Chapter 3 #2
The memory of Rhys leaning over that perfect-bodied gym bunny is ingrained in my memory, and now that I’m alone with my thoughts, I can’t get away from the image.
This would usually be the point that I’d play an audiobook or some music to block out said thoughts, but I don’t want to risk drawing Connor’s attention by playing it out loud, and I left my earbuds at home. What used to be my home.
Still would have been your home if you’d gotten your shit together. You pushed Rhys to sleep with other women because you weren’t up to the job. You should have spent less time reading books and eating biscuits and more time shifting the weight.
For the first time since finding out the truth, I allow the tears to fall.
‘Allow’ seems like the wrong word. A more accurate description would be the tears force themselves from my eyes whether I want them to or not.
I sit up and curl my knees to my chest, resting my elbows on my knees as I push my fingers into my hair and hold my head.
I call it my ‘get ready to spiral out of control’ pose.
This was bound to happen eventually.
My face heats and I feel myself going red. I know exactly how awful I look right now without the need of a mirror.
Why would anyone want you when you look like this? You’re a fucking mess.
My breathing becomes ragged, and the room slowly starts to spin as I feel the familiar pull of a panic attack looming.
Stupid bitch. You’re a liability. You’re failing at everything that matters and it’s affecting the people around you.
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as my chest begins to ache. Heart attack? No: guilt and shame.
It would be so much better for everyone if you weren’t around anymore. Do the right thing. Put everyone out of their misery.
A heavy knock on the door snaps me back to reality. The shock somehow resets my system and I’m able to regulate my breathing enough to ask who’s there.
“Father Christmas,” Connor says, unamused, from the other side of the door. “Who do you think it is?”
“What do you want?” I know that was rude, but I don’t have it in me to be pleasant right now. We’ve never been friendly towards each other, so why should we start now?
“I’m ordering food, I wondered if you wanted anything. I’m so glad I bothered, given your polite and enthusiastic response.”
Shit.
“Sorry. I’m really sorry.” The tears start to flow again as a new wave of guilt hits me, this one for being a bitch to Connor. The new guilt mingles with the existing guilt, creating an enormous ball of mega-guilt in my tummy.
“It’s fine, I’m used to you being snarky with me. There’s no need to cry about it.” He sounds panicked, which doesn’t surprise me given the fact that any time he’s seen me cry I’ve been with Ivy, and he’s been able to creep away, leaving her to deal with me. But Ivy isn’t here tonight.
“Matilda?” I don’t answer. I can’t. My brain has stopped sending signals to my mouth and is focusing all its efforts on replaying all of the times I’ve been a shit friend to anyone, ever.
Seconds go by before Connor speaks again.
“Okay, Mr Google says that if a woman is crying, then she’s probably hungry.
But you only started to cry when I mentioned food, so that seems counterproductive. ”
I can’t help but huff a small laugh at his ridiculousness.
“Was that a laugh or a sneeze?” Connor asks.
I will my brain to let my mouth work again. “Laugh,” I eventually manage to say.
“Oh good, I don’t think I would cope with you staying here if you were sad and sick.”
“Your sympathy is outstanding,” I grumble, but I can’t help the small smile that forms on my lips.
“Listen, I’m kind of worrying about you out here…” There’s a beat of silence before I hear Connor’s frustrated sigh. “Hope you’re decent – I’m coming in!”
I don’t have time to worry about my blotchy face and runny nose before Connor throws open the bedroom door. I cover my face with my hands in a feeble attempt to hide what’s bound to be a horror-show of smeared mascara and swollen eyes.
“Do you think you’re invisible if you do that? What are you, five years old?” There’s the sarcastic Connor I grew up with.
“No, I just don’t want you to have to look at my face,” I mutter between my fingers.
“That’s stupid,” he snorts, grabbing my wrists and pulling my hands down to my lap. The bed dips as he sits next to me. “I’ve known you since we were kids. I know what your face looks like.”
I use the backs of my hands to wipe under my eyes, and take a breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Everything’s shit and I don’t have my best friend here to help me through it. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
There’s a pause while Connor just looks at me thoughtfully but doesn’t speak. I start to shift uncomfortably on the bed and tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, purely for something to do with my hands.
He opens his mouth once, then shuts it. His fingers drum once against his thigh; a nervous tick I’ve never seen on him.
“Look, I’m probably the last person you want saying anything right now,” he mutters, staring at the carpet instead of me. “And I’m not good at… this. Whatever this is.”
Another pause, long enough that I almost tell him to just leave.
“How about this,” he finally says, voice quieter. “While Ivy’s away, I’ll be your friend. Just don’t make it weird. I just… Ivy would kill me if I didn’t check you’re okay.”
“Ha!” The laugh bursts from me before I can stop it.
“What’s so funny?” He puts his hands over his heart as if I’ve offended him.
“You hate me! How could we possibly manage to be friends?”
“I don’t hate you.” He looks away from my face, and his smile fades slightly.
Shit, is he genuinely offended?
“I’m sorry I laughed, it’s just that we’re always bickering.” I wave my arm between us for emphasis, but Connor bats it away as if it’s offended him.
“Then we should call a truce. We stop bickering. No more sarcastic comments. No more snide remarks. We’ll start again and make an effort to be friends.”
I consider his offer. As surprising as this turn of events is, it’s a welcome one. With Ivy away in Scotland for the foreseeable, my mum living in Spain and Rhys now no longer an option for support, I could use a friend. But still, doubt nags at me.
“Why would you do that?” I ask, examining the pattern on the rug to avoid Connor’s eyes.
“Let’s just say I have a vested interest in your happiness.”
Cryptic. I imagine Ivy’s threatened him to be nice to me while I’m here, and Ivy is not a woman you want to cross.
I nod. “Okay, we start again. Truce.”
A mischievous grin spreads across Connor’s face. He jumps up from the bed and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Less than two seconds later, there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in?” I call, confused.
“Hi, I’m Connor Wilson,” he says as he walks back through the bedroom door. He holds out his hand for me to shake. “I’m a chef, non-sports fan, a total dog person and I tell everyone my favourite drink is premium lager, but it’s actually a well-made Pornstar Martini. And you are?”
I giggle (yes, actually giggle!) before reaching out to shake his waiting hand.
“I’m Matilda Simmons, but you can call me Tilly. I’m a teacher, a tea-drinking book-reader, also a dog person and autumn is my favourite season.”
And scum. Don’t forget you’re scum, too.
My grip on his hand tightens slightly as I wince at that self-deprecating voice chipping in again. Luckily, Connor doesn’t seem to notice.
“It’s good to meet you, Connor.”
“You too, Tilly.” He smiles and releases my hand. “So, now that that’s sorted and you’re not sobbing into your pillow… food?”
I nod. “Food.”