But then how can I regret tonight? How can I regret Josh?
I stop pacing. No, I don’t regret it. None of it. So what if I sneak out to try and be normal once in a while? Mum and Dad should give it a go sometime.
I sink down on to my bed feeling suddenly exhausted. I look at my phone – it’s 5.30 a.m. Urgh. I need some sleep and I need something to calm my spinning thoughts.
I pull open my bedside drawer and stare down at the tiny tablets. They’re my magic pills. Apparently, they help make me happy, sleepy and hungry all at once. I take one every night since everything that happened with Akash – and I stopped being happy, sleepy or hungry.
I rummage under my bed to find the bottle of whisky I took from Akash’s wardrobe after he disappeared. I swallow a pill down with a swig. It’s disgusting. Burns my throat. But the smell reminds me of him.
I push the bottle back and climb into bed. I don’t bother getting changed into pyjamas. I hug Akash’s cap and wish I could talk to him. He’d know exactly what to say to make me feel better.
As I wait for my happy, sleepy tablet to kick in, I close my eyes. I let the bad thoughts come.
If only I’d listened to Akash that night.
If only I’d gone to the party with him.
If only I’d answered the phone later, when he called.
If only. If only. IF ONLY.
I toss and turn as birds start singing outside. The sky turns from orange to bluish white. Then, finally, the pill makes everything hazy and sleep comes.
Later that morning, I wake to a lot of angry coughing. Dad’s standing next to my bed, dressed in a suit. ‘Get up,’ he commands as I open my eyes. ‘Call in sick at the art centre. We’re going to church.’ My head’s spinning and my lips are ridiculously dry. I open my mouth to protest, but, before I manage to say anything, he says, ‘Now.’ His voice is barely under control and I have the feeling he’ll lose it if I don’t do as he says.
I don’t feel as brave as I did last night.
‘Yes, Dad,’ I say sulkily, though every bit of me wants to go back to sleep. I want to press my face into the squishy pillow and ignore real life for now. I want to dream about Josh. I want my head to stop spinning.
Dad storms out of the room. My eyes sting from the morning’s brightness. I feel nauseous. But I force myself to sit up and call my boss, Rosie, before the worry kicks in. (What if she doesn’t believe me? What if I lose my job?) My voice is so croaky that it’s not actually difficult to fake being sick, and Rosie is sympathetic, which is a relief. Once I hang up, I peer across the room, at my sky-sea painting above the dressing table. I wish I could go to the art centre and escape everything for a bit. I smile as I remember Akash’s face when he gave me the picture. But then I feel sick again. He understood, so perfectly, what I needed. Why did he have to leave?
Suddenly I don’t want to be in bed any more. I don’t want to think about all this stuff. I drag myself out from under my duvet, stick on the flowery dress I save for church and take in a deep breath to clear my head. If going to church is my only punishment for last night, I reckon I’ve got off quite lightly.
In the car, I check my phone. I have a message from Fi asking if I got home OK, and three from Josh. My heart races as I scroll through them, glancing at Dad in between to make sure he’s not looking. I don’t need to worry though: as usual, Dad’s eyes are glued to the road. Dad’s extra careful about driving. He’s careful about most things, always has been, but even more so since everything happened.
6.15: Amazing night! Sorry about the stars/awkwardness. LOL. See you Monday …] x
9.02: Sore head? X
9.17: Oh God, it hurts sooo bad ] x
I look at all the kisses after the messages. They’re new. We don’t usually add kisses when we message each other. I grin like an idiot, but then I quickly wipe the smile off my face before Dad sees, and message Josh back, trying to play it cool.
Great night. And oh God, I have KNIVES in my head …
I also add a kiss, and press send. Then I see that I have a message from Raheela.
Stop messaging me at stupid times of the night. We’re not friends any more!
Huh? I didn’t message her, did I? Why would I? I’m about to reply to ask what she’s on about, but when I scroll up I see that I did message her. At 5.30 in the morning.
Upset. Any chance of a chat? Only you get my parents …
I stare at the message. Did I really send that? I don’t remember doing it. And I don’t know why. We haven’t spoken properly for months – pretty much since I started hanging out with Fi. I message back to tell her I didn’t send her that message. Then I realize that sounds weird because I must have. And so I send another to say I didn’t mean to.
I sneak another look at Dad. He’s got this massive scowl on his face. Is he also thinking about last night? I guess I should mention it, get it over and done with.
‘Dad?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say, though I’m not sorry I snuck out. I’m not sorry I got drunk. I’m definitely not sorry about Josh. I just wish Dad hadn’t caught me.
Dad scoffs. ‘What happened last night won’t happen again,’ he says, his voice robotic, like he’s trying to convince both of us. I realize I need to work a lot harder if he’s going to believe me or trust me again.
‘It … it was the first time, Dad,’ I lie. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I won’t do it again.’ And then, just to make sure there’s no doubt, I add: ‘I promise.’ I feel a bit guilty about that last bit.
I think about Josh and wonder what would happen if Mum and Dad knew about him. A bit of sick shoots up my throat and I taste last night’s wine. I’m not sure if it’s my hangover or the thought of never kissing Josh again. I can’t let that happen.
Dad clears his throat. ‘Just think about everything in church today, OK? Think about everything very, very carefully.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Good.’ He glances at me now and I tuck my phone into my bag. ‘And I haven’t told your mum. This will stay between us.’
‘Oh!’ I stare at him. ‘Kaaaay,’ I add, to hide my shock. I don’t want him to change his mind. ‘I mean OK.’
Mum and Dad are one of those couples who tell each other everything. They weren’t always like that, but, a few months after everything happened with Akash, Mum gave up her job. That’s when she stopped leaving the house. I think she must have post-traumatic stress or something because she constantly worries something bad will happen. I guess she feels inside is safer. Which I do kind of understand.
Anyway, that’s when Mum and Dad started discussing every detail of each other’s days. Dad tells Mum exactly what he had for lunch, like if there was lettuce in his chicken sandwich or if the bread was a bit stale. And she’ll go on about any phone conversations or visitors she had, what she cooked, what she served with tea. It’s seriously boring.
I’m still looking at Dad, trying to understand.
‘She’s got enough to worry about,’ he says, eyes glued to the road again. ‘She’ll only get upset.’