Page 36 of Pieces of Us

‘Yes. Today. Not since.’ He pauses, mentally calculating when the last time was. In an instant, his face drops.

‘Not since when? A day? Last week? Last month?’ I jibe, the decibel of my voice rising.

He looks at me with guilt, regret, and sadness, confirming I’ve hit the nail on the head.

I flinch at the reminder that of course they’ve slept together hundreds more times than we ever did. For fuck’s sake, they were in a full-blown relationship all of year twelve, and God knows when they actually broke up—if they’ve even fully broken up. For all I know, they could just be going through a rough patch, be friends with benefits or be in an open relationship.

His non-verbal admission anguishes me.

‘Just fuck off and leave me alone,’ I hiss.

‘Hart, baby, please calm down and listen to me.’

The term of endearment sets me off. I’m like rogue fireworks exploding on New Year’s Eve.

Uncaring about the scene I’m creating—which is causing people to gawk—I shove him. I let loose.

‘Fine. You want to do this, huh? You want to finally fucking talk and explain how you ruined me? Us? Let’s fucking do it then.’

Ignoring the astonished and pitying faces of strangers around me, I storm towards Uncle Jacob’s open office, slamming the door behind me.

I hope he fucking breaks his nose walking into it.

Seconds later, he fumbles through it. I stand there and cross my arms in barely controlled rage. I take a few seconds to scan the office, which is a reminder that the piece-of-shit man in front of me is the son of my uncle. My dad’s closest friend. Images of our entwined families sit proudly on floating shelves, stopping at age seventeen. Since then, we haven’t all been together.

I refuse to be the first one to speak. I ignore his tantalising aftershave, which has come a long way from the Lynx he used to wear. What I can’t ignore is the overly sickening stench of a girl’s perfume that mingles with it.

Using that disdained knowledge, I turn fierce eyes to meet his face. He is watching me with cautious wariness.

‘Billie.’

My chest constricts like a boa constrictor is wrapped around it.

Oh, no he fucking didn’t. Did he just call me by that whore’s name?

I see when it registers across his face. He gasps at his brutal mistake. The remorse is immediate, and he knows he’s fucked up beyond recognition. My initial reaction is to cry, but I will not give him the satisfaction. Plus, I feel numb that he has just called me by my worst enemy’s name. ‘Hart. Shit. Habit. I swear, it was a slip of the tongue.’ I snort at his choice of words. He always manages to slip his tongue, doesn’t he? I can hear in his voice that he’s trying to placate me. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Calling me her name isn’t a big deal in the scheme of things.

He’s done worse.

‘Come on then. No need for niceties. Just spit out whatever you want me to listen to. I mean, after all, you’ve been begging and bugging me to have this conversation, despite me making it abundantly clear that I want to erase you from my life.’ I continue to rave, uncaring if the whole damn office can hear me. Laughing humourlessly, I shake my head in disbelief.

‘I admit, you had me going there for a bit. I almost fell for your texts. I was almost willing to hear all your explanations and apologies. What a damn fool I was to believe you and Billie were over.’

‘Billie and I are nothing. We’ve been over for a long time.’

‘Oh yeah? What’s your definition of over? Or a long time? Have you fucked her in the last month? Did you make her come? Did she suck your cock? Did she sleep in your fucking bed? Have you hung out alone, or with your so-called mates? Tell me, Lincoln, when exactly was it over?’ I fold my arms over my chest to protect my heart from falling out. I scornfully look at him.

His mouth moves wordlessly, a look of panic on his face as he tries to conjure up any plausible rationale for my barrage of statements.

‘Go on. Floor’s all yours. Tell me.’ I lean back on the desk, stabilising my shaking body.

‘Hart, baby…’

‘Apologise. Explain. Go on,’ I goad him. ‘It’s what you’ve been dying to do, right? Tell me how sorry you are for ghosting me. For destroying our friendship of fourteen years. For devastating me by moving on so publicly. Come on. Tell me how you could choose her over me. Tell me how you could sit silently while you watched your friends mock, bully and shatter me with their taunts about how fat I was, how better off without me you were, how much more compatible you were with Billie, how I’m nothing and nowhere near as good as your vain, vapid, narcissistic, self-absorbed, conceited friends. Tell me how you sat there and listened and laughed and let them humiliate me. Or wait, maybe you should tell me how easy it was for you to move on from me. How you didn’t even hesitate to finger Billie in front of our entire grade, or fuck her senseless for years. How you’re still fucking her, despite you apparently ‘being over’. I’m waiting. I’m listening. Actually, colour me intrigued. I can’t wait to hear whatever it is you have to say.’

He stands there in silence, hands clenched in fists at his side. A look of utter devastation mars his face.

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