I can’t let her go yet—can’t let go of my guilt. I should just be alone. It’s for the best.
I end up skipping on sending back a text to Rae, knowing that by doing so I’m allowing myself to continue to hold on to the idea of London and continue to think of Lila sitting up in her apartment in the hand towel at the same time.
My fucked-up thoughts are giving me a headache. “Shit,” I mutter, kicking the tire.
I really fucking need a drink.
Chapter Two
Lila
I’m sitting on the couch alone, wearing a towel, stunned and slightly ashamed of myself. I don’t know what the hell happened. Well, actually I do since it’s happened before, but it still doesn’t make it any easier. One minute Ethan’s hand was wandering up my thigh and it felt so good but then he just up and left, totally blowing me off, and it frustrates me because I want him. Badly.
Ever since I met Ethan, that’s how he’s been toward me. He’ll flirt with me all the time, yet for the most part he never acts on it, teasing me but never fully following through. I’m always hoping he’ll surprise me and finally do something, like show that he’s attracted to me. Something tells me that he might be a little different from the other guys I’ve slept with, sweeter, softer, or maybe rough, but in a good way. Usually, I’m strictly a collared shirt, slacks, nice car, money kind of girl. But there’s something about Ethan and the mysteriousness in his brown eyes, the intricate tattoos on his arms, and the way his black hair is always all over the place that makes me burn with curiosity. And part of me thinks that maybe, just maybe I’d finally feel something besides unworthiness and humiliation after I had sex with Ethan. Although, I’m really starting to wonder if I just have a broken vagina. And heart. And head.
After he leaves me high and dry, the two pills I popped before I took a shower quickly and fortunately kick in and everything—even being alone in my empty apartment after Ethan blew me off—feels okay. The pills keep away the memories and feelings of what happened last night, along with many other nights in my past. And not remembering them is important. Pain equals unwanted emotions, meltdowns, embarrassment. As much as I hate the blackouts the pills give me, I also hate temporary blackouts where bits and pieces come back to me in sharp, disgraceful images. All that does is remind me of what I’ve become and how empty and insignificant I feel inside. Sometimes it feels like my body doesn’t belong to me, like I lost it a long time ago and I’ll never get it back. I wonder if this is how everyone feels after sex. If they feel so dirty and unclean.
It does seem like I’ve been getting worse lately, but life seems to be getting harder. In the last year and a half my roommate and best friend moved out to go live her life and now I’m alone. I tried to stand up for myself to my parents, telling them I wouldn’t come home and live the life they want me to live, and in return my dad took away my car. A few months ago he also canceled all my credit cards and now I’m running out of money and can’t even come up with enough to pay my tuition. Being poor isn’t something I think I can live with. So to escape the painful, shameful reality of how pathetic my life has become, I’ve started sleeping around more and downing more and more pills.
I first started taking the pills when I was fourteen because my mother encouraged me to, saying they would help erase the shame and dirtiness I’d been feeling. I’d just had sex for the first time with a guy who pretty much used me and it turned out the pill worked brilliantly, numbing almost all of my emotions. So I’ve been taking them ever since.
Sighing, I get dressed in a light-blue sundress, twist my hair up with some clips, and head to the kitchen to clean up the floor. Last night I spilled a bunch of wine on it, but I was too drunk to clean it up and now it’s stuck to the tile and is stinking up the house. I grab a barely touched sponge and some cleaner out from under the sink, then try not to gag as I put a pair of rubber gloves on and get down on my hands and knees.
I hate cleaning up the house and try to avoid doing any sort of cleaning at all cost. I’d been having someone come clean the house since Ella left, but I’m running low on cash and can’t afford her anymore. I get down on my hands and knees with a bucket of water and a sponge. As I’m scrubbing the floors, my mother calls me and I almost laugh to myself, wondering what she would do if she saw me on my hands and knees scrubbing dirt off the floor with a sponge.
I turn around and sit down before answering my phone, noticing that I’ve missed a call from Ella, like Ethan suspected. “Yes, mother,” I answer.
“Have you changed your mind about coming home?” She’s been saying the same thing to me ever since I announced my sudden decision to move to Vegas and attend UNLV over a year and a half ago. I’d just graduated from boarding school and had returned home for the summer. My family thought I was going to Yale in the fall, only because I’d lied to everyone and told them I was. I felt ashamed and I was angry at myself for feeling that way, like I couldn’t just admit that I wasn’t smart enough to go to a fancy school. I’d felt ashamed for the last four years and I didn’t want to feel that way anymore. I knew eventually I’d have to tell everyone that I didn’t get accepted to Yale or any other Ivy League school, so instead of facing it, I left. I packed my shit, opened a map, and pointed to a random place, which ended up being Vegas. I said good-bye to my mother and she fought me the entire way, yelling and screaming and saying that I’d never make it on my own. But I had money and decent grades and UNLV accepted me in a heartbeat.
“No,” I respond with the same answer I always give her. “And I already told you I wasn’t going to change my mind.”
“Well, I was hoping that your mind decided to be smart,” she counters. “But then again, I guess I should know better. You’ve proved over the last many, many years, just how stupid your decisions can be.” She sounds more and more like my father the more time goes on. She’s almost like clay, easily pliable and shapeable.
I pick at my nail polish, debating whether to go to my room and take another pill. She’s taking a jab at me for the huge mistake she’ll never be able to forgive me for, not only because of what it made me look like but because it made her and my father look like they raised a slut.
“Did you call for a reason?” I ask calmly “Or to just complain about me?”
“Your father wants you to come home,” she states in a subdued voice. “He says if you do he’ll give you back your car and credit cards.”
“As always, I’m going to have to decline his offer.”
“Well, as always you’re going to make dumb choices that make this entire family look bad. Between your sister being a waitress and having an illegitimate child and your living in Vegas in an apartment, we look like the low-lives of the community.”