Page 45 of Our Little Cliche
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to spook you. It’s just that…” he stops to rub the back of his head nervously, then pushes his rather fogged up glasses back up his nose, ending with a sigh, “Holly, I’ve been dying to taste you since I first laid eyes on you. I know you feel the same way.” He leans in closer but I pull back. “Please, say you feel the same way.”
“I… Ican’t.”
This isn’t a fucking Hallmark movie.
I can’t deal with another stupid love story that faces heartbreak. I’m not the main character in a cliché fucking rom-com.
They’re all the same—it’s always two people who fall in love the same way; like an ex-lover visiting the small town they grew up in, or a country girl moving to the big city and meeting some rich hot CEO guy, or meeting the perfect guy on an airplane that just so happens to be going to the same state she is, then bumping into him a few days later in a random town. They spend the whole movie swearing on their death beds that they don’t, or can’t like each other, but fall head over heels anyway. And then...
Heartbreak.
I can’t do the heartbreak thing.
I can’t.
With my emotions at an all time high I get to my feet. “I’m sorry. I-I need to go,” I sob, then bolt to my room like a complete idiot, thankful he doesn’t stop me. When I crash my head into the pillow of my pitch black room the tears flow heavy and hard like Niagara Falls.
Slowly but surely, I come to the realization that I’m crying not because I know I’ll lose my job if I pull a stunt like that again, but because I’ve realized that Cyrus and I are thoseexacttwo people: the opposites attract, small town, dramatic introduction—she flies across the globe and meets the man of her dreams who turns out to be her newsexyboss, then we get snowed in and there’s tension and angst. We fight every stage of denial like we’re at war.
But then guess what? It’ll all be over when I take my things and go back home. Like I said, I’m not the main character in a cliché romance. I’m me. A mess. Besides, even if I was into him, I know that he’s fooling around with other women. Multiple women. He’s probably on a roster! I bet with the girls on his social media accounts that I’ve seen thirsting over him.
Cyrus has an entire set up for female guests with a whole range of feminine products, accommodating every type of flow and brand. I’ve cleaned this house from head to toe, and I’ve seen pink and purple labeled shampoo bottles, fresh shavers, wax strips, unopened toothbrush packets, a hairdryer and straightener, as well as every type of nourishing face mask that you could poke a stick at. In not just one but three bedrooms.
Who does he think he is, Christian Grey?
Oh, and that’s not to mention thegirly popmusic collection in the music rack downstairs such as The Jonas Brothers, One Direction and Justin Bieber. And what about the tidy, almost feminine decor? Come on, you can’t tell me that doesn’t look like the creativity and expertise of a woman.
“Wait…” I jolt upright when curiosity spikes.
Is Cyrus… married?
A knock on my door stirs me. My room is light. It’s morning. I don’t even remember falling asleep, but here I am, roasting like I’m some kind of marsupial in its mother’s pouch entwined in at least four blankets, wearing my…
Nothing?
Crap, where are my clothes?
Where are my knickers?!
Another soft knock sounds. “I uhh, brought you some tea,” Cyrus’s godsend of a voice hums from behind the door. He cracks it ajar and the air leaves my chest in a gasp.
Do not dare come in here!
I’m as naked as a newborn child. Panicking like a madwoman I scuffle under the sheets, feeling for any signs of the fabric of my underwear, or my blouse at least. But, nothing. Nothing on the floor, nothing on or in the bed. I’m out of breath, certain that I look like one of those cats that go crazy, skitzing out when they chase a laser light.
Where are my bloody clothes? And where the freaking hell are my kni?—
Oh… that’s right. At home, waiting in my bag to take to the laundromat. I give up, throwing the blankets up over my face and pretend I’m asleep. Maybe that’ll deter him?
“I’ll just… leave it by the door, then.”
I lay here silently for a sign of his footsteps retreating, suffocating in my own hot oxygen, feeling the bead of sweat dripping over my upper lip. Then, the dreaded thought of mylast memory before I must have fallen asleep hits me—I think I kissed a married man.
The music taste, the decor, the feminine hygiene products… it all makes sense. But if he’s married then why would he have girly things in all of the bathrooms except his? I gasp, maybe he’s hiding all ofherstuff, and has a mistress?
Maybe he’s got…mistresses.
Ooh, the lying, cheating bastard!
