He shrugs. "It was awful. Obviously. I offered to go home, but she told me to stay because we were leaving the next day. Anyway. She hates me now."
"I'm sorry," I murmur.
He shakes his head. "It's my fault."
"I'm still sorry," I say.
He stabs a piece of his pasta. "I wish we could be friends."
"I know."
"I wish we could hang out."
"I know," I say. "I wish we could…" I never finish the sentence.
"I know," Liam says anyway, before checking the time on his phone. He puts the lid back on his pasta.
"I should have told Kennedy sooner like you did," he says. "And I want to make it up to her."
And to make it up with her, he can't hang out with me. But I don't want him to leave. I want him to ditch the bus and drive with me.
He looks away from me and washes his fork in the sink. "I wish I never kissed you."
Something inside of me twists. Of course, I regret the kiss too. Not because I didn't want Liam's lips against mine, but I regret the circumstances. But in what way does Liam regret it? It's ruined his friendship with Kennedy. It turned the holiday into a disaster.
Even though I'm panicking, when Liam meets my eyes again, I force a plain smile. "Well. See ya."
He forces a smile back, taking a step back. "Bye."
I watch him leave, and when the door slams shut behind him, I exhale, my body a confusing mix of hot and cold.
26
Liam: Partners
Liam: I know you want time by yourself, but whenever you're ready to talk, please let me know.
Next to the words are two heart emojis and underneath the text bubble is the word delivered. I sent the message to Kennedy a week ago, the night before term two began. She hasn't responded yet. I wonder if she will.
I drop my phone onto my stomach and stare at my bedroom ceiling. All my lights are off except the lava lamp I got when I was 11, which casts the ceiling in lime-green light. I have an old meme from two years ago taped to one arm of the ceiling fan. It's not that funny, but I can't be bothered to pull it down. When the fan turns on, the photo turns into a blurry mix of rainbow ink.
Curtis's bedroom has a ceiling fan too — I forgot I'd been inside Curtis's house, but Kennedy dragged me over once when they first started dating. The summer heat was stifling, and Kennedy and Curtis chatted on his bed while I sat on his desk chair, feeling sticky with sweat and annoyed as hell.
It was the last time Kennedy invited me to hang out with her and Curtis that summer. I complained about Curtis's ceiling fan not working enough and then he retorted back and then we were having an argument and then Kennedy butted in and started talking about the electricity usage of different air conditioners. Then she caught herself and made us all play Uno.
We played five games on Curtis's bed, and Kennedy and Curtis had the comfortable spots leaning against the headboard while I was at the end. I played as if my life depended on beating Curtis. Another thing that annoyed me that afternoon, I remember, was how much Curtis's room smelt like him.
I close my eyes to stop thinking about that. Kennedy. I need to fix the Kennedy issue. I won't make her talk to me before she's ready, but it's excruciating going to school and not talking to her.
Tonight at dinner, Mum and Dad talked about having the Harding family over for dinner. The Hardings have hosted the past two get-togethers, and it's their turn. I protested, saying that Kennedy and I were busy with schoolwork, so it wouldn't be a good idea to host a dinner soon. I think I convinced them. If not, and they invite the Hardings over anyway, Kennedy will just make an excuse not to come.
Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy. How can I make it up to her when she won't talk to me? I guess the only thing I can do is wait, but I've never been patient.
Sick of lying on my bed, but too awake to go to sleep, I grab my laptop and balance it on my lap. I scroll through all several social media sites, but my attention span is too short to get captivated by anything. On a blog post full of upcoming indie concerts in Melbourne, I see an advertisement on the side for stuff on Etsy.
Instead of anime prints or merchandise for my favourite bands, one item advertised is a notebook with an old-looking painting of a woman on it. I click on it.
The Etsy site selling the notebook loads and I read the description. The woman on the notebook is Mary Wollstonecraft, who I'm pretty sure I've heard Kennedy talking about. Kennedy went shopping on my computer last term, which is probably why I'm getting these ads.
