Chapter 7. Ophelia
OPHELIA
The list of stupid things I’ve done in my life is probably long enough to wrap around the perimeter of the castle twice, but telling Alex to walk away felt like it should go somewhere near the top.
But if feeling stupid is the price to pay for shielding my heart from a final, damaging blow, then I’ll do it.
The pain in his eyes when I was turning away is burned into my soul. I felt like I was watching him give up. Not just on us, but on everything.
I asked Colette to send Vincenzo to find him, hoping he’d be able to convince him everything will be okay. I don’t want him to feel like he can’t call anyone when he’s at his lowest.
It’s so cliché, plucked from the top comment of any relationship advice thread on the internet, but Alex and I have a long way to go in terms of self-acceptance before we can try again. I think we’re too damaged to fully trust, fully open up to anyone.
I draw my knees up to my chest where I sit at the back of the minibus, the AirPods he got me in my ears.
We’re most of the way through the drive back from a meet in Manchester, and while the silver medal in my bag was enough to make Belladonna want to drown me, I think it’s my proudest achievement here.
Belladonna took gold for backstroke; I took silver for the four hundred medley. Colette came in sixth, but she seems pretty happy.
The bus is quiet now. Illuminated only by blue striplights along the floor and the dim streetlamps on the dark road outside.
My parents would lose their minds if they knew I’d gotten a medal at such a big tournament. Who knew it, Dad, exercising actually works.
My phone pings, and I wonder how long it’ll take before that sound doesn’t fill me with dread.
It’s Alex. The first text from his new number.
My stomach sinks. I open up the message. It’s a picture of his laptop, this weekend’s swim results on the screen.
Alex
Nice silver, Twist.
I shut my eyes, let my forehead drop to my knees. One day. He stayed away from me for one day. I don’t reply.
That nonexistent kiss was … that was everything I’ve needed and everything I need to avoid. My fingers trace my bottom lip, the sound of his swallowed moan echoing in my ear.
Colette taps me on the shoulder, a worried crease between her perfect brows. “What’s up?”
I tilt my phone toward her, to the only text between myself and Alex’s new number. She frowns, probably thinking something along the lines of: Why did I let you cry into your cereal in my bed all night if he was just going to text you the next day?
“Do I reply?”
“Obviously.”
“You’re only saying that because you want us to get back together.”
“Quite right.”
“I don’t want to lead him on.”
“Just say thank you. Nothing flirty. That way, he knows he still has you if he’s really low, but you’re not giving him hope.”
I squint at Colette suspiciously. I’m not sure if I trust her, given that she is, in my opinion, giving Vincenzo hope even though there is zero chance of her ever dating someone linked to a crime family.
I type out a stiff reply, keeping it firmly out of flirtatious territory.
Ophelia
Thank you.
Alex
You gonna celebrate?
Ophelia
Hopefully with sleep.
Alex
You’ve earned it.
I run my thumb over his name. If I could swap his sick brain with mine, I would. He deserves peace. He deserves life.
All I’ve thought about since he left is his mom. How he’s watching her slip away. I can’t imagine it—this long, slow acceptance that she probably won’t grow to be very old. I lost my mom, too, but quickly. She was here and then she wasn’t.
I don’t reply to him, even though I feel bad. But the texts give me hope. Maybe one day, when all of this is over and his dad is withering away behind bars, we could be friends.
I almost laugh out loud at my own stupidity. Having to force my feelings for Alex into a friendship-sized mold, to take the love and the anger and the desperation and try to make them something beige and neutral, might be the final straw for my miserable existence.
Luckily, he ends the conversation for me, and I vow to myself that unless I think he’s in real danger, that is the end of it.
The end of us.
Alex
Goodnight. Sleep well.
I shut off my phone, hearing my name uttered a few rows in front. Most of the swimmers are sleeping, except a guy in third year and his girlfriend who are just one inappropriate pair of shorts away from fucking in their seats. Colette yawns, lashes fluttering sleepily. “Are we nearly there?”
“Yeah.”
Her phone dings. Someone has sent a link into the swimming group chat that I refuse to join. She opens it and angles her phone away from me.
This is never good.
“Show me.”
“It’s stupid.”
I snatch it from her grip. It’s on some social media platform I don’t have. A not particularly flattering—though my triceps look fantastic—picture of me getting out of the pool earlier today sits beneath the caption TFW Alex Corbeau-Green’s crazy ex is at your swim meet.
“What’s TFW?”
“Just like … that feeling when …”
“That feeling when Alex’s ex is at your swim meet?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the feeling?”
“What?”
“What does that even mean? What’s the feeling? She didn’t even say what her feeling about it is.”
Colette frowns, texting Belladonna and asking her to use her admin privileges to delete the link. “It’s just an internet expression.”
“Well, it’s a shit one.” I take her phone back and open up the replies. They’re pretty terrible. I hand the phone back after my eyes coast over the words helicopter whore.
It’s not the nickname I would’ve chosen for myself. Biscuit whore might be more fitting.
“Don’t they have something better to do?
” I ask, refusing to let their words sink in.
This is just one of many reasons I can’t be with Alex.
Me and the spotlight don’t mix well. I’m a ginger, for heaven’s sake; I’m made to hide in dark corners.
All this media attention is the sun, and I’m thoroughly sunburned, tired of it all. “Why do I get more hate than Cain?”
“Because the world will turn a blind eye to the actions of a rich man if there’s a defenseless woman around to take the hit instead.” Her expression brightens at a text on her lockscreen. “My dresses for the Winter Ball have been delivered!”
“Fun,” I say, failing to hide my lack of enthusiasm.
“Ophelia, you have to come.”
“I’m ill tomorrow.”
She scowls at me. “You’re ill all the time.”
“Then I’m busy tomorrow.”
“With what?”
“I have to hang up my used tea bags.”
“You’re going,” she declares. “And you’re going to wear green.”
“Great. That’ll look good with the wine that inevitably gets thrown on me.”
I burrow deeper into the seat, tugging the sleeves of my hoodie over my cold hands while the others laugh at whatever jokes they’re reading about me.
My phone lights up again on the foldout table in front of me.
Unknown
I’d hate for something to happen to your Prince Charming because of you.
Unknown
This could all be over so easily.
Anxiety prickles the back of my neck. Colette swallows, eyes wide. “Don’t agree to meet them, Ophelia. Don’t let them use Alex to lure you into a trap. Let the investigators work on it.”
I attempt to run my hands though my hair, though they’re thwarted by the endless tangles that never seem to go away. “But they’re not getting anywhere.”
“It could just be a student playing a truly stupid prank. You are in the spotlight right now. Keep ignoring it and it’ll go away,” she reassures me, snaking an arm around my shoulders.
Everyone seems to think that, but I’m not so sure. If it was a student, surely I’d have found something out by now.
I slide my phone into my pocket and let her maneuver the conversation to an art gallery opening she’s attending next month, but unease prickles my gut. Prince Charming. Did they see me with Alex in his car?
Threats to my safety have become this constant, dull toothache during my time here, irritating and persistent but feeling increasingly …
manageable. Which is a ridiculous thing to say, but it’s true.
They’re a part of my daily routine now. Wake up, eat slice of toast, receive death threat, eat second slice of toast, go to a lecture.
But it’s not just about me now. A threat to Alex’s safety?
That, I cannot ignore.
DIVYA STEPS OUT of the bathroom, her mouth dropping open when she sees me. “Oh my god. You look hot.”
I feel embarrassment heat my cheeks. “Don’t sound surprised.”
“I’m not. It’s just been a while since you’ve not worn pajamas.”
“Rude!” scolds Colette, laughing as she dusts something over my cheeks and nose with her brush. “Shut your eyes.”
I do, and a smaller brush tickles across my eyelids. Colette sighs contently. I think she might be in her happy place. She’s given me a dress that she supposedly didn’t want. Except it’s a deep shade of green—my favorite color—and at least a size too big for her, tags still attached.
But she rejects any claims that it’s anything but an old dress she doesn’t want anymore.
Something settles beneath my lash line. Hopefully a mascara brush. “Okay, blink. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again.”
“Oh my god.”
She makes me do it all again on the other side and then puts loose waves in my unruly hair.
It feels foolish, getting all dressed up for an event I wasn’t even planning to go to until Colette convinced me yesterday.
I’m already anticipating the lingering glances, the looks that sit anywhere from pity to hatred.
But I’ve longed for a night out with friends for so long that not attending feels like a disservice to all the progress I’ve made since getting here.
Dressed in a spectacular gothic gown with black lace sleeves like vines that creep over her dark brown skin, Magda tops all of our cocktails up with champagne.
“Finished!” Colette steps back, impressively steady on the pinpoint heels of her navy Louboutins.