Page 13 of Still Falling for You

‘We’re a bit tight at the moment. Couldn’t we discuss this next year when we’re settled a bit more?’ He glances to the corner of the room over my shoulder. I hate how ‘I’ has so effortlessly been replaced by ‘we’. He never used ‘we’ whenwe were together. ‘You can always ask your parents for money if you need to.’ He lands the final blow. He knows I hated every penny my parents paid for my undergrad and that I haven’t asked them for any money since. As soon as I got a job, I started paying them back. He knows it’s a matter of pride; he must be desperate.

‘Honestly, Aaron.’ I barely make his name pass my lips without gagging. I take a deep breath and channel my inner Lydia. ‘I don’t care whether you’re a bit tight or not. I’m entitled to my money, and I need it now. Based on my calculations, you owe me my share of the deposit and the repayments for the first ten months, which makes twenty-nine thousand three hundred and two pounds.’ I can’t help feeling a bit petty.

He swallows loudly and looks towards the corner of the room again. I can’t help it this time and my head follows. My mind bottoms out when I realise what I’m seeing.

A modern, pink-painted crib is shoved behind the dining table. After further inspection, there are a few items that should have clued me in earlier. There are milk bottles on the kitchen counter that I previously mistook for water bottles and a few blankets with the design of pink balloons flung over the sofa. My head fills with sand. It whooshes out of my ears, clogs up my throat and makes my eyes itch. I search his familiar face, but I don’t recognise the person staring back at me. His cheeks turn blotchy and then I know. Has he agreed to meet here thinking I would be more sympathetic, knowing what I know now?

It takes almost everything in me to swallow down the growing emotion and calm my trembling hands. ‘I’m entitled to my money. I expect you to work it out and get back to me about how and when you repay me.’

‘Are you not going to say anything?’ He waves vaguely in the direction of the incriminating piece of furniture. In my head, I’m chopping the crib with an axe until only a pile of pink kindling is left.

‘What do you want me to say?’ My forehead puckers in genuine confusion. Does he expect me to saycongratulationsorfuck off? I forbid myself to give him the satisfaction of making a scene. I’ve never made one and I’m refusing to make one now.

He does something that I would have never expected. He snorts.

‘I’m surprised you’re finding this situation funny.’ My foot starts tapping anxiously on the floor, and I press my palm against my knee to stop it. My entire body is hijacked by an alien force, no longer in control. There’s this strange tension that vibrates through me, like electricity through a steel rod.

The sharp jaw I used to find so sexy tightens. ‘Typical you. You never give me anything, do you? You’re like an ice queen. That’s why it would have never worked between us.’ This is the last thing I expected him to say. I gawk at him for a moment. Has he always read me so wrong?

My head tilts in a ‘Are you serious?’ expression.

‘You were never that into me. You never showed me any affection even when we were together.’

‘I bought a bungalow with you. I made plans that involved the next twenty years of my life with you. Wasn’t that enough for your reassurance?’ I’m so stunned that my voice comes out a little high.

‘You never seemed to have time for me.’ Is that self-pity I detect in his tone? I feel repulsed.

‘I was doing my training while working full-time.’ His comment rings in my head, and I start questioning everything. Am I an ice queen? Have I been emotionally unavailable?

‘Even before that, you weren’t really fully committed, you’ve always been holding back like you were waiting for someone better to come. I always felt like I wasn’t your priority. Eva makes me feel I matter and like she wants me in her life.’

I stand up abruptly and collect my stuff; I can’t stay here a moment longer even though we haven’t quite finisheddiscussing the repayment of my money. I’m a coward, leaving before I make my point, but my sanity is hanging by a thread that is about to snap.

He doesn’t stop me, not that I expected him to. I pause by the door, hand hovering above the handle, but I’m too raw to do anything to take back control of the narrative. I refuse to let him see me like this, so instead, I keep my last scrap of dignity and leave without glancing back.

I just about make it to the car before I lose it. When I’ve put my seat belt on, I hit the steering wheel so hard my hand stings. I can’t seem to breathe, my ribs a tightly laced corset. I ram the key into the ignition and stall it, then try again and stall it again. That’s just so typical of my life. To be done before I’ve even started.

My phone beeps with a text message from my mother that obliterates my murderous thoughts for a second.

Wear something nice on Sunday. That pink dress I bought you would do xx

I know that only means one thing; Mother is matchmaking.

6

I stop counting after the second packet of Hobnobs. What difference does it make whether I eat twenty or forty biscuits?In the grand scheme of things, it means fuck all.

It’s four o’clock now, and I’ve been holed up in the flat since returning from the ghastly visit to Aaron at ten. As soon as my feet landed on the stained ’80s lino, I slipped out of my dress and straight into my favourite silk pyjamas. A tent made of threadbare blankets and propped-up sofa cushions over me, Häagen-Dazs Pralines & Cream ice cream tub in one hand and Hobnobs in the other, I feel almost OK. Almost. Except there’s a spring popping into my left bum cheek, but my legs have gone dead, and I don’t think I can move.

My only companion is Elizabeth Bennet passionately vowing from the small fourteen-inch screen of my laptop she’d never marry Darcy even if he were the last man on earth. At some point, I callHuzzahso loud that a neighbour bangs on the wall to shut me up.

By five o’clock, with Anne Elliot on the screen for a change and a beige stain in the shape of the Isle of Wight on my pyjama top, I am truly turning into a recluse. I shouldn’t stink so badly after only one day of being holed up, but I do. I need a shower, but that would require me to turn Netflix off and find my way out of the den, which is both unacceptable and potentially impossible at this point.

Who needs men? They’re an inconvenience, a liability. I even go to the lengths of taking out two boxes of tissues to mourn all those what-ifs I could have had with Aaron, but the tears just don’t come. They never do. I try to force them, but I freak out that the grimace will only make my forehead prematurely wrinkly and stop.

I’m suddenly reminded of the famous scene inBridget Joneswith Jamie O’Neal blaring out she doesn’t want to be all by herself while Bridget is drowning herself in cheap alcohol. I refuse to be a Bridget, so I give up and text Lydia and Catherine for moral support.

After checking our WhatsApp group, I realise they’ve beenconstantly messaging me for the last three hours. The last two messages sent by Lydia say, ‘What did the arsehole do?’and ‘Should I get a Russian mafia on him with specific instructions to dismember him into at least ten pieces?’Catherine’s last message is of a very different vibe.‘Ihope you are OK. You are stronger than you think.’

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