Chapter Twenty #2
Ouch. Logically, I know she’s right, but that doesn’t stop the rejection from seeping through the cracks of my armor.
I don’t give a fuck about the game we’ve sunk too many hours into.
I care for the late nights, sharing trash talk and inside jokes through headsets.
I yearn to make her laugh, to ease her stress, to be her go-to.
But tonight, she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want to be tethered to the boy behind the screen.
There’s an ugly, insecure voice in the back of my head that whispers what she’s really saying.
I don’t want you there. I don’t want to think about you while I’m with him.
Him, who doesn’t need to be named. Despite how confidently Meg states she hates Everest, I have eyes.
I have surveillance. I’ve seen the truth she isn’t ready to admit out loud.
And he’s more than happy to take advantage of that.
“Okay, Meg,” I agree. “I won’t track you. Go have your fun.” If I wasn’t already hurting, the beam of her responding smile would have gutted me straight through.
“You’re the best. Have a good night, okay?
Go get some fresh air. There’s a whole world out there Thiago.
” Lifting the phone, Meg kisses her camera and cuts the call.
Yeah, there’s a whole world out there. One Meg has spent half her time avoiding whilst I’ve been safety proofing the other half.
Maybe I should have put gin in my coffee and I might start seeing rainbows and daisies everywhere too.
Grinding my teeth, I sit upright and reach for the mouse.
One by one, I close all of my surveillance windows, starting with Meg’s room after she’s sauntered out of the door with the gin bottle in hand.
Next, I shut down her location, then withdraw from Everest’s laptop camera.
I hover over the feed of Everest’s house for a moment longer than the others.
I swallow, the movement tight as I close the last window, then power off my computer.
The fans in the tower slow to a stop, leaving me in a stilted silence I’m not used to.
My room suddenly feels smaller, a prison of my very own making.
Meg wants a night out without being monitored.
That’s a normal request. In fact, it’s her right to live freely, without me imposing on her space from a distance.
Which is why it’s so stupid that I didn’t see this coming sooner.
Our fictional bubble was never going to last. Meg was never really mine to cling onto.
She has a life waiting for her, even if it’ll take a little navigating to get her back to it.
And that’s the part that scares me most. What if she rediscovers herself, and decides that version of her life doesn’t include me anymore?
Rubbing the back of my neck, I lift my phone to type out a message one handed.
Thi: For what it’s worth, I never meant to hold you back. I just wanted to make sure…
“Fuck it,” I huff, deleting the whole lot.
My intentions don’t matter, it took getting tipsy for the truth to slip out.
And me being the resilient, confident man that I am, cough cough, can handle the truth.
Switching my phone off, I chuck it on the desk and push upright, hunting down some clean-ish clothes.
Maria is due tomorrow, and she has a big pile of washing to do.
Namely, the mass of crusted socks beside my bed.
Despite making the conscious effort to leave my phone behind, I still pat myself down and have a slight panic attack at the feel of empty sweatpants’ pockets.
Cursing beneath my breath, I zip the hoodie up my front and leave my room behind.
Sure, I’ll get some fresh air. I’ll even get some company. How’s that for personal growth?
The night air hits me the second I step outside, settling in my lungs and forcing me to breathe deeper whether I want to or not.
Ugh, purity. The street is quiet, as it always is.
Nothing interesting happens around here, not since my cousin and I grew up and stopped terrorizing the neighbors. Speaking of neighbors…
“Hey Rosa,” I wave, crossing the road and striding up her steps.
The porch light is on, the soft amber glow spilling over chipped white railings and floorboards that have probably been repaired more times than I’ve rewritten code.
Old Woman Rosa is exactly where she usually sits in the evenings, wrapped in a thick knitted shawl.
She glances up with a prepared, knowing smile.
“Evening, Thiago. Miss Lola here told me that I would be seeing you tonight.” Rosa gestures down to the fat, ginger cat on her knee. I just manage to withhold rolling my eyes.
“Oh yeah? Did she also tell you if my wannabe girlfriend is going to get railed by her co-captain this evening?” I drawl, dropping into the empty wooden rocking chair beside her. Rosa leans forward, stroking beneath the cat’s chin until she makes a strangled mewl sound.
“Apparently, yes she will.” Rosa nods, unfazed by the question.
I sink further into the chair, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Great, just great. I knew there was a reason I hated cats.
There’s a fuss beside me about making some sweet tea, but I’m not really listening.
Instead, I’m cementing myself in the chair, fighting against every instinct to run back to my room and turn my screens back on.
Watching the little dot pulse across the map calms me.
Seeing her arrive and leave her destination in one piece soothes me.
I thought Meg would find comfort in that too.
After all, there was no one around the night Harrison took her.
No one even knew she was missing for the first few days.
The thought of what she felt, what she’s been through, it causes an ache within my chest that I struggle to breathe through.
One night at the hospital, while Meg slept safely under my watch, I’d vowed to always be there in the way it counts. To be watching and primed to intervene. It just so happens I’m better with a keyboard than with my fists. A gift and a curse.
A heavy weight settles on my lap. The warm, plump body of a tuxedo cat vibrates softly, his paws making tender biscuits against my thigh.
Rosa has returned to push a steaming cup into my hand and a knitted shawl over my shoulders.
She doesn’t say anything, simply resuming her seat and rocking back and forth as cats fight for the victory of her lap.
As I watch Rosa stare out into the darkness, her head angled towards my bedroom window, a thought occurs to me.
One that causes a slight shake to the hand holding the cup.
When was the last time I was cared for? The answer isn’t something I’m in the mood to face, although it reminds me that I need to pay a visit to the local graveyard soon.
Ironically, I’m hiding behind a mask just as much as Meg is.
Whereas hers is formed from stubborn resilience, mine is built of surface-level jokes and easy going smiles.
I find it’s easier to combat pity that way.
Staying locked in my bedroom helps too, saving myself the ordeal of benevolent expression and questions of how I am doing.
I’m a man in his early twenties with an inherited house and no one to share it with. How the fuck am I supposed to be doing?
Alas, I’m starting to consider that maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to let someone in. To let someone care, just a little. A feat I’ve been telling Meg for months, but it’s easier to give advice than to put it into practice. The hypocrisy is real.
“Hey, Rosa?” I start, pausing to sip my tea for a spread of courage. The old woman doesn’t look my way, but her head tilts to signal she’s listening. “Does Miss Lola have any other insights into what my future might hold?”