She’d unprivated her account a couple of weeks ago, but hadn’t posted anything other than a story showing how proud she was of her brother for getting his black belt.
The selfie of the two of them, the joy in her eyes, nearly made me cry.
Mostly, relief. Partly, some sick twisted betrayal, even when I knew she deserved to be happy and I wanted her to be.
There were no posts. No more stories. Just silence.
And she wasn’t following anyone called Frank.
So I went on to dull fuck boy Jordan’s page. A story from last night in a low-lit room, a woman’s hand on a water bottle, wearing rings I recognised. Rings I had kissed. Her handwriting was soft and loopy in a notebook. Her laughter was muted by the ruffle of Jordan’s phone’s microphone.
I played it over and over just to hear her enchanting sound, feeling my heart sink lower with every beat of humour.
After my fight with Benedek, Jordan posted a picture that looked like it might have been in her room. A week later, he posted about the translation team at the hospital.
I’d dismissed them. Forced the idea far, far away in my mind. It couldn’t be true.
He still posted another girl often.
Fia had told me she wasn’t jealous.
But I knew I was wrong when I saw the words beside her ringed hand.‘Partners in mischief reunited.’
I whipped the words into a translating app that came in useful for my English lessons and lost all air.
Partners. Reunited.
Together again.
And that was it. I was losing her all over again.
The app may as well have punched me in the chest. My stomach flipped as if I were mid-crash.
There was nothing I could do. No connection I could make.
Everly and I checked in with each other every now and then, but she’d been quiet recently, and that had to be why. She didn’t want to lie to me.
I wanted her to lie to me.
Mum opened the door as I blinked away frustrated tears and sniffed, before turning on the sofa to see a young blonde woman talking to Mum in Hungarian, her satchel full of material for me to learn.
I dabbed at my eyes with the sleeves of my jumper and smiled, hugging her and waiting patiently for Mum to leave.
It was my own request. Every day, when I had my English lessons, I wanted to be alone with my tutor, Marnie.
Self-esteem and shame steered me into wanting privacy. Language was always my biggest vulnerability. Or, it had been.
But Marnie seemed to believe in me. She saw and praised improvements Fia would never see.
We sat at the dining table like we always did, and Mum waved us goodbye.
Marnie immediately went into action: “I thought we could look at prepositions today—”
I shook my head. “Please, no. I want write. Letter.”
She cocked her brow, suspicion growing across her face. “A letter? To whom?”
I dropped my phone onto the table in front of her so she could see Jordan’s story. And, for the first time, she spoketo me in Hungarian. “Is this wise, Zoltán?”
