august

(...for the hope...)

You didn't show up the next day. Hardly a surprise, I suppose, but I'd sort of had this secret hope that maybe you just might, and the more I'd fostered it, the more possible it had seemed. So when I'd been standing there for fifteen minutes, in the spot we'd hooked up a dozen times before, and still you weren't there, my heart sunk.

The day was bright but the breeze had a sting to it, autumn's golden sun making the reddish leaves of the parking lot trees glow. I hung around five more minutes, then, when my I checked my phone and the time blared 10:21, I gave up. Following the line of trees, I tried to hide my disappointment.

It was a short walk back to the suburbs, but ten minutes is enough for a heart to break. And you'd already split right in half at least twice that summer. I think every time it healed it was more brittle, quicker to break the next time.

At my doorstep, I got my phone out of my pocket, and an Instagram notification lit up the screen. I froze, my key halfway to the door.

A DM from Betty, who I'd never messaged privately before:

heya! so i know we're not rlly friends or whatever but ik about the thing with james. i'm mad at him but we should sort it all out. come to my party tonight? from 7, i'll send my address  x

Why was she being so civil? I'm mad at him... but not at me? Surely she would be. I knew what I'd done was wrong, even if you'd been the one to take it from flirtatious glances to a reality. Yet I'd always hoped Betty would never find out—you'd promised me, after all. Are you sure? I remember whispering. Positive, you'd smiled back.

A part of me hoped you'd realise, after our sunkissed days by the sea, that you'd realise you had real feelings for me, and you'd break up with her. We'd get together properly, and that was it.

Except now you were the one ignoring me, whilst your girlfriend extended the olive branch.

I told my mom I was going to Betty's that evening, and she said nothing, though I caught her watching me carefully, trying to decide whether to press me for more information. I'd been to a couple of parties before, but that sort of thing wasn't usually my scene. Maybe I wanted to go so I could really sort out this mess, or maybe a part of me wanted to see you again.

A little of both, probably.

Because this might be a chance to fix things, but also, if I could, it was my last chance to prove that I could be someone you might leave her for. For the hope of it, I decided to go.

For the hope, I shaved my legs, plucked my brows, put on the figure-hugging black dress I'd worn the first time we'd slept together, the one I'd felt you undress me with your eyes first, and later that night, your hands, deft even in the darkness of a dim room.

For the hope, I dabbed a generous amount of my mother's expensive perfume onto my wrists, my neck. I strung a chain of silver stars across my collarbone, hung false diamonds from my ears.

For the hope, I painted my face: concealer over the dark circles under my eyes (and on the mark on my neck), dark purple on my lips, making my mouth a slash, my teeth contrasted starkly with the bold colour. Rings across my fingers, a slight blush powdered across my olive cheeks, dark mascara widening my eyes.

Out of the hope, and maybe a little out of desperation, I went to Betty's party, for the chance of seeing you.

The sun wasn't quite set, but its colours ran into the sky like a fresh wound, like heartbreak, like a painting, like blood.

I stood on the sidewalk. I pulled my jacket around my shoulders, shivered, gathered my courage.

Her house was one of the expensive, sprawling ones a couple streets away, further out of town. Muffled voices and music boomed from the yard. I stepped up to the porch, past the three slick black cars in the drive, and raised hand to the doorbell.

I took a breath, then rang it.