Buy Me, Sir

I’m crying quiet tears as I get dressed.

I can’t bring myself to say goodbye, so I don’t. I stand in the middle of that hotel room looking at Alexander Henley for one last time, and he sees me.

He holds out his cigarette packet.

“For old times’ sake?”

I take one and he holds a lighter to the end for me.

It’s a perfectly awful end for us. It makes me smile a sad smile.

“Go to college,” he says as he finishes his.

Please don’t leave, my soul screams, but I don’t say a word.

“Your cab should be here any minute,” he says.

I nod, and then I break. I rush towards him for one last touch, and he’s rigid in my arms but I don’t care. I don’t care that his jaw is gritted tight as I kiss his cheek.

I don’t care that he doesn’t hold me back.

“It was real,” I whisper. “I was real.”

“Goodbye, Melissa,” he says.

And I go.

I leave his cash on the dresser, and my heart in that room behind me.Chapter Forty-FiveAlexanderShe left her cash on the dresser. I didn’t notice until too late.

That cunt Claude will have some fucking questions to answer, and I’ll get her all she’s owed.

I feel beaten as I head down to the reception and hand over my key card.

I feel defeated as I call a cab of my own and wait outside.

I wanted answers and I got them, but they don’t make me feel any better.

Neither does her apology.

Hope. Such a fragile thing. Such a ridiculous thing.

I’d enjoyed it while it lasted.

Hope teased me with a glimpse of another life, where I could love someone and they could love me back. A life where I wouldn’t have to be alone.

I hate the thought of starting over without her.

I hate the thought of running away from my shitty life with nobody to run for.

I climb into the back of the cab and give the driver my address.

And then I change my mind.

I give him hers instead.

Melissa Martin knows everything about me, and I still know virtually fuck all about her.

She crawled inside my mind and died there, and I don’t even know her middle name.

It’s still there, the anger. Still bubbling under the surface.

I still feel violated.

I don’t know what food’s inside her fridge, or which music she has on her playlist. I don’t know what colour her bedroom is, or whether she has any pets.

I don’t know if she takes a bath or a shower in the morning.

I don’t know what she looked like on her old school photos.

She knows fucking everything about me, and that smarts.

It’s like an itch I can’t get fucking shot of, this insane desire to even the score.

I almost change my mind as the cab pulls up outside her block.

It’s a shithole. This whole area is a shithole.

The entrance door is covered in graffiti and the stairwell stinks of piss. I don’t touch the handrail as I make my way up to her floor. My hands are in my pockets as I scope out where her flat is.

It’s in a corner at the back of the top floor, number 21.

I close my eyes as I knock, and it’s not really a knock at all, it’s a deafening thump. A whole fucking string of them.

It’s Dean who answers. His eyes widen in horror as he clocks it’s me.

I’m past him in a heartbeat, my eyes wild as they feast on everything in that place.

“Where is she?” I snap, and he heads on through the living room. He taps on a door at the far end and she looks tiny and broken as she steps out. Her cheeks are blotchy and tear-streaked and her hair is a mess.

Her eyes well up afresh as she sees me, and her bottom lip trembles. “Alexander?” she says as she dashes over. “What are you doing here?”

Dean’s shoulder shunts mine as he passes. He takes a coat from the hook. “Don’t fucking hurt her,” he tells me.

I have no intention of fucking hurting her.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he tells Melissa, and she nods.

I wait until the door closes behind him.

And then I walk right on past her.

I start in her kitchen. I read all the little notes on her fucking pinboard. I flick through the cookbooks and tear through all the drawers.

“What are you doing?” she asks, but makes no attempt to stop me.

“You saw fucking everything of mine,” I snap. “You snooped in fucking everything. I’m showing you how it fucking feels to have your home invaded.”

I know I’m a fucking lunatic, but I don’t care.

There’s barely anything in her fridge. Some milk, and ham and fresh vegetables. A half-used block of cheese.

I march through to the living room when I’m done in the kitchen. I tear through the display cabinet, digging through all the letters in the top drawer.