No goodbyes

iv

Brayden quickly gave up on trying to win her forgiveness. At first, he was persistent, desperate. He would knock on her door in the dead of night and ask—beg—her to go for a walk, in a voice so anguished, her chest would ache. Dara never let him in. The next morning, when she stepped out, she would find a note on her doorstep. She always flushed the notes down the toilet. Even if she had wanted to read them, she couldn't. Brayden's handwriting was terrible, the words so carelessly scrawled, they belonged to a language that was only comprehensible to him.

For a long time, she convinced herself that it was for the best. She did not need him. He was not a good friend. What kind of friend would say she was a nobody? Even his mother, who harboured a particular dislike for her, did not think she was a nobody. Dara had expected her to throw her out of the house, but she did not. She only stared at Dara with condescending pity and told her she could continue to live under her roof, so long as she didn't cause any trouble.

But it was Brayden who caused the trouble. Ever since their fight, he became a rebel of some sort. He morphed into an angry, frowning person who threw objects against walls. At first, Dara pretended to be deaf to the turmoil he birthed in the house, the shattering of vases, stomping of feet, raising of voices, but she could not help but feel responsible for the pain she'd caused him. She felt that pain too, the pain of being so far away from the one person you wanted to be the closest to.

Brayden gradually detached himself from her. He no longer knocked on her door or dropped notes. If they happened to cross paths, he would abruptly turn in the other direction, as if to say he wanted nothing to do with her. She was sure of that the day he brought a girl home. It wasn't just any girl, though. It was Racheal, his ex-girlfriend.

He liked to talk about Racheal, about her self-obsession and bad breath, and her inability to keep her legs closed. "She's disgusting. I don't even know why I ever dated her." he would say, as if the wanting flickering in his eyes wasn't enough answer. Dara hated Rachel without ever meeting her. She was a mystery Dara was afraid of losing Brayden to, but that day, as she saw Brayden sneaking her into his room, Racheal became a walking nightmare.

Rachel was gorgeous, in all the ways Dara could never be. She was tall, skinny, and caramel-skinned. Her perfume was more than just a scent she gave off. It was her aura, her personality: cloying, possessive, seductive. It was the kind of perfume a red-lipped, hip-swaying temptress would wear, and that evening, Dara was the most tempted she'd ever been in her life. Every time she heard their careless laughter, her fingers itched with the intensity of her bloodlust. She wanted to choke Rachael with the gold chain adorning her delicate neck, drown her, cut her slender legs off. 

When Brayden snuck Rachel back out, giving her an excruciatingly long kiss before shutting the gate, Dara could no longer keep it in.

"I thought you hated her,"

Brayden made a hissing sound. "And I thought you weren't talking to me."

"You're disgusting," Dara said, "It's barely a week since we fought and you're already trying to replace me. Rachael is a poor replacement and you know it. She's shallow and selfish, and you even said once that her breath stank!"

"You're so bloody insecure."

"You're disgusting."

Brayden cracked a smile. "You already said that."

For a long while, they just stood in silence, looking at each other. Then Brayden shook his head and laughed. "This is stupid. We're stupid. Want to watch Netflix?"

Dara wanted to be angry at him. She really did. She had plenty of reasons to, but when he slid his arm around her waist, she forgot all of them. They watched Netflix in his bedroom, in the dark, dipping in and out of a bowl of popcorn. Sometimes their hands would meet and they would quickly pull away, muttering 'sorry' to each other. Ever since their fight, something had changed. There was a self-conscious awkwardness between them that wasn't there before. Perhaps Brayden sensed this too because halfway through the movie, he switched off the Tv and flicked on the switch.

"I didn't mean to say you were a nobody to me."

Dara leaned back against the headboard of his bed. "Then why did you?"

"I don't know. I was scared. I didn't want my mother to know I was running around with you. She's scary sometimes"

"You were ashamed of me."

"And why would I be?"

Dara snorted. "I'm not an idiot, Brayden. I'm not like your other friends, like Racheal. I'm not rich. I don't have fashionable clothes—

"You need to stop telling yourself shit like that," Brayden sat beside her and took her hand. "Believe it or not, you're perfect. Can I tell you something?"

"Sure?"

"While I was with Rachael, all I could think about was you."

Dara searched his eyes, as if for the right words to say. She found none, so she ducked her head and pressed her lips to his, saying all she wanted to through a kiss. For a moment, Brayden was noticeably stiff, his biceps tense, but he gradually loosened up. He followed the awkward motions of her lips, before taking back control and guiding her into a sensual rhythm that made the pit of her stomach pool with pleasurable warmth. He turned her over in the bed so that she was straddling him, her hands flat on his solid pecs, his on her hips. She leaned over to kiss him again when he threw her off. With his back to her, he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, we can't."

Dara wiped her damp lips. "See. I told you you were ashamed of—"

"This has nothing to do with you!" He heaved up to his feet

"Then what's this about?"

Brayden sighed. "I don't want us to start something we won't finish."

"You're not making sense."

Brayden turned to look at her. "I'm moving away, Dara."