"Yes... I want you to leave me alone. I mean it."
The words leave a sickly taste in your mouth and you wash them down with even more wine, aware that the more you drink the more your resolve might weaken but you're not thinking straight.
"Do you tho...
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"I don't know what I did to deserve you Y/N. Must have been something pretty special."
"Oh, I don't know about that..."
You're applying a slick of glossy pink to your lips, appraising your reflection in the mirror whilst your boyfriend watches on from his position stretched out on the bed. His words reach you, causing your gut to clench, an involuntary reaction to his praise. You force a smile, aware that he can see your reflection, but you don't turn around. Not even when he rises up from the bed and comes to stand behind you, his hands resting gently on your hips and his chin hovering over your shoulder. You just carry on looking at your joint reflection, the caring, devoted boyfriend and the conniving, sneaky girlfriend, the image wracking you through with guilt, so much so that you can't stand it, twisting out of his embrace and stepping to the side, mumbling that you have lots of things to do before the party guests arrive.
Larry lets you go.
If he's noticed the change in your behaviour the past few weeks then he hasn't said anything, he just goes about his daily life the way he always handles things, with a spring in his step and a smile on his lips, the eternal optimist who never lets things get him down. But then, why would he fret that he has anything to worry about with regards to your relationship? As far as he's concerned you're as much in love as you have been all these years, and why should he think any different? Why should he suspect that his sweet, loving girlfriend and his loyal childhood best friend would be playing such a dangerous game? And you do still love him, you really do, but, as you're beginning to realise, your moral compass is severely impaired, the thoughts of a clandestine, sleazy hook up with Van consuming your every waking moment, the temptation too strong to turn away from. But you have to try...
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The downstairs of the house is decorated just right. Creepy cobwebs and tacky Halloween props adorn every available surface, the lighting dim and subdued, provided by the eerie flicker of the fake candles you've purchased. You look around, satisfied with your handiwork, untwisting a bottle of vodka and pouring a large measure into the cauldron themed punch-bowl.
The guests are due to start arriving in around ten minutes and you're all set, so you take the opportunity to pour yourself a glass of wine, taking a large gulp and leaning back against the kitchen counter. Your reflection in the glass door of the microwave looks back at you, the sparkling halo that's nestled in the soft waves piled up on your head glittering in the dim light. You're an angel, dressed in virginal white although not entirely purely in a figure-hugging dress which compliments your figure, the bodice shaped perfectly to show off your enviable curves and the skirt long and flowing but cut daringly right up to the thigh.
