Page 14 of Actually Yours

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” she says again as I park the car in front of her apartment building. “And for yelling at you. And dragging you out in the dead of night.”

I shake my head at her. She has nothing to apologise for.

“It’s me who’s sorry. For having such a knuckle-head for a brother.”

Her smile in response is sweet, her plump lower lip tipping up and making that single dimple in her left cheek appear and then just as swiftly disappear.How had I forgotten that dimple?

“It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not, but when he gets back from his ‘tour’”—we both laugh at the over-exaggerated inverted commas I gesture as I say the word—“when he’s back, I’ll be having a word with him about how to treat people with respect.”

“I wish you’d had that conversation with him a year ago. Save us all this trouble.”

I nod my agreement while quietly disagreeing. Even with all the angst their relationship had caused, it still meant that I got to know her. And I can’t ever regret that.

“Well, you’ve moved past him. Onto someone better, I hope?” I hold my breath as I wait for her answer. The sense I’ve had from her over the past hour has been one of loneliness, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my behalf.

She laughs, a small, bitter sound. “There’s no one. After Robby, I swore to take a break from men. And the break seems to have become a full-on break-up. Me and relationships do not go together. Just ask my dad.”

I wince, taking in her expression, filled with determination, and don’t argue. If she wants to stay away from men, that suits me fine. I know this makes me a selfish jerk, but I can live with that.

“Well, goodnight, Jake.” She opens her door and I can’t think of a way to stop her from leaving. “Thanks for the ride.”

“It was nice seeing you again, Amelia.”

She pauses with one leg out of the door, turning back to me, her small front teeth biting her lower lip and I hold my breath in anticipation of what she might say.

“Good to see you, too.”

My lungs deflate and I sit silently as she steps out of the car, taking her coconut-filled fragrance with her. I watch her walk slowly—damn those bare feet—to her lobby and up a flight of stairs. I continue to sit and watch the space long after she’s out of my sight, wondering what to do with all the emotions seeing Amelia tonight have woken inside of me. And how I’m going to find the strength to push them all down again. One more time.

The drive home flies by in a blur of deafening silence and self-recriminations. It’s been months since I’d thought of that woman, the one whom my brother was lucky enough to call his own, and I’d been doing so well to put her behind me when they’d broken up. And then one stupid note and a knock on the door had her barrelling back into my life. In bright colours, justlike she had that first night. When she’d just been a stranger in a bar.

“Don’t go there,” I mutter out loud to stem the flood of memories threatening to surface. “Just get home, go to sleep and lose yourself at work. It’s how you got through it last time. Just do it again.”

I agree with myself as I park in my driveway, a feeling of utter exhaustion washing over me. My tired legs drag as I open the front door and trudge to my bedroom, taking my glasses off and rubbing the grit from my eyes. Once my legs hit the edge of my pillow-top mattress, I allow gravity to do its thing, falling backwards and landing with a little bounce, willing myself to sleep.

But sleep won’t come. I toss and turn, trying to shut out the memories of the woman who had unknowingly just upended my carefully curated life.

“Screw it.”

I give up on attempting to sleep and pick up my phone. Feeling guilty, I open my Google Play store and re-install the Instagram app. It has been a few months since I deleted it, thinking it best to get rid of the temptation, and now here I am. Giving in. They really should make it more difficult to access this site, for people like me who know that no good can come from it.

I type in my username and password, and a few notifications go off as I open my profile page. Which is empty. I don’t use my account to show the world how amazing my life is. I use it for even more depressing reasons.

My stomach churns as I search her name. Not difficult, given she is one of three people I follow on here, and I can’t help the smile that grows on my face as I take in her latest posts. For someone who seemingly had mixed emotions about her friend’s wedding, Amelia sure has a lot of happy photos to document the day.

There on her grid are at least a dozen photos of Bella and her new husband, both looking radiant and glowing with happiness. There are also several shots of the bridesmaids and their respective husbands, and then there’s one I was hoping to see. One photo of Amelia. By herself. She’s smiling at someone just off to the side of the camera and she’s so achingly beautiful, my heart hurts just looking at her.

She’s wearing the yellow dress, the one she’d still been in when she’d flopped on my couch only an hour ago. The pale yellow colour brings out the warmth in her brown eyes and somehow makes the smattering of freckles across her nose pop. I silently thank whoever did her make-up for not covering those adorable spots, even though I know Amelia hates them. Her hair, which had been a bright, fire-engine red when I last saw her, is now a golden, honey colour, worn in some sort of elaborate bun, sitting low in the nape of her neck, a few tendrils out around the front, framing her face. I don’t know how anyone at that wedding had looked at the bride with Amelia standing next to her; in that yellow dress, she looks like a goddess.

“This isn’t helping.” I close the app and put my phone face down on my bed. No good can come from having Amelia back in my life (or on my screen, as the case may be), and I need to remember that. I harrumph out loud and pick the phone back up again, deleting the Instagram app and the temptation to spend the few night hours I have left scrolling through her feed. Once done, I close my eyes and let the events of the night play on repeat through my mind. After not seeing Amelia for over half a year, I’d thought maybe I had put her in my rearview mirror.

Turns out, just like the warning on the stickers they put on car windows, objects are closer than they appear. And Amelia is back to being front and centre in my mind. Just like she’s always been.

CHAPTER 4

Amelia

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