“But I don't need to. My friends are still going to stay my friends.”
Right, because D— isn't using university as a way to reinvent herself and leave all the knobhead mates she's made behind.
“Why?” she asks before I can think of something to say.
“Oh, well, I was going to maybe see if you possibly wanted to come with me.”
She stares at me, her face blank and her eyes wide.
And then she laughs. She laughs so loud the other pairs in the room stop talking and I can feel all eyes on us.
“I hope you're still focused on the list of questions,” Mlle Bonneville asks, her eyes lifted over the top of herParis Match.
“Oui, Mademoiselle,” I say. My face feels like a furnace and I study the piece of paper in my hand like doing so will open up a portal to a new world where I can escape.
“Oh God,” D— says in a much lower voice once chatter from the others fills the room again. “You were serious?”
I look up and I know it's foolish but I feel hope jump around inside of me like a puppy.
“Unless you weren't,” she says, and her tone and her expression changes, eyes narrowing and lips pursing. “Was that your idea of a sick joke?”
“What? No! Why would I?—”
“Was it a bet with your footie mates? See who can get the queer alt weirdo to agree to a date and then stand me up on the day?”
“Fuck, no. I would never.”
“Save it. I don't want to be the butt of anyone's joke.”
“I'm not…” I start, desperately wanting to explain but an all too familiar lurch in my stomach followed by a cruel stabbing pain that makes my eye twitch has all my attention.
I bend forward, knowing it won't help but it's impossible to sit straight when it comes on so quickly. And to think I thought I'd get away with it today. To think, I thought today was going to be a good day.
“Benji,” she leans closer, “are you okay?”
“Shit, no,” I manage to mumble out, and then I stand up, excuse myself in French to Mademoiselle and run for the nearest toilet.
THIRTEEN
DION
NOW
I lookat the caller ID. It’s my dad.
“I have to take this,” I mumble, and I point to the room behind the counter. I don’t look at Benji as I rush in that direction and close the door behind me.
“Dad, hi, are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course, I just got your message,” he says, his Scouse accent barely detectible these days but I still hear it. “Do you need me to come down there and try and get you out?”
A brief image of my dad and his rarely used toolbox making the journey to try and break into the studio flashes behind my eyes and I suppress a laugh. It would never happen.
“Nah,” I say. “It’s okay. Emmy is coming in the morning. I’m warm and dry. There’s enough food, we won’t starve.”
“We?”
Shit.I close my eyes. “Yeah, I’m locked in with a client,” I explain.
