Forget Me Too

Seven

Drinking Chardonnay before a test should be a life hack.

After my impulsive drinking party last night, I went back to studying like nothing happened. And I totally aced my exam. I haven't got the faintest idea if it helped, and it wasn't just my whole week of cramming, but who cares? Exams are off my to-do list, it's already the weekend and I'm finally smashing that goddamn bottle.

All thanks to Mr. Caleb Shin for spending as much as a month's worth of our food budget and for sponsoring my stress.

I would have texted him a very gratified 'thank you' message with a postscript ‘f**k you, rot in hell’ if only I wasn't still pissed at him and if only I didn't have his number blocked. Kidding. Of course not. Never even to my grave.

"Babe, look what came in today," Sara waltzes in the kitchen, speaking in a sing-song tone.

In her hand is a big manila-covered box while in mine is an empty bottle of wine and a garbage bag.

Today is my most awaited day. In a few minutes, I will be in the parking lot smashing one bottle and, obviously, disposing it properly after.

"Uh-uh-uh," Sara grabs the bottle from me, setting the box on the table. "No one's smashing anything, Oli." She takes the garbage bag as well.

"I need a stress reliever, give it back." I try getting it back, but she had already hidden the bottle somewhere in one of the cabinets.

"Find another thing to shatter-- no, find another way to relieve stress. One that does not involve destroying."

"Any suggestions?" I ask sardonically as I pull a chair to sit on.

"Draw? You like drawing."

My eyebrow arches instantly. I'm an art student, for Pete’s sake, I don't just like drawing, I study drawing. And guess what’s the most stressful thing in this world? Studying.

"Okay, not drawing. How about TV. Watch the news. Definitely effective, tried and tested." She raises both her thumbs up.

"As if there's any good news."

"Exactly," Sara settles down across me. "Watch the news so you see people with real problems."

What an extremely disturbing way of thinking. I scrunch my face at her, "Haha, funny."

"Anyways, let's check what Mr. Sugar Daddy sent this morning!" She suggests happily.

After their eureka moment (which was a complete miss, by the way) the couple held tight on the sugar daddy concept. So far, Caleb has three nicknames in this household, and it gets worse every time.

"No, thank you." I'm ready to leave but she holds on to my hand to stop me.

"Come on! I want to see what's inside, but it felt wrong opening it myself." This girl is impossible. Making me check the exact reason why I'm stressed, right after we discussed ways to relieve it. She shakes my arm like a child asking her mother to buy her the new edition Barbie doll.

I look at her in disbelief. "Of course it's wrong!"

Why did it sound like she did me a favor for not opening it? On contrary, it might actually be better if she opened it. At least I won't have to deal with this now.

"I know, I know. So please." Sara flaps her lashes up and down, flashing her puppy eyes. Before she pouts, I slap her hand away and spin the box so it's directly facing me.

"Fine. Just don't do that again." I raise a palm to her face.

"You're mean. Henry said I'm cute."

"I'm sorry honey, I'm not your boyfriend." I smile at her very fakely.

To be fair, she was cute. Sara is undeniably pretty. Dark blonde waves, blue eyes, and an angled jaw. She could star in a summer movie without auditioning. But that puppy look wasn't a sight to see, at least not for me.

I remove the top half of the box and am welcomed by a black, thicker box.

Genius, just genius. The manila was a decoy. He did it so I wouldn't suspect right away. If the original one is revealed at first sight, he knew I wouldn't let it sit for long. I would throw it to his face (ideally, maybe pass it aggressively, but still careful) or better yet not accept the delivery at all.

In the middle, written in silver is the letter V and--

"Holy hell! Versace?" Sara squeals.

I trace the box before detaching the lid, then the layers of fabric covering whatever this box contains—an elegant velvet garment. I lift it up. The very thought of a Versace dress made it impossible to even consider ripping.

Sara reaches out for the bottom of the dress, immediately examining the fabric and the hem. The fashion major student in her pops out.

"Seems like it."

"Wow, a little enthusiasm please," she snaps her fingers.

"It's Versace, what about it?"

It's Versace, what the hell? The name has huge significance, but knowing full well the sender didn't sweat getting this, I feel surprisingly apathetic. He probably has some kind of brand ambassador privilege. More than the name, I'm amazed at the lengths that jerk is taking.

"What about it?" Sara sneers in disbelief. She walks around the table so we are on the same side. "Gigi Hadid wore this in the runway show last month. Gigi Hadid!"

"Oh, I saw that on i********:. She's hot."

"Right? And now you have it. This is amazing!" I let her check the dress more. Suit herself because under no circumstances I will keep that.

"Not really. I'm giving it back. Versace? Gigi Hadid? That's too much for me."

Sara stares at me for a moment then nods in agreement. "Yeah, totally."

"Ouch," I say, offended. It did come from my mouth, but that hurt a little.

"No, don't get me wrong, it's really too much. It costs about five months of rent," Sara explains while waving her hand.

"Pardon?"

"Five months of rent. Oh, and that is for both of us, so technically, almost a year for you."

My jaw falls.

What the actual f**k? I take my lack of enthusiasm back. I'm enthusiastically mad right now. Furious. So what if he didn't sweat getting this dress, either getting the money to buy this unreasonably expensive fabric? Wasting a huge amount for such absurd reason namely, getting my attention, is too much. I'm not tolerating this anymore.

"Enough touching. I'm giving this back." I collect the box, then the dress, but Sara tugs my arm.

"You wanna wear it, don't you?" I ask.

She immediately shakes her head. "No, I want to see it worn. If you're giving it back, at least try it."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. How often do we get a chance to see a dress like this up close? Please." She shakes my arm the way she did earlier.

I spend a few seconds contemplating. She has a point though. We don't get this chance often. And this dress truly looks impressive. The last time I wore an expensive dress was at my moms' wedding. That wasn't even close to the price of this one.

"Okay, but we'll be quick."

Sara jumped with happiness. "OMG! Great!"

I stroke the soft velvet fabric. I can't believe I'm getting lured by a dress. I'm almost completely enticed by it.

We take the dress to Sara's room.

She has a huge mirror that spreads across half her wall. I really don't know how she sleeps in here. I'm scared the massive mirror will release an evil spirit or something at night.

She helps me with the dress, carefully slipping it on my body.

"Hey, you really don't like him?"

Not this again. I angle my body to the left and ignore her question. She pulls one strap up, then the other. "So, you do."

"No. Can we not do this?" I plead.

The dress is finally fully equipped on me. It fits perfectly as if it was made specific to my measurements. The top part is cut straight in a way that shows a little of my cleavage and is tight from my whole bust to waist. From the hips down, it drops loosely until several inches above my ankle.

"It's so pretty," Sara says adoringly. "Spin for me."

I do as she says and spin slowly.

"Do you think he likes you? Like, serious."

"No... I don't know." The tight dress makes it hard to sigh. And the answer to her question is impossible. How can I know what another person feels? I can make a wild guess, but it's terrifying to admit.

Sara clasps both her hands on my shoulders and stations me firmly in front of the mirror. "Look, I'm just concerned about you. You've been with me for like a year and not once you left for the night. That was the first time. Unless you go out when I'm over Henry's."

I shrug, "I deal drugs at night."

"See? I know we weren't so close before, but ever since France, you've become uptight. Mr. Sugar Daddy--"

"Please don't use that," I frown.

"He's not old?"

I shrug again. “No Sara, Jae’s party remember?”

“What? Can’t old men attend college parties?” The girl immediately disagrees with her own statement. "Anyway, that guy was the first person you let in. If he's a bother, then I'm more than willing to walk with you to the police station, but if you're denying him to crawl back in your shell, then honey, I'm kicking you out. Come on, give yourself a chance, I want you to be happy." My roommate is full of sincerity in kicking me out. And way too frank, it hurts. All her shots hit the target bull’s eye.

Throughout her speech, I'm half ingesting the words and half processing the dress. The intricate details were vaguely noticeable until it's spread across my skin. It is beautiful. It dawned on me more that I don't deserve it. Nevertheless, I know Sara's right. Pre and post-France me were different, though it wasn't student exchange that scared me to the point of hiding. I've been living fine, it was meeting him again that messed up my life. It was meeting him that up my life in the first place. And whether it's the past or the present, I'm always enabling him. I'm such a fool.

"Alright, that's it." I hold my hand up so Sara can unzip me out of the five months' rent of a dress.

"Hold on, let's take some pictures." She pulls her cellphone out of her pocket and instructs me how to pose.

"Enough," I complain after three poses. Sara complains back.

"You're no fun. Just one more," she holds one finger up.

"No."

"Ugh, okay. I won't include your face. I want to brag it in my class."

I roll my eyes, letting her take a few more photos. When she's done, I strip off the dress and put it back inside the box right away. It should be perfectly fine when I give it back.

---

Beside the Versace box is a Chanel box that was delivered earlier.

It's just Saturday and eight items have already come in. The shirt, the cupcakes, the potted peony, the bouquet, the wine, the delivery from Parvus Flos, the dress, and lastly this.

I said last night that I want to return the dress and I will. I realized whenever he's on the scene, my peace can't keep still. Removing him from the formula might be the answer and getting rid of this stuff is one step.

The problem, however, is how? I'm not confident enough to entrust it in the hands of delivery service. No offense, it's just that, if anything bad happens, I wouldn't be able to pay for it. Plus, last night it was only a dress, now there's another box I did not dare open, hence I do not know the content.

Sara guessed it's a bag and I have similar thoughts. I can't confirm though, because that means opening the box and actually seeing it. Which will make me curious how much whatever is inside, consecutively. Which, without a doubt, will fan my fury.

What if it's something that costs as much as my tuition fee? I wasn't raised poor, but I didn't grow up lavishly either. I do not tolerate this level of spending.

The cellphone that I left open is gawking at me, waiting for the text that I am still yet to type.

I thought it would be better to inform the sender that I will return all the stuff he sent, so I unblocked Caleb's number. But I don't know what I should say. How do you start a sentence again?

To Unknown Number: Hey Caleb, I'm giving back...

No, too weak.

To Unknown Number: Hey asshole get the s**t you sent here...

Nope, too strong. Plus, I don't want him coming to my apartment.

To Unknown Number: Greetings, if I may request...

Eww, what the heck was that? Maybe calling is better. I wouldn't have to formulate sentences this awful.

I tap on his number, hesitating as soon as I did.

Calling requires actually talking. Like inherently using your vocal cords talking. I can't even type sentences, how the hell will I talk it out loud?

Good lord, this is stressing me out. As if I'm not already dreading here.

I bash my head on the desk. They say, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Perhaps if I hurt my head enough, I'll muster the courage to dial his number. A concussion might displace my brain cells to a beneficial level.

After three minutes that seemed to be a whole day, I click the dial button, immediately regretting it. I cup a hand over my mouth when it rings. s**t, what will I say?

I wait for him to pick up, literally biting my tongue, but after a few rings, the sound died.

He didn't pick up.

What was that? After more than a week of bothering me by sending random stuff, wasting a s**t ton of money, he will not answer my call?

I dial again. Declined.

Another try. Declined.

Is he getting petty?

I click on the green call button. Declined.

Or, am I the one getting petty?

I'm suddenly reminded who I am trying to call. Do I need to make an appointment to contact Caleb of Thirdhand?

My head meets the desk one more time.

Never in my life have I attempted to call a celebrity. Let alone someone as popular as Caleb now. Why am I calling someone as popular as Caleb of Thirdhand in the first place?

Right....

To return these things he sent without notice. Without checking on me first. So why do I need to check on him too? He didn't even make an appointment when he decided to bother me the whole week. Why am I making a fuss over contacting him now?

I have decided.

I stand up, picking the boxes up into my arms. It's a struggle to stack one over the other. I drag to my closet for the thing that started it all. It's another struggle considering how far inside I threw the paper bag. I wasn't expecting to pull it out this early.

With a paper bag hanging on my left arm and two big boxes I'm hugging, I make my way to the living room.

"Where are you-- Oh, you're going to loverboy?" Sara bounces off the couch, taking the Chanel box.

"Yes, and this is the last time I will hear that nickname."

She clicks her tongue, "Not a chance. Anyway, is that what you're wearing?"

I look down at my skinny jeans and the baggy hand-me-down tee I got from my mom. It's not that bad. "Yes."

"No." She sets the box down and does a full circle around me. "No. You need something that will clearly show him 'this is what you can't have'."

I take a second to consider her words and it's actually a good advice. That's my personal stylist for you.

"Love the idea, but I seriously don't have time for that. I just want to get this over with."

She sighs. "Fine. At least retouch the face. Don't move."

I don't move, but I peek at the edge of the mirror mounted on the wall. I could really use a retouch.

Sara disappears to her room, then comes back with a makeup pouch. She pulls out the blush.

"Just a little pigment." The puffy brush strokes lightly on my cheek. "And a lot lip color... Kidding." She applies lipstick on me—just enough color. "There, this is what he won't have."

I peek in the mirror again. I look... well, decent. At least I'm presentable when I throw these boxes and bag to his face.

"Thanks, I'm out."

The boxes finds my arm again. Sara opens the door to assist my struggling self out.

"Kick his ass!" She cheers before closing it.

Kick his ass? Gladly.