“I don’t think there is anything to talk about.” I avoided his gaze.
“You’ve been ignoring me ever since...” He trailed off, not wanting to verbalize what happened. As if that night was some telepathic dream we’d both experienced. As if what he’d said about me was so frivolous he’d already forgotten.
I really,reallydidn’t want to talk about this.
“It’s nothing. I’ve just been busy,” I repeated, too flustered to come up with any other excuse.
“Look, I get if you’re embarrassed about whathappened, but I’m not.” He tried to meet my eyes, his head shaking back and forth. We locked eyes for a millisecond and the rest of the room drifted away until it was just us on the dark street, so close I could feel the jolt of electricity jumping between us. Eric must have sensed my stance softening as he leaned in closer.
His hand moved from the door to rest lightly on my shoulder. “You were drunk and upset. It doesn’t have to be a big deal if you don’t want it to be.”
I landed back in the room with a crash. He was making it sound like it was all my fault. Not that he was part of what happened and then had chosen to talk shit about me behind my back.
“Hastings is a clingy psycho... She’s not worth going there, not even for a quick shag. That kind of desperation isn’t hot. It’s just pathetic.”
He kept talking, but all I heard were muffled sounds and drumming rage stirring up inside me. He was blaming this on me. He had no idea I’d overheard him.
He was trying to be friends with me again for... what? So I could continue to help him do his job? Something akin to shame crept up my back like a spider. I felt like a nerd in a high school movie: the jock was pretending to flirt with me so I’d do his homework. And I fell for it: hook, line and sinker.
When I heard him say those awful things I knew it was over. I wasn’t desperate enough to continue a friendship, or whatever this was, with someone who talked about me like that. All I wanted to do was goback to my nest on Yemi’s sofa, curl up in a ball and forget I was ever friends with Eric Bancroft.
I stood in silence and slowly blinked the emotion from my face before finally meeting his eye.Hurt him. Hurt him like he hurt you and it will make everything easier.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s not a big deal. I just wanted you for the only thing you’re good for. And since you made it clear that isn’t going to happen, I don’t need anything else from you, thanks.” I blinked again, trying to remain as neutral as possible.
His jaw ticked as shock flashed across his blue eyes. He removed his warm palm from my shoulder, sliding his hands into his pockets and stepping away from me in one elegant movement.
His voice was low and soft. “Forgive me for thinking it was anything more than that.”
My trainers squeaked as I spun around and practically sprinted out of the room, partially because I didn’t want to hear his fucking excuses anymore but mostly because I could feel the emotion stuck in my throat like a giant gumball, stopping me from taking a full breath. My heartbeat pounded in my temples, just as it did with William. Except this wasn’t the end of a relationship. This wasn’t even the end of arealfriendship.
This was never anything.
22
Omg, I can’t go out there wearing these, I type out to the flat’s group chat and send alongside a mirror selfie of the leggings given to me by the gym’s receptionist.
Alice replies immediately.
What are you on about? You look hot!
I stare at my arse in the women’s changing-room mirrors. These yoga pants are the tightest things I have ever worn. I was already dreading doing stretches in public when I noticed the elasticated seam going straight through my butt crack.
I type out:I can’t go out like this.
Why not, you look cracking!
Not funny!I reply, a smile pushing against my lips.
Yeah, Al, that joke was pretty half-arsed...Yemi chimes in.
Sorry, guys, I’ll try butt-er next time, Alice replies.
I think this group chat has hit rock bottom, I reply.
Thankfully, the white HEIMACH branded T-shirt they gave me runs to about halfway down my butt cheeks. I head into the gym and immediately bump into Bancroft coming out of the men’s changing room. Weboth unabashedly study the other’s outfit choices under the guise of ridicule.
I examine his all-black clinging T-shirt and expensive-looking yoga pants. “Was ‘Douchebag Warehouse’ having a sale or something?”
