Maladaptive

43. Can We Be Friends?

CAN WE BE FRIENDS?

It is warm outside once we leave. Even knowing it is dark and the stars are out, the summer air makes me realise I’m going home to my broken fan, and the air-con doesn’t work.

But at least it’s still early. Dad won’t be home yet.

He’ll be out all night, then stumble through the door at two in the morning.

Let’s hope he passes out as soon as he opens the door.

Conner turns on the air-con once the car starts up and reverses out of the driveway.

My stomach knots when I realise we live closer than I expected.

This will be a quick trip, and it is only nine.

Perhaps we can talk a little, but I also need to call Andy, and I’d prefer to do that sooner rather than later.

Get it over and done with.

“I’m glad you had a fun time,” Conner says after a minute of silence. I had not realised Spotify isn’t on. “Maybe you can come over after the talent show next Friday.”

“Talent show?” I question.

“Yeah. Our first date, remember?”

“Wouldn’t this be a date?” I question.

“I call it meeting the parents.” He leans into me, and my heart jolts when his hand rests on my leg. “Then after that, it’s your birthday, right? Next Sunday.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

“Did you want to move in on that day?” he asks, catching me off guard. “We can celebrate your birthday in the apartment.”

“I’d love that,” I breathe.

“When we go to the apartment tomorrow, we can write a list of things we need and go from there. See what you need to bring, and we’ll figure out what to get as soon as possible.”

I nod firmly. My heart is beating a little too fast with excitement.

He slows down in front of my house. I sag with relief when I notice Dad’s car isn’t there.

Then I bite the corner of my lip while gripping my school bag.

The phone Mrs Jones gave me is in the front pocket.

I’m unsure what to do with it or where to hide it, so Dad never finds it or knows I have a new phone.

“Um, about your mum,” I begin.

“You don’t have to tell me, Noya,” Conner speaks softly. “My mum was your therapist. It’s in the past. I will not ask you or her why she was your therapist. You will tell me when you’re ready or not.” Conner shrugs. “I don’t mind either way.”

“You’re too kind,” I murmur.

“Only to people I respect,” he adds.

I breathe a laugh.

Conner leans in, his hand goes to my cheek, and we kiss.

It doesn’t last long or feel as passionate as other kisses.

I have two things on my mind that gnaw at me.

One is Dad coming home earlier than expected.

The other thought is of Andy. It’s disturbing to think about while I kiss Conner, but I need to get this conversation over and done with so it doesn’t eat me alive.

“Goodnight,” I whisper.

Conner doesn’t drive off until I open the door of my home. Then, he turns around, and the lights fade the further away he gets.

It’s quiet inside. The TV is on, but the seat is empty.

Mum is in the kitchen, cooking pasta. I can smell the stale tin of sauce.

That scent moves through my lungs, and I want to vomit.

I smell it almost every night, repeatedly for years.

It makes me sick, especially after the salivating, delightful food I had at Conner’s home.

“Noya,” Mum calls when I reach my bedroom door. “Are you hungry?”

“I already ate at my friend’s place,” I answer.

“Who?” she asks.

I don’t answer. It’s too risky to respond. There’s a chance she might tell Dad. He already doesn’t like Conner. Now I’m wondering if it’s because he knows his last name. Therefore, he knows his mum is Mrs Jones, my old therapist.

It makes sense if that’s the actual case, and now it’s making me a little warier of mentioning Conner at all. Dad is clever and calculating. He’ll figure out who I’m with after I disappear and find us.

The lock clicks after I close my door. Then I crouch before my bag, grab the phone, and scan my messy room.

Where can I hide this? Under the mattress?

No, I recall Dad flipping it in his rage-filled state.

There’s no use hiding them in any of my drawers or under clothes inside the drawers.

He will search for them. I know he does when I’m not home.

Even though my room is messy, I can still tell when someone goes in without my permission—unlike Dad, who would never ask for my permission.

I need to hide this safely.

Exhaling, I lean back until I hit my pillows. I gaze at the still fan, which will never move again: nothing but a dust collector. The only part that works is the light encased in its protector…

Light.

I prop myself up on my elbows, my eyes narrowing before it clicks.

Flicking the switch off at the door, I drag the chair from my desk onto the bed.

My legs buckle when the chair wobbles under pressure.

With my hands on either side, as if surfing, I keep my balance and reach for the protector encasing the light.

I twist it until it pops off, then remove the light.

I step down, go to my bedside table, and place the globe into the lamp that died years ago, but I never thought to replace the bulb, as I have the light attached to the fan.

After I put it in, I turn my lamp on, and the room fills with an orange glow.

I then place the phone in the centre of the protector, step on the chair, and place the protector back on the fan. “There,” I breathe while dragging the chair back to my desk. “I will take it to school to charge, and when I get home, I will keep it there where Dad will never find it.”

My phone vibrates on the bedside table, and I reach for it when I stiffen at the name. Andy. Except it isn’t a message. The phone continuously vibrates, and I feel pressure to answer now rather than prepare for a conversation I’ll delay for the rest of my life.

My thumb hovers over the green button. Closing my eyes, I press down on the button and hear the static from the receiving end.

“Noya?” Andy questions, surprised that I picked up the phone.

And if I’m frank, if I’d left it for one more ring, the call would have ended, and I wouldn’t have called back.

“Hey, Andy,” I murmur. I sit down on my bed and brace myself for the conversation. There might be a point where I won’t be able to stand any longer.

“What have you been up to?” he asks casually… too casually.

“I was at Conner’s,” I reply, hesitant about his reaction. “You?”

Silence.

I bite my lip and peel off the dry layer of skin on my bottom lip while I wait.

“Okay.” Andy breathes out deeply. “Here goes nothing…” I close my eyes and prepare myself mentally. “What happened in the car… I’m sorry I made you pass out.”

I sag my shoulders. All the faith I have been clinging to fades because Conner was right. He’s not going to own up to what he’s done—not unless I force him to.

“Andy, do you know why I passed out?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it happen to a couple of girls.” My eyes widen. “When a kiss is too heated, a girl can pass out from it.”

Pardon?

“Uh… n-no,” I reply. “Andy, you…” I bite my lip and feel the sting behind my eyes, across my chest, and wrapping around my throat. His hand gripped my breast while he forced himself onto me out of this sick thing called desperation. “You kissed me without my permission.”

“That’s bullshit,” he spits, causing me to flinch.

I move the phone away from me when he becomes defensive.

“I would never fucking do that. You know me, Noya. We’ve been friends since childhood.

I’ve had your back for years, protecting you from people like your dad.

I was listening to you when you were hurt, and I’ve been nothing but kind!

So, don’t you dare push this fucked up narrative on me because you don’t want Conner to know how much of a fucking—that you kissed me. ”

“Why?” My lip trembles, and tears spill down my cheeks. “Why are you lying, Andy? Why can’t you admit what you did was wrong?”

“Because I did nothing wrong!”

I close my eyes. There is a stinging pain in my right ear, and it grows louder and louder.

Dad used to do that to Mum and me a lot.

When I was younger, I’d ask Dad why he hurt Mum.

He grew defensive, claiming he never harmed her…

and never hurt me. For a time, I thought it was affection.

He loved us so much that he couldn’t contain it. I was so naive.

A four-year-old, naive little girl who witnessed abuse for the first time.

And now… now I see it within Andy. It hurts to see him go down that path. The sick, twisted manipulation to make me doubt what I saw…

I clutch at my breast and bow my head in pain.

At what I felt.

“You did!” I wail. “You touched me inappropriately and forced your tongue down my throat! I even told you to stop and pushed you back, but because my dad beat me earlier, the pain was unbearable, and I couldn’t keep you back any longer!”

“You’re lying!” Andy croaks, his voice breaking. I suck in a breath and open my eyes. I hear the soft, muffled sobs and lower my gaze, as I can picture him sitting on the corner of his bed, crouched over and crying. “You’re lying. I’d never do that to you, Noya.”

I sigh softly and wipe the tears that stream down my cheeks.

I feel nothing anymore. There’s no sympathy or remorse. There’s no healing this because Andy doesn’t like what he’s done to me so much that he forces a different narrative in his mind to make him feel better. But all it’s doing is hurting me more.

I feel more withdrawn.

Distant.

The building blocks we used to play with at primary school have collapsed. While he scrambles for the pieces, yearning to mend them, I walk away, finally understanding that the friendship we built was nothing but lies, deceit, and desperation for one another.

It wasn’t a healthy, stable building—something unlike what Samantha and I have built since Year Eight.

We cautiously placed blocks together, understanding each other, until we reached what we have now.

And, sadly, I’ve now realised how broken our building became.

He covered our windows with wood panelling and nailed them shut.

The door had no handle, but thousands of locks.

What we built was nothing but a bird caged in a box.

Well, I don’t want to be that bird any longer.

“Andy,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “We shouldn’t be friends anymore.”

“What?” he hisses.

“I need to be my own person and make my own decisions without you. And… you need…” I sigh.

“You need to understand why you’re in denial and the reason you convinced yourself that you didn’t force me into a vulnerable state of mind.

But until that time comes, we can never talk about this—and even if we talk about it, I don’t want you to think that I’d ever forgive you or want to be friends with you again.

I can’t even look at you without feeling sick to my stomach. ”

“Noya…”

“As much as it pains me that we had this talk, I’m also glad we did.”

“Wait! Noya!”

I hang up. Then, when the phone vibrates again with Andy’s name, I hang up, go into contacts, and block his number.

Right now, he doesn’t understand because he’s in denial.

However, one day, the truth will confront him, and he will realise that what he has done is wrong and understand why I don’t want to be friends with him anymore and respect that decision.

I go to sleep feeling the weight and burden I’ve been carrying for a week lifting from my chest.

That is, until two in the morning hits, and the hurricane destroys my home…