Page 15 of The Worst Guy Ever
Me:You started it
He reads my message but doesn’t reply and it drives me nuts. I want to know what he’s doing? I’ve been too busy this week to arrange a date, and I’m bored with bouncing around between his messages and work emails.
“What shall we watch tonight?” Megan asks, plonking herself down on the sofa and pushing her hair back with a fluffy headband. On the coffee table, she sets out various lotions and potions ready for a night of skincare in front of the TV.
This is what Friday nights have come to now Kara’s all loved up and living with her dream man. When her awful ex-boyfriend left her, she was in a pretty terrible place mentally, but the silver lining was Girls Night. Megan and I would head to Kara’s after work every Friday, get into our PJs, eat takeout, watch rom-coms, drink wine and talk about anything and everything until we fell asleep on her sofa.
I think those nights were the happiest I’ve ever been. I was needed, I felt cared for, and I miss what the three of us had. Not that I begrudge my friend her Happy Ever After, of course. Megs and I still make a go of it, but the bubble has burst, and we both know it’s not quite the same when it’s just the two of us on the sofa we’ve shared for a decade.
“What do you think will happen to us?” I say, shoving my phone under my leg before I dare text Rob again.
“What do you mean?”
“When you move out. What will happen with this place?”
“I wasn’t aware that I’m moving out?” she laughs, but it’s not a funny one, it’s nervous and defensive. “Is something going on?”
Megan and I have lived together since we both moved back to the area after uni. I lucked out when her dad bought this flat and she asked me to share it with her. He runs a construction company and I think he has a few places around town. I don’t ask questions, but I’m not above living off a rich man’s spoils. It’s a two bedroom in a large complex above the supermarket. Central, convenient, and best of all, quiet once they close at 10pm.
We’ve got a good thing going, me and Megs. We split the bills and food, and I shove as much as I can of what’s left of my salary into my pension and savings, well aware that there’ll be no rich husband to look after me in my retirement. It will probably be best for everyone if I go quickly around sixty-five, dying as I lived, a cocktail in hand and a man’s face between my legs. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“What about when Max comes back? Don’t you want to live with him?”
“I don’t know,” she sighs, her shoulders slumping. “We don’t really talk about it.”
They don’t talk about it because he’s a shithead. Max is ten years older than Megan, and he’s been stringing her along for the best part of two years. He spends half the year in London, and half in Australia, where it’s no secret that he has a wife and kids. Apparently he’s waiting for them to start school before he leaves his wife to move here permanently, which is about a thousand red flags in one sentence, but of course you can’t see the colour of flags when they’re blowing in your direction.
“You might move to Australia,” I say, poking the bear. She gives a little, almost imperceptible, shake of the head. There was a time where she thought he might ask her to go with him. She had a vision of what a new life down under might look like, fully under his rose-tinted spell. Something must have happened, because at some point, she stopped mentioning it.
“Hattie,” she says, shifting sideways on the sofa to face me, “if I ever moved out, which I won’t, you know you could still live here. You don’t have to worry about that. This is your home, too.”
“Your dad’s hardly gonna let me stay here rent free.”
“You’re here rent-free now,” she says. I know she doesn’t mean for it to sound so harsh, but all I hear is that I’m a freeloading waste of space who isn’t pulling their weight.
Maybe it’s time I look for a place of my own. I’m in my thirties now, I need to grow up a bit. Two strong, capable, and frankly gorgeous women shouldn’t be living together and acting like we’re still students. I’ve probably got enough for a deposit for a little place, if house prices don’t keep outrunning my meagre pay increases. The alternative is moving back in with my mum and whatever dickhead-of-the-month she’s letting take advantage of her. I think I’d rather shit on a plate and tuck in.
My heart feels heavy, I don’t want to live on my own, I don’t even know why I’ve brought it up. I’d be lonely. Digging my phone out from between the sofa cushions, there’s still no reply from Rob.
“I don’t think I’m really in the mood for a movie,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah, fine. Think I’ll just get an early night.” I’ve never in my life had an early night. Flopping onto my bed, I pull up Rob’s messages again, desperate to know where he is and who he’s with.
Me:Is she pretty?
Unread.
Fuck him.
If he’s going out with someone else, I’m going to make sure he thinks about me the whole time.
Me:I bet I’m better in bed than her
An hour goes by with still no reply. I must type and delete a hundred messages before I catch myself. I’m acting like a jealous, needy teenager for God’s sake. Why do I even care? He can go out with whoever he likes.
Me:Enjoy your mediocre shag
