I close the messaging app and put my phone back in my bag, hoping the fact being out of sight means it’s out of mind and I can concentrate on Dr. Carmichael’s lesson. For the past few weeks, I feel like I’ve been coasting through school and not really paying attention to the plethora of knowledge being thrown at us. My notes are noticeably scarce, and my brain is clearly not retaining any information. I turn up on time and I sit through various classes but when I leave, I feel as if I’ve been through a void in the day. A place where my memory is wiped of the information I need to pass this class, and all that remains is a replay of the devastation from the last few weeks. Is this what it means to be lovesick? If the churning in my stomach and the ache in my heart, the headaches at night and the constant wondering ofwhat ifsare anything to go by, then I want to get off the lovesick train quickly.
Dr. Carmichael signals the end of the lesson by reminding us our next assignment needs to be turned in by the weekend. I hope she loves angst, otherwise she’s in for shock when she reads my paper on the theory of food management. I’m not sure whether the woe-is-me inner monologue I currently have going through my brain twenty-four hours a day will translate well when it comes to carbs, protein, and calories.
Millie is waiting for me as I leave the classroom and instantly loops her arm through mine as we walk down the hallway. “Have you texted him back yet?” she asks. Millie’s the only one who knows about the text. I didn’t feel like sharing it with the rest of my housemates, mainly because I wasn’t sure how they’d react. Even though they’ve all been very supportive since the aftermath of Lacey’s party, I am still cautious about rocking the boat.
“Not yet.” I tell her.
“Honestly, I think you should just do it. Send him a text, say what you need to say and then it’s done, and you don’t have to dwell on it any longer.”
We walk into The Pit and after grabbing some food and a drink, and settle ourselves at a table tucked into the corner. I take out my phone and open the messages app, reading the text again.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just . . . finding the right words to say, so he knows exactly how I feel.”
“So, write down how you’re feeling and then we’ll edit.”
I take Millie’s advice and write and re-write what I hope is a perfectly succinct reply before eventually hitting send.
I have nothing to say to you Adam. You used me and what you did is unforgivable. Stop texting me. I don’t want to see you again. I’m blocking/deleting you. The least you can do is respect my wishes.
I don’t wait to see if the three dots appear to signal a response is being typed. Instead, I block Adam’s number and delete him from my phone—and hopefully my life.
Once school finished, I decided to take a slow walk home and stop at the grocery store to pick up a few items for dinner. I’ve been slacking lately in my role as self-appointed cook of the house, and decide I need make up for it by making a chicken pot pie, together with some extra roasted vegetables, green beans, and roast potatoes. It’s not the most nutritional dish but we all need comfort food once in a while, and this is mine. I’ve just topped the pie with pastry and am dabbing some egg wash on the top when the front door opens, and the guys rambunctiously walk in. Clearly, they had a good practice session today. I pay them very little attention instead choosing to concentrate on finishing the pie, and answer automatically when Jude, Nolan and Devon call their greetings out to me. But I still feel a presence lingering in the doorway and when I look up, I drop the pastry brush in surprise. Kyler is standing there with a stoic look on his face, his knuckles white from gripping his bag tightly. I quickly take stock of how he is. The bruises on his face have faded and the stitches have been removed from his eyebrow, leaving a scar in their wake, and I’m instantly taken back to the night I nursed his cuts in the kitchen all the months ago. His comment about girls liking eyebrow scars feels like a lifetime ago. He doesn’t seem to have any problems with standing, but where Ky’s concerned, I’ve quickly come to learn this doesn’t mean he’s not hiding any pain—both physically and mentally.
“Hi, you’re back.” I gulp through the dryness in my throat and internally kick myself at stating the obvious. To his credit, Kyler does well at masking his expression and doesn’t give anything away to signal what’s going through his mind. I don’t see hate in his eyes, but I don’t see affection either. Somehow, I think it’s worse to be faced with indifference because you don’t know where you stand. I’d rather know for sure whether I’m forgiven or not. At least then I’d know how to handle talking to him. It becomes obvious a reply isn’t going to be forthcoming, so I fill in the awkward silence and start to ramble.
“I’m making dinner—chicken pot pie—with some veggies. There’ll be enough for you so you can definitely have something to eat. I mean, if you want to. If you don’t then it can keep. Or, if you’ve already eaten, then I’m sure one of the others will happily have another helping. Because, you know what they’re like, right? Always eating to replace all those calories they’ve burned off. I mean, of course, you’d know because you’d be doing the same, so—”
“I’m not . . .” Kyler’s gruff voice interrupts my one-woman monologue and the moment I hear him; I feel a sense of yearning at it being absent from my life for the past few weeks. His whispered words in the dark of night as he ghosts his lips over my body. The reverence in which he says my name when he greets me. His laugh at a private joke between the two of us. They’re all things I’ve missed so desperately that when he utters those two words, they’re enough to bring me to my knees.
“Son of abitch!” Jude’s sudden exclamation prevents Ky from continuing with whatever he was going to say. We both look toward the front door as Jude yanks it open and storms out, yelling expletives at whoever’s outside.
“What thefuckare you doing here?”
Curiosity gets the better of both of us and Nolan and Devon join us as we go to see what the commotion is all about.
“I want to see her, Jude. Just let me talk to her.”
Adam’s voice has me stopping abruptly and instinctively I look at Ky. His look of indifference has been replaced with one of anger. I know immediately by the hardness in his jaw and the cold, hard look in his eyes, any progress we were about to have in our strained relationship has been taken off the table. Without saying anything else, Kyler turns and roughly brushes past the three of us, taking the stairs to his bedroom two at a time.
“She told you to leave her alone so, leave her the fuck alone!” Jude continues yelling at Adam and when I turn back, I see him push Adam roughly on the shoulder. “After everything you’ve done, what the fuck makes you think you can turn up here? She trusted you.Itrusted you. I thought of you as a little brother. Took you under my wing when Austin was thrown in jail, and all along, you were becoming a fucked-up little clone of your dad’s, doing his dirty work so you could carry on with his immoral business dealings.”
Adam attempts to push back at Jude, but clearly underestimates him because Jude retaliates by throwing a punch which hits Adam squarely on his jaw, causing him to stagger back a few paces. Instantly Nolan and Devon are out the door and attempting to break up what has the potential to turn into a messy fight. Devon strains to hold Jude back and Nolan stands between him and Adam.
“You’re not welcome here. You don’t go anywhere near her. You don’t come anywhere near me. You understand? Get the fuck off my lawn!”
“I suggest you do as he says, buddy,” Nolan tells Adam when the latter makes no attempt to move. It doesn’t escape my notice Nolan uses exactly the same words, in exactly the same tone, as he did all those months ago outside the hockey arena, when Adam was trying to warn me off Kyler. Adam’s eyes drift toward me as if seeking my final say in the matter. Jude’s message was clear enough, but if he needs me to say it again, I will. But, not for his benefit: for the person brooding upstairs in his bedroom.
“Just go, Adam,” I say determinedly. “I told you earlier I don’t want to see you again. The least you can do—after everything you’ve done—is respect my wishes.”
“You’ll regret this, Thea,” Adam shouts as Nolan walks him to his car. “You’ll come running back to me, when the novelty of having a sympathy fuck with a nobody wears off!” This time Nolan lands a punch on Adam. I leave them to discard “the trash” and make my way back to the kitchen.
The days following Kyler’s return and the incident with Adam are non-eventful. We go to school. We do our homework. The guys play their hockey games. And we eat together as a household when we can. Well, most of us do. There’s still an empty chair at the table and the plates of food I keep for him go untouched. It’s like he’s here, but he’s not here. I know I should stop, but I can’t bring myself to. Stopping means accepting it’s truly over between us and I can’t give up hope, not yet. My housemates try to soften my rejection by telling me it’s not as bad as I think, and they’ve had various conversations with Kyler which indicate it’ll only be a matter of time before we’re back together. Devon tells me Ky’s moved back because he missed seeing me. Nolan tries to convince me Ky asks about me at practice. Jude says Kyler still has feelings for me and just needs time to sort things out in his mind. Even Millie tries to make me feel better, telling me Ky sought her out one lunchtime and asked whether I’m seeing anyone. It almost feels like they’re playing a childhood game; the one where you’re sitting in a line and the kid at one end says something to the person sitting next to him, and the message is passed down the line until it gets to the end, and you realize how much the message has changed. Kyler may be talking to my friends about me, but I doubt it’s favorable.
My thoughts are confirmed one night, almost two weeks after Kyler moves back, when my phone beeps to signal a new message.
Ky: You need to stop leaving me food. Nothing’s changed between us, Thea.
I guess this confirms my friends and their theories are wrong, and I’m back on the lovesick train once more. Only this time, it makes an extra stop at Grand Central feeling-sorry-for-myself Station.