Page 2 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

Taking a deep breath, I sink into my chair and turn my laptop on. I scroll through Twitter for a while, losing myself in the usual cacophony of intense emotions. Everyone on Twitter is always either manically happy or completely enraged, and it makes me feel a bit better. More normal. When I get tired of all the virtual yelling, I switch over to check my email.

And that’s when I see it. A newsletter from theNew York Timeswith their latest bestseller list. The words scream at me through my computer screen, flashing in huge capital letters, neon bright.

Well, okay, theNew York Timesdoesn’t ever do anything that’s as uncouth as screaming, and they sure as hell do not do headlines in huge caps and neon colors—what are they, theDaily Mail? But they might as well have, because there, right in front of me, is her name. Surely, it can’t be written in plain black font; it’s radiating with so much light. Blindingly bright, like the way she was. And just seeing those two words, that beautiful, uncommon name of hers, is enough to swallow me whole again. I’m whisked back into the common room at Pemberton, nervously skirting the edges of the crowd, biting my nails as I watch her hungrily.

Thalia Ashcroft.

In Greek mythology, Thalia was a Muse. Someone who inspired others to write. To create.

This version is no different. Even back at the program all those years ago, our classmates were drawn to her, always buzzing around her like bees swarming the queen, wanting to drink from the well of inspiration. Hands always touching her, a pat on the shoulder here, a brush on the arm there, as though she were Jesus and they were lepers desperate for a cure. I detested them all, not because I judged them for their insipid personalities, grown lazy and bland through privilege. No, I couldn’t give two shits about our classmates. But I despised them their audacity. The way they felt entitled to be near her, to converse with her as though they were even close to being on the same level as she was.

No one was on the same level as Thalia the Muse, Thalia the Beautiful, Thalia the Perfect.

And now here she is again, her name right there in front of me, blasting her way back into my life in the most Thalia-esque fashion. Right at the top of theNew York Timesbestseller list.

New this week

A MOST PLEASANT DEATH

by Thalia Ashcroft, writing as May Pierce

The squeak of creaking plastic wrenches me out of my reverie. With a start, I see that I’ve been squeezing my mouse so hard that it has cracked in my hand. I peer down at the mouse. It was a bargain buy, made in China, cheap and unloved. Just like everything in my house, yours truly included.

If Ted knew I think this badly of the house his parents helpedus to get, he’d have a go at me. And I suppose I should be grateful for it, thankful that his parents, unlike mine, are generous enough to help out with the down payment. But Ted’s a contract data analyst and I’m a midlist writer, and the house is just a bit beyond our means. The mortgage alone is almost crippling. Almost, but not quite. Enough that each month, when we make the payment, I feel embittered that we have to pay so much for a house where I don’t even have my own study. Ted’s man cave doubles as his office, so he’s just fine and dandy, but me? I have to make do with the communal spaces. The spaces that are dominated by his mess.

So I write at cafés. Of course, the tech boom in the Bay Area means that a cup of coffee costs me an arm and a leg and half a kidney, but it’s worth it to give me a few precious hours away from the house and the mess.

I wonder if Thalia writes at cafés too. No, I reject the thought as soon as it surfaces. I can’t see her at a hipster café with a mocha latte next to a rose gold laptop. No, Thalia isn’t the type to soak up attention like that. Even back then, I could tell she hated it, hated that she was the sun and everyone else was a sunflower turning their wide, open faces toward her, feeding off her warmth.

She’d write in her apartment. Or maybe a house? My heart leaps to my throat, forming a lump as I open up a new tab and type down her name. Each letter a heartbreak.

T-h-a-l-i-a A—

I don’t even get to finish before Google finishes the search for me. Because of course, she’s the only Thalia worth Googling. My chest squeezes into a jealous fist. How many have done this search before me? I’ve done it so many times, but until now, I have only ever been able to find a ghost. Hits that were yearsold—a few blurry Facebook photos of her from college, from high school. Nothing from our master’s course, certainly. After what happened in our year, Oxford had extended its powerful hand and crushed everything, scrubbed every last bit of news until all that remained were the ramblings of a couple of local tabloids. Nothing that anyone of consequence would pay attention to.

But now, oh my god. So many hits. A Goodreads page. An Amazon page. And a website. How is this possible? How have so many hits sprouted up without my knowledge? In the early days, I used to do a search for her name obsessively. She used to blog. I’d read and reread her posts in my room, devouring every word, marveling at the elegance of her writing. Then that final formal had happened, and Thalia disappeared. I often wondered if Oxford had been responsible for scrubbing her off the Internet too. And, years later, I’ve moved on, sort of. My search became more sporadic.

And now here she is.

The tip of my tongue edges out, moistening my lips ever so slightly. I press down on the inside of my wrist, noting my heart rate. Slightly elevated. The way it gets whenever there’s anything Thalia-related. I swallow and move the cracked mouse so the cursor hovers over her website. I watch as the arrow turns into a pointing hand.

Our time at Oxford flashes before me: the heavy, damp English air; the wet cobblestones; the books—oh god, all the books—the feverish writing; the heady wine and sweet cider; and the blood. By now, I’m breathing heavily, the way I always do when my mind wanders over to that blood-soaked night. I lick my lips again before biting down hard enough to taste a metallictang, as though my body can’t wait to go back to that night, the night that should’ve bound me to Thalia. The night I lost her.

But here she is, after all these years. And this time, I’m going to do things right. I’m not losing her again.

I grip the mouse tight, until it squeaks in near death, and I click Enter.

3

Nine Years Ago

Oxford, England

The sky in England is different from the sky in California. It’s the first thing I notice when I walk out of Heathrow. It seems lower somehow, and even though it’s a beautiful English summer day with wispy white clouds frosting the deep blue sky, it feels slightly oppressive. Or maybe it’s just my mood. I’m nervous, and when I’m nervous, I get cranky, which is bad. Really bad. Because I can’t control my anger like the normals do.

Mom has never bothered taking me to see anyone, because she insisted nothing was wrong with me. She’d say things like, “Why do white people come up with so many mental health issues? All of a sudden, everybody has mental health issues. It’s all made up so they can medicate us and take our money.” I think she just didn’t give a shit, but tomayto, tomahto. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Early on in my teens, I researched my condition and diagnosed myself with the help of Dr. Google.

Pretty sure I’m a sociopath. I’m not ashamed of it; in fact it’s something I quite like, and I carry the thought in the recesses of my mind like a lucky charm, returning to it the way one might stroke a rabbit-foot once in a while. Caressing it mentally. My own little touchstone. Sociopath. As long as I can identify it, I can deal with it.

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