Chapter Five
942 Words
Chapter Five
Alice is halfway through her second glass of wine when I realise I shouldn’t have called her.
Not because she’s bad company.
The opposite.
Alice has known me for fifteen years.
Which means she’s one of the few people left on earth incapable of pretending I’m always right.
Unfortunately.
I watch her from across the sofa.
Alice looks exactly the same as she did ten years ago.
Tall.
Athletic.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
The sort of effortless tan that should probably be illegal in Ireland.
Meanwhile, I’d spent ninety-two days surviving on coffee and anxiety.
Life was unfair.
Her brown eyes narrow over the rim of her wine glass.
“You argued with him, didn’t you?”
I stare into my mug.
Tea.
Alice insists wine is the answer.
I insist it’s three o’clock on a Tuesday.
We’re both disappointed.
“He needed me to sign something.”
“So sign it.”
“I tried.”
Alice raises an eyebrow.
The expression says everything.
“You argued with him.”
I look away.
“Maybe.”
“You definitely argued with him.”
The worst part about having old friends is that they know exactly what your face means.
I sink deeper into the sofa.
Alice laughs.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You hate him.”
“I don’t hate him.”
The lie leaves my mouth so quickly even I don’t believe it.
Alice snorts.
“Emily.”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
No words come out.
Because unfortunately she has a point.
Christopher annoys me.
The way he talks.
The way he always seems so calm.
The way he acts like everything can be solved with a spreadsheet and a meeting.
The way he somehow managed to irritate me within twenty minutes of seeing me for the first time in three months.
Alice watches me silently.
Then she smiles.
Not a nice smile.
The dangerous kind.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“I know that look.”
I immediately dislike where this is going.
“What look?”
“The one where you’re about to convince yourself somebody else is the problem.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
Neither of us blinks.
Finally I groan.
“You’re impossible.”
“No.”
She reaches for her wine.
“I’m honest.”
Worse.
Much worse.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
The late afternoon sun filters through the living room window.
Upstairs I can hear Sofia moving around in her room.
The sound settles something inside me.
Just enough.
Alice sets down her glass.
“Can I ask you something?”
“No.”
“I’m going to anyway.”
Of course she is.
“What exactly is your plan?”
I frown.
“My plan?”
“Yes.”
She gestures vaguely around the room.
“This.”
I look around.
The sofa.
The television.
The blanket I’ve spent most evenings under for the last three months.
“What about it?”
“You’ve built yourself a little cave.”
I stiffen.
Alice notices.
Ignores it.
“Work calls?”
Ignore them.
“Friends invite you out?”
Decline.
“People ask how you are?”
Lie.
“I am coping.”
“You’re existing.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because a tiny part of me knows she’s right.
And I hate her for it.
Alice sighs.
Her voice softens.
“Emily.”
I look down at my hands.
“You survived the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”
The room goes quiet.
“Now what?”
I don’t have an answer.
That scares me more than I want to admit.
Alice leans forward.
“If Christopher annoys you that much, go prove him wrong.”
I laugh.
A short humourless sound.
“He doesn’t think I can do it.”
“Are you sure?”
I open my mouth.
Then stop.
Because suddenly I’m not sure at all.
Alice notices.
Of course she notices.
“You’ve spent three months deciding what everybody thinks about you.”
The words land like stones.
“What if you’re wrong?”
I hate that question.
I hate it because I don’t have an answer.
The conversation drifts after that.
To Sofia.
To school.
To ordinary things.
But Alice’s words stay.
Hours later, after Sofia is asleep and the house is quiet again, they’re still there.
What exactly is your plan?
I stand in the kitchen.
The dishwasher hums softly.
The clock on the wall ticks.
The same kitchen.
The same house.
The same life.
Except it isn’t.
Nothing is.
My phone sits on the counter.
A missed email notification from work flashes briefly across the screen.
I stare at it.
Then I think about Christopher.
The stupid joke.
The stupid meeting.
The stupid look on his face when I’d snapped at him.
He’d looked genuinely confused.
The memory annoys me all over again.
Fine.
If he thinks I’m going to disappear again, he’s mistaken.
If everyone thinks I’m fragile, they’re mistaken.
And if I’ve spent ninety-two days hiding from my own life?
Then maybe that’s enough.
The alarm goes off at six thirty the next morning.
For a moment, I consider turning it off.
Rolling over.
Going back to sleep.
Pretending yesterday never happened.
Then I remember Alice.
I remember Christopher.
I remember the version of myself I’m tired of being.
Fine.
I throw back the duvet.
Swing my legs out of bed.
And make a decision.
Tomorrow wasn’t enough.
I’m going back today.
- Writer
