Chapter 31

MY FIRST INSTINCT was to call the cops.

But common sense displaced the thought. I forced myself out of bed. As I neared the entrance to my balcony, I ran a hand through my hair. Feeble attempts at curtailing a rat's nest. Upon closer inspection, the figure was male, tall, and stocky.

It could only be one person: Marc.

I slid open the glass door, allowing him in.

For several heart raging seconds, we just stared into each other's eyes. Then I stepped forward and slapped him.

Or at least, I tried to. He caught my hand with ease, almost as though he was expecting the act of violence. The corners of his lips lifting into a smirk I was so familiar with.

"You asshole," I hissed. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

He brought my raised hand back to my sides, before clearing his throat and leading the both of us to my bed, whereupon we took our seats at the edge. Static silence followed.

"What do you want?" I finally asked, unfortunately not as maliciously as I'd intended.

He twiddled his thumbs, not meeting my gaze. "To say hi."

"Oh?"

I'd responded to all of his texts the moment I got my cellphone changed. In return, I got the silent treatment. Almost as though I was being punished for being unable to communicate with him through a cracked screen. My face twisted into a scowl as I recalled all my calls to him that went to voicemail, all the texts I'd sent that went unanswered, my visit to his school that got brushed away... how desperate must a girl get clear a fucking misunderstanding?

"Uh huh."

"So you're being all passive aggressive now then?"

"Don't be like this Andie. I was shit scared myself when I thought all of us were going to get sued or sent to jail."

"You could get sent to jail but my father’s gonna pay them to shut up." I shrugged. "So no, none of you are getting sued much less sent to jail."

"How do you know?" His tone was unnecessarily accusatory.

"He's not even going to let this get brought to court, trust me. Too risky for his reputation."

More static filled the silence. Then finally, finally, he conceded. "Okay. I'm sorry."

I jumped away when he tried to touch my arm, diving for the shelter of my covers.

"Andie," Marc poked my back through my duvet. "C'mon. I feel bad. Don't do this."

I ignored him.

"Truthfully, I never intended to ghost you for that long but, so much time passed and I just, really didn't know how to apologize," Marc's hands were roaming closer to an unwelcomed spot.

"No tickling," I warned from under the covers.

But my warning seemed to fall on deaf ears. The next thing I knew, I was howling from laughter. His hands were on both of my sides, eliciting these peals of laughter that didn't sound womanly, much less human.

Mother would throw a fit if she could hear the way I howled - so unladylike. Alas, we had soundproof walls and my room was situated on a whole other wing from my mother's quarters. I could get murdered in here and she would be none the wiser.

"Say you forgive me," Marc said as intrusive hands continued to poke and prod at my ticklish spots.

"I forgive you!" I finally choked out, breathlessly and with great difficulty.

I surfaced from the sea of silken covers, squinting at Marc as he smiled that smug smile I was so familiar with.

"I hope you're proud that you physically tortured someone for forgiveness."

"Physically tortured?" He echoed incredulously. "Explain why you were laughing then."

I crossed my arms. "I don't want to have this conversation with you."

"Come on, get dressed," Marc said. "I'll make it up to you."

I sat up instantly. "Are we going somewhere nice for dinner?"

He frowned. "Uh, no. I'll buy you drinks."

I slumped back down.

"I'll let you choose whatever overpriced item you see on the menu at a pub of your choosing."

"That's not the same," I retorted, refusing to get dressed.

Marc stared at me for a long time. "What's gotten into you? You used to love getting drunk. And high."

I took actual time to ponder his question. "I don't know, Marc. I think I'm deteriorating."

"Huh?"

"Nothing," I forced myself out of bed to get dressed. I was in nothing but undergarments but Marc had seen it all. It literally didn't faze him.

Behind closed doors of my wardrobe, I caught sight of my own reflection. I had these dark circles and chapped lips, very unhealthy looking. Luckily, nothing that beauty products couldn't fix. Unluckily, Grandma (curse her wrinkly soul) threw all of them out, leaving my drawer with naught but chapstick.

Cursing up a storm, I decided tonight would be a night I wouldn't try to seek attention. I dug beyond my piles of clothes and found an oversized gray sweater, one I hadn't worn before. I paired the sweater with leggings and boots, before emerging from the wardrobe to the sight of Marc making a snow angel on my bed.

"Shoes off my bed, Marc."

"It's not like dirtier things haven't been done on this bed."

"Don't even go there."

"But it's so soft."

Then he turned his head and did a double take. "What in the world..."

For here I was standing, bespectacled, in gray sweater and without a wink of makeup on my face. I hadn't even bothered with my hair, opting to pile it all up into a bun.

"Okay," Marc said slowly, lifting himself on elbows. "I'm not judging."

✖

If you asked anyone on the streets, they'd call my friends 'bad people', 'rotten youth', byproducts of broken families, secular lifestyles, and drug abuse.

It was funny, because when we were in each others' presence, we didn't feel 'rotten', or 'bad'. We were just this group of friends - family, in fact - who sought fun in interesting ways. But we looked out for each other, never left anyone behind. We were honestly good to each other, good for each other. No one else wanted us. We were our own support system whether or not we knew it.

It was just Marc and myself, though, tonight.

Dál Riata was one of the fancier pubs in town. I liked the place because they played live Gaelic folk music - not that I understood a smitch of what was being sung, but it made for this lively atmosphere. I chose this place because Patrick's family owned it. Meaning I wouldn't bump into any of my friends.

I wasn't dressed to impress, you see. Marc didn't dare to say it but he thinks Richmond Park Academy was transforming me into this prissy highlife. I didn't dare to imagine what the others may say. My attitude wasn't so devil-may-care as I liked to admit.

After ordering and brushing aside "are you two on a date?" enquiries, Marc clasped his fingers together. Straight to business then.

"I beat Alex up. He's in the ICU right now."

"What?" I almost spat my water out.

Marc tapped his fingers against the wooden table, not dignifying me with a response.

"Why?" I asked again.

I already knew before I asked, that he wouldn't know how to answer my question. I chewed on my inner cheeks, hard, in a display of keeping my shit together. Tasting rust in my mouth, I reached out to place a hand over Marc's.

"You need to keep that anger in check, Marc."

"I wasn't angry."

"Then you need to control your fucking impulses then." I hissed, momentarily digging my nails into his skin.

Marc sighed. He looked so lost.

Thing is, Marc wasn't perfect. No one really is, but Marc... he was beyond a far cry from it. For the past few years, I'd been this constant in his life. I was unbalanced, but I had the capacity to summon logic whenever situations so called for it. Marc wasn't. I couldn't count the times I'd stopped Marc from acting out of pure - I don't even know - sociopathic whims?

I could only concur that he was becoming the person I so feared he'd become in my absence. I ran my thumb against the veins on his hands. He wouldn't look at me.

Then the food came.

And lo and behold, none other than Patrick O'Kean holding the tray.

I knew the O'Keans owned the place but to my knowledge, Patrick wasn't a worker here, nor did he have any reason to help out. So, no, I wasn't expecting to meet Patrick here. We had strings to tie, bridges to burn, boxes to seal - but I was hoping for a more convenient time to do these things. Like after we both died, for example.

I don't think Marc noticed Patrick. The latter would be on the ground writhing in hot pie otherwise. I don't think Patrick recognized me either, his eyes were tray-focused, careful so he wouldn't spill anything.

Our eyes met just as I held that thought. I watched as green eyes squinted, widened, before hands shook and nearly dropped the tray. I'd extended a helping hand in time, to prevent an imminent disaster. Then I pushed my chair back and stood up.

"Patrick."

He couldn't even summon words.

"I wanted to speak to you. Somewhere quiet."

"O-Okay." He stuttered out.

For someone who played QB with a hoard of girls at his beck and call, Patrick O'Kean didn't look the part. Not tonight at least. He was dressed in a black polo, the uniform of staff here. Images -  scary ones - filled my mind as he led me to the kitchen, then out of the back door to the back alley.

The last time I'd been alone with him, we had underaged, unconsented sex. So yes, my apprehension was warranted.

My hands were clammy as fuck, but I crossed my arms and played the part of a fearless woman.

"So," I leaned against the brick wall. "What was that about?"

"What was what about?" He gulped.

It was almost comical, really. Patrick O'Kean, this broad chested young man with fiery hair, scared as a church mouse in my presence. I guess this helped me build the confidence required to utter my next words.

"Come on, Patrick. What are you so nervous about? You've already done everything to ruin me, no need for this nervousness."

"Andie - Andrea, I'm - "

"I don't want your apology, Patrick. I want to know if you really forgot what you did to me on the twenty-sixth of August, freshman year."

Patrick took a step forward, with hands taking a defensive stance.

"Nope, get back." I shook my head.

His eyes glanced down. I couldn't tell if he was ashamed. I knew I'd be if I was in his position. He gingerly took a step back.

"That picture ruined my life, Andrea." Patrick said through gritted teeth.

"Did it? I heard from credible sources that Cory was provoked into leaking it. Almost as if someone wanted to sue someone for defamation by libel."

Patrick remained silent.

"You know, if you bring this to court, they're going to investigate into it. And don't think I won't hesitate to dig for skeletons," I said. "We both know you've got a few. And it won't make you look good, Patrick."

"You - you," he finally lifted his head to stare into my eyes. "You tied me to a pole for a whole night."

"You raped a girl, you sick fuck."

He had the gall to smirk. "It's not rape if both parties consent."

"I didn't consent," I near yelled. Out of nowhere, every single repressed emotion began to bubble at the surface. Black clouded the edges of my vision. Blind fury. Numb emptiness. Crippling helplessness.

Oh God. Oh God. OH GOD.

I was crying.

Not now.

"Guess what, no proof," Patrick was feeding on my emotions, gaining momentum, predatorily approaching. "And I was the one who got tied to a pole for fifteen hours then had his dick sent to every person who knew me."

"You're a jerk," was my scary response. The tears made my response even scarier.

Patrick shook his head, smug expression returning.

I shrank against the wall, unsure what the fuck or when the fuck this discussion started going downhill.

"I win either way. Your daddy's going to pay so much keep this silent, you know that right?"

But then the kitchen door swung open, and Marc stood in the doorway against fluorescent kitchen lights. He looked kind of angelic, almost ethereal through my tear laced vision.

But then he tried to deck Patrick, making things not-so-angelic, not-so-ethereal. I shimmied between both males, shaking my head and dragging Marc back to our table.

But we've both lost our appetites, along with our desires to 'catch up' with each others' lives.

We did, however, talk. About Patrick, and about tying knots that shouldn’t have been left untied.

We sat in Marc’s car for the longest, just listening to love ballads on the radio. Marc was smoking a cigarette beside me, which is to my chagrin because he kept blowing smoke at my hair.

His hands found mine. And our eyes met.

“What are we, Andie?”

“Two very dumb teenagers with so much to learn.”

Marc hummed, inhaling from his cigarette, before letting my hands go. “Is this how it ends? With Patrick being an ass and you deciding to move onto your new friends?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

“But let’s face it Marc, our friendship was only possible because we went to the same high school and we liked doing the same crazy things.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m no longer that person - I mean, I’m trying not to be.”

“Yeah.” He said again.

“Marc.”

“I’ll miss you.”

I felt my eyes water. “Are we really doing this? Right now? We don’t have to say goodbye forever. I - I… I don’t want to sound cheesy but you’ve just always been a staple in my life.”

“Yeah, okay.” Marc said uncomfortably. “I know what you mean. I never did fit into your life.”

“Marc…”

“I get it. It’s okay.”

Love you, Marc.”

“Love you too.”

“Is it really goodbye?” I pled.

“Yeah. It don’t feel right anymore. I think I’m dragging you down and I don’t want that. Maybe we can catch up once in a while.”

“You’re unfriending me?”

Marc gave me a bittersweet smile, and he nodded.

He sent me back and we hugged for the last time. No more words between us. Just wet eyes (mine) and heavy hearts.