Consequences

I stare at the washing up in the sink, listening to her laugh fade into silence. She was sat at the table, still nursing a mug of cold coffee she won’t drink. I wonder if it’s like a security blanket, and if it would be cruel to find out. 

‘So, have you heard back from the university?’ She asks, her voice piercing through my train of thought. 

I sigh as I finish washing up my used mug and turn to face her, my back leaning against the edge of the sink. A wet patch sinks through my thin shirt, but I prefer to keep a distance. 

‘No’, I reply, wishing I had another answer. 

‘Oh, well I’m sure they just have a lot of applicants, especially after the pandemic,’ she says, a thinly veiled attempt to make me feel better. She had heard within weeks, while I was still waiting almost a month later.

‘I only heard so soon because I harassed them for an answer,’ she continues, her eyes widening slightly at me, like a child trying to get away with something. I really didn’t touch the cookie jar, I promise…’  

I chuckle, dipping my head to hide my disappointment, ‘I suppose so,’ I say. 

She frowns at me, and I wait for her to blurt out whatever is on her mind. I won’t ask; it’s up to her what she wants to share with me. She looks down at her mug, her long hair hiding her features in what I am sure is a deliberate move. Tick tock. 

‘Call them up, after all that’s what you told me to do also you-never-message-me-first-only-ever-in-reply-and-that-really-bothers-me.’ Her sentence rushes out at such a high speed I am surprised her mouth can move that fast. Although…no, that’s out of bounds now. To be forgotten about except from a distance, not to be indulged in anymore. This time I would stick to that boundary.  

I wander over to the table. Guilt and worry hide behind my face. I always wondered if this would be enough for her, after everything that happened. Friendship is a placid thing, after all.  

She looks up at me, her eyes squinting as though looking into the sun,’ You look angry,’ she says. 

‘I’m not angry,’ I answer, and I’m really not this time. Just worried, but how to express that? I look up at the air just above her head, her innocent, concerned head. I wonder what secrets it holds. 

I watch a spider weave the beginnings of a web in the corner of the ceiling behind her. ‘I just don’t go on messenger that often,’ I lie, guiltily thinking about the other one. The first one, the one who still pulls a few dry tears from my heart. ‘And when I do, it’s only to reply to people.’ I give her an explanation for my passivity, albeit a complete lie. But the truth isn’t necessarily what she needs to hear, and how can I hurt her again? She was always touchy about her. 

Her gaze turns hard as she studies me, her face frozen into an almost comical expression: eyebrows pinched together, lips half-pursed, as though asking for a kiss…which will never land, I remind myself firmly, keeping a closed expression. 

‘That seems like a lie,’ she says sharply, making up her mind. 

I shrug, ‘Believe what you want to,’ I say. It’s none of my business what she thinks of me, and it’s none of hers to know who I talk to. I owe her nothing, I remind myself as that same sense of emotional obligation rises within me, asking me with a hint of panic whether we better not just get rid of her? Turn her away in such a way that she will never come near us again, no matter how remorseful we may seem? Please? I swallow the urge and somehow remain seated across the table from her, her strong gaze boring into me. 

‘Jasper…’ She starts, before softening her voice, changing her mind, ’I just wanted to tell you that’s how I feel.’ The corners of her mouth turn downward and her eyes drop. Is she about to explode? Leave? Cry? It is impossible for me to tell. She takes a breath and starts again, her voice stronger this time, ‘Instead of a friend, it makes me feel like an ex who is just waiting around for you which isn’t true,’ she says, unfettered words once again tumbling out of her mouth. 

I scream internally. This again.

It must have shown on my face because she reacts immediately, ‘What are you looking like that for? I’m telling you how I feel,’ she almost shouts, demanding some kind of emotional response from me: sentiment, perhaps? An apology? I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it grates me. I don’t owe her anything; what I do and don’t do is my business, and I’m not going to tell her who I message. I don’t owe her my time. I tell her so, feeling my face settle into an unmoving mask as I try to hold back more biting words. 

This time tears really do threaten to spill. They make her eyes look shiny, as though she were wearing contact lenses. I once mentioned it would be interesting to see how her eyes looked with contacts - their mix of colours used to fascinate me. Now the glassy brightness makes my blood run cold with anger. Why should she cry? I’m no longer hers, I remind myself. 

She smacks the table with her hand and I wonder if my face is next. It had better not be, not again. She stands up, fury radiating from every inch of her small frame. I stand as well, hoping she is going to leave. I don’t owe her this argument. 

‘Tell me the truth,’ she demands, as though this will make a difference, ‘I know you’re talking to her,’ she says, her voice faltering as though she realises her mistake. I shake my head. Fuck me. 

‘How do you know that?’ I ask, imagining her hacking into my Facebook account somehow, or sneaking a look on my phone when I left the room. 

‘You son of a-,’ she stops herself, venom dripping on the half uttered words. Her hand trembles on the table, giving her away. She looks down as though to collect herself, or perhaps she is reminding herself that she doesn’t own me. Either way, she sits back down and wraps her hands unthinkingly around the mug. 

’I didn’t,’ She admits, ‘I do now.’ 

So much for keeping it to myself. I want her gone, angry she has prised my information out of me. I stay standing, hoping she gets the message. 

‘I know I don’t have a monopoly on you but, but at least just bother once in a blue moon!’ She sighs and sits back. Really? Still pretending that’s what this is about, with all her big talk about authenticity. I look her in the eye and wait.  

She sits back, finally giving up the ghost, ’It just still hurts that you used me because of her,’ she says, so softly it almost drifts away. 

A wave of unwelcome guilt washes over me, but this time I can’t be angry at her for it. Not again. Not for something that was entirely my fault. 

‘I’m sorry that you feel used,’ I say slowly, unsure where to even begin to explain something I only half understand myself. 

She shrugs in a defeated kind of way, ‘It just shows that you haven’t changed,’ she says quietly, avoiding eye contact. The air between us is still for a moment.

‘I should go,’ she says, still in that quiet, soft voice, ‘I’m not sure this is going to work. I value you, and we have a lot in common; there are things that I don’t share with anyone else, but…’ She hesitates for a moment, and her eyes find mine, ‘You made me so happy, but you just hurt me, over and over again.’

A kaleidoscope of emotions hold me captive as she stands up and lifts her bag onto her shoulder, ‘I’m done. I’m sorry,’ She turns and walks away. I’ve put her through so much, and it’s her choice in the end, so I do nothing but watch helplessly as she opens the front door and walks out into the cold night. She doesn’t look back.