Page 3 of One Secret

'Oh, you mean Mario on Matteoti… He's been there for a few weeks now.' She throws me a pointed look. 'There's a spin class across the road that gets out at nine.'

I pause and feel the corner of my mouth begrudgingly lifting in amusement.

'Okay, I take it back,' I admit. 'That's goddamn genius. I just wish I'd known he was there.'

Tuesday is usually my night off. But when Isabella had called in "sick" with another one of her day-long hangovers, I'd shelved my judgment in favor of more money and jumped at the extra hours.

Smoothing my clothes, dusting my knees, and swinging my bag onto my shoulder, I check my watch. Thank God I'm always early for everything. At this rate, I'll get to the hotel just in time.

'At the risk of upsetting your stomach, do you want to take anything with you?' Lily-Anne offers. 'I know my sister liked chewing on dried sardines. I might have a can somewhere?'

I glance around Lily-Anne's place.

Like mine, the apartment is just one room, a countertop attempting (and mostly failing) to distinguish the kitchen from… well, everything else.

There's no couch. Just a bed in one corner and an armchair squeezed up against the little desk in the other.

Unlike mine, which can most charitable be described as "spartan", Lily's home is a land of texture. Blankets, cushions, rugs… even the walls have been papered with sheets of mandala prints. Her thin, translucent curtains have been pulled and the street light directly outside her window is seeping through to stain the room in warm, earthy tones.

It's also insanely messy.

Not dirty. Just… full.

Magazines, clothes, books, and pillows are scattered everywhere. Every flat surface boasts at least two candles plus a handful of knick-knacks and the kitchen is an explosion of appliances (only two of which I've actually seen Lily-Anne use: the high-tech soap dispenser and the coffee machine).

The idea of Lily-Anne managing to find a stray can of fish she probably lost a month ago is sweetly intended but utterly unhelpful.

At least whilst I still have the chance of making it to work on time.

'I'm good,' I tell my friend, 'but thanks.'

'Are you sure?' she coaxes as I make for her front door. I have to dodge the corner of the coffee table and duck to avoid a hanging basket of herbs over the kitchen counter. 'You're definitely eating enough, right? There's not much of you to begin with…'

In my peripheral vision, I catch Lily-Anne eyeing me up and down. Her expression is a mix of concern and irritated envy.

Leaned out by years of physical training and a naturally high metabolism, I can (if one wishes to flatter) be called "slim". But at five foot eight, I'm lacking the petite-ness that might have turned my weight to my advantage. Instead, I'm more or less a beanpole with curves only large enough to be functional.

In my rare moments of self-critique, I wonder about having Lily-Anne's C-cup or tumbling locks of auburn.

But isn't that always the way? When weak, we crave what we don't have.

For a second, Cyrus's face tries to make a reappearance in my head but I shut a mental door firmly on that.

Instead of focusing on what I don't have, I try to be grateful for what I do possess. Such as the ability to run a seven-minute mile and deadlift twice my body weight. Given the number of times I've saved a friend or my own skin with shit like that, I'll gladly sacrifice the boobs.

My bras are also way cheaper.

Which, given my current financial situation, is a total bonus.

'I'm fine, hun,' I reassure her. 'I'm just glad your place was nearby.'

I'd only been caught on the go by The Sickness once before. And I'd been forced to find a quiet alley. An old couple had passed by, caught me throwing up behind a dumpster, and hurried away with looks of judgment on their faces. Like I was a drunk still loaded from the night before.

I suppose that kind of assumption will disappear when I start to show. Of course, by then I'll have a host of other problems.

'I'll leave now so you can get to studying,' I say, pulling up my train of thought and deliberately rooting myself in the here and now.

Just deal with the problem at your feet, Darcy. Just the one you're about to trip over. Don't look ahead. Just look at your feet.

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