The Mechanic

Chapter Forty-six - "Abandonment Issues."

"The Mechanic"

Chapter Forty-six

'Abandonment Issues.'

Demi's POV

Ever since the news broke, Ariana hadn't stopped calling. She likely thought I was ignoring her, but truthfully, I wasn't. I just missed the call nearly every time, and with the side effects of my concussion, I often forgot to call her back.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise to me that she'd appeared at my front door.

But it did.

"Uh . . . hey," I said, wide-eyed at the sight of her. The look on her face was angry; sad.

"I've been calling," she whimpered, her voice upset. Her eyelashes were all blended together, appearing dampened by tears. Her hair wasn't in its usual slick high ponytail, her fingernails were bitten down to the nub.

At this sight, I knew she'd been stressed. 

"I . . . I've missed you," I heard myself say; a truth. Ari scoffed.

"You've missed me? You haven't called me at all since it happened, Demi! I've been so worried!" Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around my neck, her breath short and fast. "God, I'm so mad at you."

My arms still awkwardly at my sides as she held me, I stared at the wall far behind her.

"I know, I'm sorry."

Ari pulled away, placing her hands on my shoulders.

"I may not be your best friend anymore," she sniffled, her gaze tight on my eyes. "But you're still mine. You could have at least answered my calls."

My eyes were darting around her; I couldn't quite maintain my focus.

"Just . . . come in." I took a step back from the door, allowing her over the threshold and into the apartment. As I shut the door behind her, I heard the pattering of her footsteps as she circled around the coffee table and onto the couch. "Would you like a drink?" I asked, turning to the kitchen without even looking at her.

As I pulled open the fridge, I heard her sigh.

"Why won't you talk to me?"

I closed my eyes slowly, taking a breath. 

"It's not personal-,"

"It has to be," I heard her say. "Demi, please look at me."

And so I did.

And she was distraught.

"Talk to me," she pleaded.

"You know what?" I slammed the fridge shut, suddenly angry. "You wanna talk? Fine. Let's talk." I walked over to her, beginning my rant. "My face is plastered all over the news because my abusive ex-boyfriend broke into my house and tried to kill me, Ariana. He broke my wrist, he gashed open my forehead -- he gave me a concussion so bad that it fucks with my ability to sleep! And my boyfriend lost his job because of that. A job that the rest of his life depended on. A job that his entire family depended on. And guess what? He hasn't been sleeping either!" I stared her square in the eyes. "And you know what pisses me off most? The whole world is blaming me. Denise is blaming me for ruining their lives; the fucking media is blaming me for putting Wilmer in jail; and now YOU are blaming me for some insignificant bullshit about not answering the phone?"