I don’t know how long passes. I really, honestly don’t know. The days are blurring together. The nights feel too long. I spend all my time lying in bed and crying.
I’m sad. I’m so sad, it feels like there’s an anvil sitting on my chest. I wake up every day, and for a few tiny seconds, I feel okay—until I remember the doctor’s visit. I remember meeting my mother. I remember that I’m never, ever going to have the family I wanted. And then I get sad again. So sad, I can’t even bring myself to move.
I’ve felt like this before, but not for a long time. Not since I was a kid. I felt it every time a foster family I’d fallen in love with sent me back to the care home. I don’t know if depression is the right word for it, exactly. I think maybe grief would be more accurate. It’s like I’m in mourning.
Which would make sense, right? I feel like I’ve lost a lot in one day.
Then again, I’m apparently fucking menopausal, so maybe it’s just my out-of-whack hormones. Or the pills my doctor prescribed me. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter what’s wrong with me, does it? Nothing matters. Nothing at all.
I try calling the boys a few more times, but none of them respond. After the first day, I give up. They obviously don’t want to speak to me. I put my phone down somewhere, and then lose it immediately in all of my crap. My flat is a mess. I can’t eat or sleep. I just lay in bed all day, watching my crappy little TV set and drinking cheap wine.
That is, until the landlord comes and thumps on my door.
“Bethany!” He shouts through the wood. “Open up. It’s Bill.”
Panic floods me. I jump out of bed, looking down at myself. I’m wearing a stained t-shirt that hasn’t properly fit me since I was fifteen, and a pair of pink knickers with holes worn in the crotch. I haven’t showered in days, and my apartment looks like a tip. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dirty plates in my sink are growing mould.
He’s going to kill me.
“Shit,” I mutter, yanking open my wardrobe. It takes me a few minutes to scrounge up clean clothes, and by the time I’m changed, his knocks have become a steady, full-on pounding. I can hear him swearing under his breath behind the door.
“Coming!” I call, stumbling across my flat. I trip over some shoes strewn on the floor and collapse against the front door. “Sorry, I’m coming.” My fingers fumble on the latch. They’re shaky and weak. I don’t remember the last time I ate. I should probably do that.
I eventually get the door unlocked and yank it open. My landlord glares at me. He somehow looks imposing, even though he’s five-two and has a fluffy white Santa Claus beard.
“Rent,” he grunts. “You’re late.”
Fuck. “Shit. Oh, God, I’m so sorry. It completely slipped my mind.”
It’s weird; I’ve been late with the rent before, and Bill’s never come to ask me for it in person. Then again, I’ve been pretty off-the-grid. For all I know, my email is filled with angry messages from him.
He studies me closely, taking in my unkempt appearance. I shift in the doorway, trying to block his view of the messy flat. “You don’t have the money?” He asks shortly.
“No, I do, I do. I’ll transfer it right away. I’m so sorry I forgot.” I pat down my pants, then remember my phone is AWOL. “Um, can you take a cheque?”
“Yes.”
I run to my little desk and yank open the top drawer, unearthing my cheque book. I have written exactly one cheque in my life, but luckily I still keep the thing lying around. “How much is it again?” I ask, grabbing a pen.
“Two thousand seven hundred for the quarter.”
Shit, that’s a lot of money. Thanks to the guys, I have enough, but I’ll be pretty much wiped out until they come back. If they still want me.
The thought slams into me like a truck. There’s no guarantee that Sebastian will still want to hire me when he gets home from the US. He’s certainly not in a hurry to fly back. Or call me.
I remember his words in the bedroom.
I don’t need her.
You’re overreacting, a voice says in the back of my mind. They’re busy. That’s why they’ve not been calling you. They’re not abandoning you.
The thing is, it wouldn’t even be abandoning me, would it? I’m not their girlfriend, I’m their employee. They can fire me whenever they want.
You’re just fragile and overemotional, the tiny voice insists. You’re not thinking straight.
Even so. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s to never depend fully on someone else. Especially someone that hasn’t bothered to contact you for a full week. Always have a back-up plan.
“Um.” I rub my eyes. “Can I pay just one month, instead of the full quarter?”
Bill’s eyebrows fly up. “You don’t like it here?”
“No, I just…” I remember Maisie. “I got offered a job up in Bristol. Probably won’t take it. But I’d like to keep my options open, just in case.”
“Is there something wrong with my building?” He asks, his voice rising.
“No, Bill.”
“Then why is everyone leaving? How am I supposed to find new tenants at this time of year?! The men upstairs rang and told me the exact same thing.”
My stomach goes cold. “What men upstairs?”
“Your friends. The tech guys.”
I stare at him. “They got a job in Bristol?”
“They’re planning on moving out, and want to pay rent monthly.”
I feel the blood rush out of my face. “Oh. Well. This is London. I’m sure you’ll find new tenants soon. Students, or something.”
His scowl deepens. “Do I look like a bloody university hall? I’m not taking in students! I swear to God, if I find out some other landlord is trying to poach my business—”
I cut him off. “That’s nine hundred for a month, right?”
He nods. I write out the cheque, and he snatches it out of my hand, muttering to himself as he stamps back down the corridor. I stand still for a moment, staring after him. My mind is racing, but I feel too tired to move.
They’re leaving. Without even telling me. They want to move away. Slowly, I close my door and lean against the wall, running a hand through my hair. My skin is boiling hot under my clothes.
I feel so fucking stupid.
Why am I like this? Why am I so desperate? It’s like I never grew up at all. I might be a grown woman now, but on the inside, I’m still the same terrified, hungry girl I was as a child. So desperate to be loved and cared-for that she clings to everyone who shows her a crumb of affection. Who falls head-over-heels for a guy in a matter of weeks.
And then another guy.
And another.
This is why I’ve been so careful not to date. Because I’m absolutely pathetic. When am I going to stop being such a fucking leech, and just stand on my own two feet? I obviously need to; clearly, I was never meant to have a family. I was meant to be alone. The universe has practically told me as much. No parents. No kids.
I need to get over this idea that I can ever have anybody.
I’m so fucking sad I just don’t know what to do anymore. I want to crumble into atoms and disappear.
