Page 104 of The Rest is History
It’s Zara, and she’s spitting fire.
‘You cowardly fuck,’ she hisses.
‘Leave it, Zara.’ I fix her with an icy glare that I hope adequately communicates my message:I am not in the fucking mood.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not asking for your side of the story. Nor am I interested in trying to reason with you. I just wanted to make it very clear that I am one hundred percent Team Elodie in this situation, and you’d better stay the fuck away from her, and from me, for the rest of term.’
‘You’d better remember I’m your boss,’ I warn her. ‘This is a place of work for us. Obviously, I blurred the lines by getting involved with Elodie,’—fuck, saying her name hurts—‘but that’s between me and her. You can support your friend without affecting our professional relationship.’
Her gaze flicks over me like I’m a pile of dog shit on the pavement.
‘Whatever,boss. Just note that I want nothing to do with you outside of anything relating to the History Department. Okay?’
‘Fine by me,’ I mutter and push my tray towards the chef so I can get the fuck out of here.
Today is torture on so many levels.
The excruciating memory of how much I hurt Elodie yesterday. The woman I love, staring up at me with disbelief and derision in her beautiful eyes.
The knowledge that she’s here, and that I can’t go to her. How much better it will be for her if I steer clear.
The unconscionable fucking abyss that is my future, now that I’ve walked away so decisively.
No more Elodie.
No more touching her.
No more running my lips over her body.
No more pulsing deep inside her as I gaze at her in awe.
No more waking up to her warmth. Her smile.
No more revelling in the singular paradise that is her affection. (Her love, even. I suspect, anyway.)
I know there’s no other path forward, but the pain of loss steals my breath from my lungs. I’m have no idea if there’ll come a point where I can look back on our brief time together with happiness, or whether it’ll always be marred by the hurt I’ve caused her and the agony I’ve brought upon myself.
I suspect it would have been better all round if I’d done the work to keep that fucking Jenga tower standing. To forbid myself from ever getting to know her. From letting her past my defences.
Towards the end of lunch break, during which I catch a glimpse of her down-turned head and a flash of her yellow dressin the staff garden from an upstairs window, I bite the bullet and go seek Phil out in his office.
‘Shittiest timing ever’—I rub my hand across my bloodshot eyes—‘but scratch what I told you the other week about Elodie and me. I’m afraid we’re no longer an item.’
He gapes at me. ‘You are fucking with me. What the hell happened?’
I sag, and he gestures to me to sit.
‘Jesus Christ, mate,’ he says. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Thanks. Haven’t slept.’
He taps his pen on his desk. ‘So. What happened?’
I purse my lips. ‘Had to let her go. It was delusional, thinking I could make a go of it beyond the initial… you know.’
‘Fuck-fest?’
I wince. ‘I was going to say infatuation, but yes.’
