Chapter 8
Dafne
Phoebe and I are having breakfast, and I’m finishing my round of calls to my relatives–which my friend apparently thought wise to alert of my absence as soon as she woke up and didn’t find me in my bed, nor answering my phone–to reassure them I’m safe and sound. She’s munching on her digestive biscuits when I put my phone down and looks up at me with her best puppy eyes.
“I should have waited up for you, but I was so exhausted,” she sighs, and I feel terrible for making her worry so much, but it’s not like I could have prevented it. If only a certain someone had been more careful.
“Stop thinking about it, Phoebs. If there’s anyone to blame it’s Price.” Phoebe suddenly turns quiet, and I shoot her a suspicious look.
“What is it, Nilsen? Breakfast is your most chatty meal of the day, isn’t it?” I say, repeating one of the first things she’d ever told me when we met. “Spill it.”
She shrugs, feigning innocence. “I just wonder if anything happened last night that you wanted to talk about. You know, roomie to roomie.” She smiles sweetly, and I don’t believe the act for a second. I snatch the biscuit she’s about to dunk in her tea, which has her pout make an appearance.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, I assure you. I’m not that desperate, despite what you think,” I joke as I break the biscuit in half.
It’s true–there is no Universe in which he and I could be a thing, unless that thing was a detonator. Even if we’d become best buds when we first met, we’re too similar. We want the same things, and that always leads to ugly feelings like jealousy and resentment. If it wasn’t clear before, it is now, even though he apologised. Or he would have, if I’d let him. But either way, last night was the tipping point. Phoebe looks thoroughly unconvinced, of course.
“I know you’re not desperate , don’t paint me as a bad friend,” she says, holding her hand out for one half of the biscuit, which I obediently place in her palm. “I’m just saying–if something did happen, I wouldn’t be shocked. I certainly wouldn’t frown upon it. I mean, I know you’ve got this whole nemesis thing going on, and I’ve only seen him from afar, but if his social media photos are unedited, even for all the …” she makes a vague gesture with her biscuit-free hand, “... arseholeness , he’s still something to look at.”
I snort and back out of my chair, starting to clear my mug and spoon from the small table, trying to avoid this conversation in the least obvious way possible. I have seen him up close, and I know for a fact he is much more than just something to look at.
Hell, I’ve kissed him multiple times. One would have to be oblivious or simply lying to themselves if they didn’t find him attractive, with his stupidly long fingers and his soft, chestnut hair. Well, I assume it’s soft, it’s not like I’ve ever run my hand thr–
White-painted nails are prying the mug out of my hands and any thought about Theodore’s hair texture is forcibly pushed out of my mind.
“Can I get a ticket?” Phoebe asks, her mouth twitching.
“A ticket?”
She snorts. “Yeah, babes, a ticket to wherever you, ” she taps my forehead twice, “just went.” She winks at me, and I can’t bring myself to be annoyed at the ever-present implications in her words.
“Don’t you have a meeting with your study group you’re late to?” I muse, folding the top of the biscuit packet and securing it with a heart-shaped peg. Phoebe glances at her phone and launches herself towards the door, nearly tripping on her own bag in the process. “I do, but this conversation isn’t over! Later babes!” she yells, and I’m left alone with many irritating questions I shouldn’t be asking myself at all.