Page 132 of Muddy Messy Love

At least I know it’s her. I’ve ignored all other knocks the past two weeks. Especially those preceded by the expensive purr of a euro engine. The stupid fake rock now sits pride of place on the kitchen island. If Cole wants in, he’ll have to break something. But I know he won’t.

He pounded the door, calling out my name every night last week, but I curled up into a ball on my studio floor and cried until he left. By day six, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I taped a ragged-edged note to the glass that read, “If you genuinely care for me, you’ll respect the space I need.” After that, he only came once more and never knocked. Instead, he slipped a puffy envelope under the door with “Angel” looped in blue cursive across the front.

My thumb traced the beautiful endearment as it wrung more tears from my soul, but I couldn’t bring myself to open it. I still can’t. What good will it do? Nothing can undo the damage or restore my trust. And what if his letter—assuming it is a letter—only says goodbye? I’m surviving on the fumes of his want. If they vanish, I’m done.

I plod through the gallery, my shoulders stooped and concrete heavy, then unlock the door and yank it open.

Jen’s plum-stained lips gape, and her bright eyes bug, forming three perfectOs a bowling ball would envy. “Holy shit. What the hell happened to you?”

Despite me thinking I had no tears left, my eyes refill as my chin slumps. I step back, allowing Jen entry, and she slips inside, clicking the door shut before turning to scan me up and down, her face tensing into crisis delta mode. I don’t miss the crinkle of her pale, freckled nose either. I probably smell awful. I can’tremember when I last showered or changed. Dried clay is my second skin, shielding me from the bitter, cruel world.

“Aves,” Jen whispers, lifting a clump of my hair up between her thumb and index finger before letting it go. The lock thuds back down like it’s made of mud, and I shrink a little. I haven’t seen a mirror in weeks. I haven’t wanted to look into my eyes and face the damage. My hair is probably matted, but really, who the fuck cares? This world is full of superficial bullshit, and I, for one, am sick of it.

“What’s happened?” Jen asks, her ginger brows crumpled in concern.

Biting my trembling top lip, I shake my head. “I can’t…” I swallow. “…talk about it.”

“Oh, chicky.” Jen’s eyes soften as if all at once sheknows.Immediately, she locks me in a power hug, and I ugly cry against her lacy white dress as the horror scene at Cole’s office replays in my head for the gazillionth time. Usually what then follows is the exclusive screening of our entire relationship—every word Cole ever uttered, every action he ever took—forcing me to sew all the heartbreaking clues together, one by one, like a patchwork quilt devoid of any warmth. In hindsight, it was all so painfully obvious.

Cole seldom queried my past. He lacked the typical amount of curiosity one should have about the person they’re dating, probably because he already knew everything about me from the time I was bastard-born. He fled to Canberra too—Thomas’s home base—the day after we first kissed. Coincidence? I think not. His true motivation for saving me from the stolen car is crystal clear now too—Cole was driven by money, not affection. And the drunken ramblings that night he fought Slade weren’t nothing at all. In fact, they were likely the most truth Cole ever shared. After all, the lies started five minutes after we met when he claimed Beth had friends in high places to justify his freehelp. God, how dumb am I? And the job at Mini-Bees, working alongside his very own sister. All the better to keep tabs on me, I guess—ensure I didn’t breach my bond and cause Thomas further grief.

I’ve wondered if Hannah knew about this—if she was in on it too. I hope not. It would be nice if at least she was real, but I have my doubts. She and Cole are close—it’s them against the world—and I can’t face more betrayal, so I deleted my Facebook too.

And Sheila. Fucking Sheila. Screenings of our relationship have featured too. She left so soon after graduation—announced her departure at my celebratory dinner, for fuck’s sake—and now I know she’d planned it for months, maybe years, knowing full well Thomas’s money would dry up. It all makes me physically ill, but one thing more than the rest.

If Cole knew we were a lie and I’d inevitably be hurt, why be so cruel as to show me the full depth of everything we could be? Why the sweet, whispered promises—the relentless support? Why capture my heart—entangle our souls—and tease a glittering future I never could have fathomed? I would have been smitten with a song, yet he gave me a symphony, and now there’s no going back. I know the symphony exists. I’ve tasted the miracle of colour, then had it ripped away. And a miracle it was. No other man will ever come close. I’m condemned to a future in greyscale. If I survive, that is. This much pain should kill a person. It would be far more humane.

Stifling a cringe, Jen pats my hair. “Let’s get you into the shower, then we’ll talk, okay?”

I nod, and we head for the bathroom. That is, until Jen halts outside my studio with a gasp. I follow her line of sight into what’s now my hidey hellhole. There’s crap everywhere. Rubbish and dirty dishes on the floor. Mouldy food. Clay offcuts and dust. Tools strewn far and wide, and a distinct pungent, fruity odoursmothering the air. In fairness, given my usual tidiness, it does look like I’ve had a psychotic episode. Maybe I have.

The guest quilt and pillow Beth kept in the linen press lie rumpled on the ground next to the pottery wheel. I haven’t been able to go upstairs, let alone sleep in my bed, nor Beth’s, since Sheila contaminated hers.

Clean sheets won’t cover Cole’s scent, which now lives in my mattress, and I can’t so much as glance at the roof windows without pain ripping through my body. The corner armchair, where his jacket always hung, triggers nausea. And the stars in the night sky? Well, fuck them too. Everything reminds me of him—how impossible it feels to let him go—and the fact my heart was so horribly wrong when it all felt so real. I didn’t only lose trust in Cole—I lost trust in me. The little I had.

Jen zigzags her way to the middle of the studio, tiptoeing through the mess, then slowly spins on the spot once she finds a clearing. “What is all this?”

“I’ll clean it later,” I say with the enthusiasm of a sloth.

“No,” she says, stepping over the remnants of last night’s microwave dinner. At least I ate. Her diamanté sandal clips the end of my fork, and it catapults over her foot, then clambers to the floor. “This,” Jen emphasises, motioning down the long span of my workbench where a dozen new pieces sit.

I hitch a shoulder. “Therapy.”

“They’re fucking horrible.”

“Thanks,” I deadpan. “Made them myself.”

Twisting towards me, Jen cocks a brow. “Is there some kind of satanic exhibition coming up?”

My jaw clenches. I know they’re dark and twisty and barely fit for a bogan bong shop, but it’s all I can do right now. “The collection’s called Decimation of the Soul,” I offer.

Jen plants fists on her hips. “Jesus. If he hurt you half as much as these…thingsimply, I’ll kill him.”

She bores her pissy I’ve-got-your-back-girl eyes into mine, but my lips tremble and tears threaten again. “I can’t—” A horrendous sob escapes my throat, and I keel over, bracing my hands on my knees. “Jen, I can’t do this anymore. I think I’m actually dying.”

In a blink, Jen’s back in front of me, holding out her arms. “Oh, chicky. Come here.”

I shake my head. “I stink. You don’t want to hug me again.”

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