Page 6 of Indigo

I hang up and toss my phone onto the bed beside me, taking a moment to pull myself together. I don’t need Mum to worry more than she already is.

God, I’m a fucking mess.

I moved down here to go to University. To become a teacher and make a difference. Instead, I dropped out before the end of my first year, when I realised that as much as I wanted to contribute to the education of younger generations, I didn’t have the patience to deal with kids all day.

I thought things were looking up when I was hired as an entry level medical receptionist. The pay was good, the hours were great, and I genuinely enjoyed the patient interaction. Then I met Michael, the new physiotherapist.

I knew I was silly, getting involved with a co-worker, especially one with a higher standing than myself in the practice, but he was persistent, and charming. I fell for his act and reluctantly agreed to let him take me out for my birthday. The date held no significance to him. He didn’t even know that I was turning another year older. To me, though, that date marked twelve months of silence from the man who still held my heart in his hands. That was the day I finally gave up on Paxton Shepard and moved on with my life.

Now, I’m a twenty-four-year-old dropout, and I’ve been blacklisted from the only field I have any marketable skills in. I’m draining my savings trying to pay for this place, and my father, who is also my landlord, refuses to call me back.

I raise my hands to rub at my eyes and thankfully stop myself before making contact, realising at the last second that I’m wearing mascara.

My phone dings from beside me and I pounce at it.

PAISLEY:How’s the visit with Lana been, babe?

Jesus, another reminder of the many ways I’ve failed in the past few years.

Any relationships outside of ours were a sore point for Michael. To begin with, he was fine with the fact that I FaceTimed Mum and Paisley every night to fill them in on my day and vice versa, but the longer we were together, the more he complained about my co-dependent tendencies. He put it in a way that his statements actually made sense, and as we fought more and more about the subject, I pulled away from everyone but him.

It seemed simpler. Easier than fighting every day.

I still spoke to Mum several times a week, and because Michael worked late on Mondays and slept at his own apartment, she stayed over once a week for Margarita Mondays, a tradition we started the year I turned eighteen, since she has Tuesdays off work.

Paisley and I, though? We drifted. We went from speaking every day to every few, then once a week. Even then, our conversations only lasted a few minutes. Eventually, our calls died off and we would only exchange a text here and there.

When I ended things with Michael, though, she was the first person I called, and despite what a shitty friend I’d been, she dropped everything, and she listened. She cried with me. She raged alongside me as I paced back and forth in front of my couch, my phone in one hand and a drink in the other. Since then, thankfully, we’ve managed to re-build the friendship we had before I left town.

That doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty every time I think about my actions, though.

I type out my reply quickly and then stuff my phone into the white macrame clutch sitting beside me.

ME:So good! Just heading out now. I’ll call you tonight?

I head for the kitchen after one last look in the mirror, knowing I’ve left Mum waiting too long while having a mini meltdown over my disastrous life choices.

“Ready?” I call out as I walk down the hall.

“How’d it go?” she asks as I walk into the kitchen and find her pouring a little water into the cactus I have sitting on my windowsill. I shake my head, silently telling her I was once again sent to voicemail, and although her shoulders drop a little, she keeps a smile on her face as she grabs her hot pink cross body bag from the kitchen counter and slings it over shoulder.

“It’ll all work out, Indie-girl,” she says, as we make our way across the living room to the front door.

I hold it open for her and she steps out into the hallway as I swipe my sunglasses from the oddly shaped cement side table to my left and slide them through my hair so that they sit perfectly on top of my head.

Closing the door behind me, I make sure that it’s locked before turning on my heel to catch up with Mum, who’s already rambling on about what she wants to eat, having checked the menu online both last night and this morning.

Suddenly, I feel goosebumps rise along my arms. The stark white walls of the apartment complex hallways and the odd abstract paintings lining them have always given me the creeps, but today I can’t help but feel on edge as I put one foot in front of the other.

We turn the corner leading to the elevator, and that’s when I see him.

Michael.

He exits the elevator as I stand there, frozen, but doesn’t look up, too preoccupied by his phone screen. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for him to lift his gaze and realise I’m the one who’s standing in front of him as he tries to walk around me, clearly heading for my apartment.

His short, dark hair is immaculately groomed with the perfect amount of product, and his green eyes gleam with resentment as he takes in my appearance.

Michael is good looking, fit, the complete package, really, with his wide shoulders and extravagant taste. However, at this moment, I don’t think I’ve ever been as repulsed by a person as I am by him.

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