him unnecessary worry.
Ben and my dad have become close since Mum died.
During that awful time, Ben not only supported me, but my dad as well, helping around the house or taking him to the odd soccer match in an attempt to encourage some normalcy.
Ben turned into the cliché. The son my father never had.
Once they had spoken and he realized I was safe, not wandering aimlessly around the city, the voicemail arrived. He was angry. Actually, fucking raging.
“Kels, what the fuck are you playing at? To up and leave, not even speaking to me. Not even telling me there was an issue?” His voice cracked. “How could you just walk away and leave me a pathetic, half-assed letter as an explanation?”
I stopped listening after that, not wanting to hear him droning on and on about how unfair my behavior was.
Maybe I could have handled this better, but at the end of the day, he’s not been fully committed to our relationship recently.
If I had felt secure and loved, then I wouldn’t have wanted to leave in the first place.
This is completely his fault. He deserves the anguish.
My phone hasn’t rung for about an hour. It’s eleven o’clock at night. He’s given up. The earlier excitement of him chasing has died away. I sit staring at my silent phone. It’s goading, laughing at me. He obviously doesn’t care that much if he’s given up already.
I switch the bastard off, not wanting to look at it anymore. My dad hasn’t ventured up to see me since Ben spoke to him, so I don’t know what was said. I can only assume he’s not too pleased with my behavior either.
I crawl under my covers and cuddle my pillow. My stomach clenches. I tell myself it’s rage. But it feels suspiciously like regret. I wanted him to chase me. But now I’m scared he’ll stop.