She is up before I am, and by the time I make it downstairs, everyone is around the table eating breakfast. She has that smile on her face that I now know isn’t real and hides all the bullshit she keeps inside, and I hate the fact that she’s using it on me right now. Especially after last night.
“We were just talking about how you should stay another day. You don’t have any plans, right? Nothing pressing. You can work on your game here.” September motions toward an empty seat by Cline, and I take the invitation, sitting down and reaching for some orange juice.
“I’m fine with it if everyone else is,” I say without looking up. It’s apparent that the decision has already been made without my opinion.
There’s conversation about what we could do for the rest of the day that goes back and forth between Cline and his girl, but Audrey and I are quiet. She’s distant, barely touching her food, and I’m pretending not to watch her even though I am. I have no preference what we do. As far as I’m concerned, the point of our trip is over. We’re just on summer break now.
Audrey pushes her plate away and crinkles her forehead. “You know what? I have a really bad headache and I’m feeling tired. I think I’m going to go lay down for a while if that’s okay.”
“Did you not sleep well?” Our hostess is leaning on the table, very concerned.
“Your bed is the most comfortable one I’ve slept on in a very long time. I’ve just had a pretty exhausting couple of weeks, and I think it’s all catching up with me, that’s all.” That smile is in place again, but her fingers are tapping, and I want to reach over and yank on them to make it stop.
She excuses herself, and I’m left at the table with the others, wondering if I should go after her or not.
In the quiet of the guest room, I realize that it’s the first time I’ve been alone in almost two weeks. Besides using the bathroom or some minuscule moment here or there, sitting on this bed, I am finally alone with my thoughts and the ramifications of everything that has transpired since we left Brixton.
I can hardly wrap my mind around how far we’ve gone and circled back in that small of a time frame. Dr. Stark would be proud … will be proud … once I report to her what I’ve accomplished. Except for the part where I committed breaking and entering on my maternal grandmother’s property, but maybe she’ll let that slide since it opened so many doors.
I’m exhausted, my body fully spent after doing so much in such little time. I’ve been chasing happiness for so long, and now that I’ve experienced it, the reality of it feels like a burst beneath my skin. A flicker that ignites and burns out so quickly. I feel so much but nothing at all, or maybe the nothing isn’t really nothing, it’s just a diluted version of what other people must experience. An echo of an experience.
Anxiety rushes through my veins as memories from last night surface and I curl into a ball on the bed, closing my eyes as the images come. I fucked Elliot. Not in the Hollywood movie kind of way. It was more of an aggressive—I need to feel this—why can’t I feel this—kind of way. It made me a liar, because I didn’t tell him beforehand that he was my first. It made me a liar because I didn’t tell September the truth. The entire thing is soaked in deceit, and for God’s sake, I don’t even know if he thinks it was any good anyway.
Rolling on my back, I grit my teeth and inhale, stretching out so that the knot in my stomach can get some room. What if I’m the worst ever? What if all he thought about the entire time was how Chelsea’s body looked instead of mine? Or the weird sounds I made? Or how awkward it was that I took the condom off and cleaned up and stripped the bed?
My hands are sweating now, and I can sense the wave of panic rushing toward me like a tsunami. Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.
This trip is over. I’ve done what I came to do. Elliot doesn’t need me for his game. I found out nothing about my mom’s mental history. I’ve said my peace with Cline. Now what? Do I even have anything I’m supposed to be doing now? The sinking realization that the answer is no hits me harder than I expect and I roll over, pressing my face to the pillow and pull my knees to my chest again.
I am so tired.
It’s raining, a torrential downpour outside of the school, but Elliot is pulling me outside anyway.
“I don’t have a coat,” I call to him, but he doesn’t care. He’s always a step ahead, his hand yanking me forward, and I follow because it’s Elliot. Why wouldn’t I?
He’s not wearing a coat, either, just a blue flannel, and he’s taking us directly into the storm. All I can see are raindrops dropping from the sky, buckets of water falling just beyond the awning. I brace myself for the onslaught of wetness and ice cold spray, but nothing comes.