We go through the sequence almost in slow motion. My body feels cooler, heavier. When that horrible, taunting grin plasters across his face, I know I have permission to speed up. Thank fuck for that.
“EXPLODE!” he cries.
And we do.
I jab Dominic for all the times he rejected me physically, then got pissed when I occasionally said no. But you’re always such a sure thing, Cait.
I hook into his jaw for all the crap he said about Mom and Mills, how he took my private complaints and twisted to validate them as his own.
I come up into the air and shove my knee in his groin for three birthdays, three Christmases and three Valentines’ days where he made more effort taking a piss than he did getting stuff for me.
I raise my fist the way he did when he threatened me, when he told me it had been over for months, really–are you stupid or something? Don’t embarrass yourself, Cait–and that he’d hit me if I didn’t get off his property.
And now he sends me that sad little message, actually takes the time to drop off the photo? Cry me a river, cretin. I travel a good foot forward to end him with one massive front kick, and then finish it with a swift right jab to the–ohholygodthatHURTS.
I don’t round the track off with my usual spin. Instead, I clutch along my back, aware of an ache that stings down into the flesh of me. Something has been…pulled. Eesh. A voice calls us into child’s pose from a distant corner of the room, but it’s a few seconds before I join the herd to collect my mat. And as I follow Hans and the group through stretches and combat blocking, it’s clear that I “exploded” too much–a tight ribbon of tension thrums through the left side of my back.
Vicky approaches as I linger outside the studio. “You okay? You’re standing funny.”
“Pulled something. Stupid punches.” I try rolling my shoulder, but give up with a wince. Moving makes it worse. “I’m going to give swimming a miss, I think. That okay?”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll skip too. Whatever.”
“Oh, you don’t have to–”
“Cait.” She points her water bottle at me in protest. “It only takes me closer to the cheese, so fermé la bouche already.”
Experimentally, I begin to roll my mat. A sharp pain radiates around one shoulder blade and plunges diagonally to meet my hip. This is officially Not Good, and I actually give a little bleat, like a lamb.
“You want me to carry that?” she offers.
“Um…yeah. Please.” I don’t want to be injured, dammit. How am I supposed to burn off my anger if I can’t exercise?
Vicky taps me with her index finger and tucks my mat beneath her arm, with hers. “Come on then, clumsy. Let’s get you home.”
The further we walk down the corridor, the more the hurt intensifies; something has snapped, like an over-extended lash. I guess that’s what you do to a muscle if you throw a punch too hard. Gaaah. Is this some sort of backwards, satanic karma?
“Cait?” says a deep voice behind me.
I freeze.
Art. Crap.
Vicky–who has been told, in no great detail, that Saturday’s date Did Not Go Well–pauses, her eyeballs drifting slowly towards Art.
It’s him, she mouths at me.
I go to shrug–because that’s how much I don’t care, honestly–but I end up bleating again with another spasm of razorblade pain.
“Cait?” Art says again. “Are you all right?”
With one hand slipped back to massage my sore side, I turn to face his…waste of face. For crying out loud–it’s like he waits until I’m a hot mess and then just pounces. Maybe he’s got an alarm too: warning! Cait looks especially unattractive. Accost her at once!
Only he doesn’t look capable of anything so mean. Standing there in his black vest and track pants, shoulders reaching wide to broaden his silhouette and waist tapering to highlight lean muscle, he ushers heat where I don’t want it. That’s before I even find the courage to meet his amber eyes, and when I do…tremble, breathe, shiver. I hate that I want him so much, hate it, hate it. He hasn’t started boxing yet, the smoke hasn’t taken him, and he looks so deliciously…nice. Strapping and hot and nice.
Well, I know better.
A brief, unsure smile quirks at his lips. “Did you–”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
And then I march off before the grim reality of my own rudeness sinks in. Vicky gapes for a second, then lowers her wide eyes and hurries after me.
“Jesus. It really didn’t go that well with him, did it?” she hisses as we head down the stairs.
My cheeks are burning so hard, I can’t focus on anything else. Below my feet, the stairs turn to a blurring river. “He’s a mindfuck.” Who does he think he is? Approaching me like everything’s normal, like he didn’t jump away from me the other night like I’d got the plague–
“He looked like you just murdered his puppy. Or his cat,” she corrects, not without amusement. “Because cats, remember?”
“I remember.” Unfortunately.
“What did he do, Cait?”
We stagger through into the changing rooms, and Vicky digs our locker keys out of her pocket. Our bench is busier than usual tonight, and women stand about in towels, workout gear or various states of undress. The air reeks of deodorant and hairspray toasted by dryers.
“What he did,” I begin as I ease my bag from my locker–also wincing–“is take me on a lovely, perfect date, and then chicken out of kissing me at the last minute like a complete weirdo.”
She shakes out her stripy bath towel. Disturbed air settles between us in a chilled waft, and Vicky stares at me, blinking. “I hope you just heard how ridiculous that sounds.”
“You weren’t there! It wasn’t…chickening out is the wrong way of saying it. He went right in to kiss me and then pulled back again, like the actual hand of God came down and yanked him away,” I rant, still rubbing my back. “Also, ouch. And ouch.”
Vicky tuts. “You’re right. I wasn’t there. But if he seemed to like you up until then, and he looked all forlorn and wounded just now because you completely snubbed him, I’m putting my money on there being a good explanation for him being such a weirdo.”
“Great. I’m so glad there’s a good explanation for it, really, because it makes me feel so much better about the whole thing.”
“Cait.” She cocks a warning eyebrow at me. “Pain does not become you.”
I huff about with my gym bag for a minute, marinating in my own sweat and discomfort until I realise how much I sound like my mother. Then I drop my voice to a low, miserable whisper. “Did you even see him? He’s not even just hot, Vick–he’s a fucking biological weapon. And I’m me.”
She gives a single, astute nod. “You know what’s not going to help you, like, ever?”
“Enlighten me. Go on.”
“Projecting all your Dominic-related issues on to Art.” She says it with this wibbling humility, and I don’t know whether to thank her for it or just exercise my extra-special new jab. “We talked about this stuff, didn’t we? He trampled all over your self-esteem like a big ginger elephant. He’s still trying to, actually, but he only wins if you–”
“If I let him. Yeah. I know.” I sink down to the bench and grit my teeth as the impact works its way up my bruised muscles. Projecting? I’m not projecting. Wait…am I?!
“So don’t let him. Go talk to Art.”
“I can’t.” I follow faint cracks in the tiled floor with an unusual level of interest. “He rejected me, Vick.”
“He wasn’t acting like it.”
“He said about five words! How can you even tell?”
“Sheesh. I dunno.” She puts her hands up, and then sinks down next to me to yank her trainers off. “Fine, don’t talk to him. But you’ve got to work with him anyway.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I’ve been in a crap mood since…well.” Since I was almost definitely rejected. And since Dominic took the extra-stalky route with the photo, although I�
��m trying very hard not to think about that. I’ve wedged said photo behind the stack of books on my windowsill in the hope that spring sunshine will fade it further, just as it faded him. “Seriously. Sorry.”
“Don’t be such a silly moo. Hey.” She smiles ruefully. Her trainers land on the floor with a little bounce. “It’s scary, yeah? New bloke, new issues. They don’t all have to be bad, though.”
“But they might be. I changed my mind–I don’t even want a relationship. They’re just full of epic mental conundrums, and then there’s the sheer horror of actually having to go back on the pill.” Instead, I’ll become Grace, roasting seagulls called Art and Dominic–only I’ll be cooler because I’ll photograph them with flattering filters. Hashtag #tastygull.
“I like the pill,” Vicky announces, probably too loudly for a communal changing room. “No periods. Win.” Then she stares around at some of the pensioners who’ve stopped messing with their perms to gape at her. Vicky gives her ponytail a toss; here comes the Drama Student Speech. “Also, free love and shagging randoms and festivals and doing LOADS OF E!”
The poor pensioner ladies don’t know where to look. Neither do I.
“I’ve never shagged a random,” I say, almost wistfully.
“Me either–not a properly nameless one. It’s on my bucket list though.” She takes a swig of water. “You know, before my vag actually turns into a bucket.”
“Seriously, you and Drew. Think about it. He smiths as crudely as you, if not more.”
“We’ve had this conversation, Cait.”
I give her a sidelong glance. “Just think about it. He even bakes.”
“With Rich. You were teaching them both, right?”
“Yep. And I was impressed. You see the photos?” I stand up to peel off my clothes, and my spine ripples against barbed wire. Holy fuck. “Eesh…I have totally screwed my back.”
“Photos: yes. They were awesome. Back: we’ll get a cab home, okay? I’ll put it on my dad’s account.”
Ah, Vicky’s dad. Otherwise known as The Bank. I feel bad about it, but she never does. It’s his way of making up for his divorce, even though her mum divorced him. Two-parent units: I will never understand them, together or broken or suffering in the narrow valley between. Nobody yet has told me whether this is cynical or just downright strange.
Also, Vicky, asking after Rich? Well isn’t that…interesting?
***
Things back pain is good for: punishing myself for being a bitch. So not that good, actually. Balls.
Things back pain is bad for: everything else. Sleep, in particular. Sleep is not my friend these past few days, and I’m guessing it’s just another thing Dominic has sucked up like the shit-eating vacuum that he is.
Things I’m utterly sick of: thinking about Dominic. At all. I’d been doing so well since we split, and now it feels like he’s unpicking me from a distance with a giant needle, leaving my seams all open and split. I’m love’s roadkill, people, and he’s a big fuck-off four-by-four just rolling over the wreckage.
Bed time isn’t really going how I planned. I’ve been tossing and turning for about two hours now. I even read more of The Waves, where Grace takes a bath and lies there until the water is freezing, just watching a spider swing from the ceiling on a single strand of web. Feeble creature with its slick gossamer web, awaiting first courses and confidantes alike. Eight eyes must weep eight times the tears at such loneliness. Sympathy for spiders–this book is more of a catastrophe than my love life.
Speaking of my love life: I’m about to let it burn. In a fit of tired temper, I stomp back over to the windowsill with gritted teeth and a jelly spine, and yank the photo of me and Dominic out from behind the books. A cinnamon candle flickers softly on the ledge beside a mug half-full of cold, murky coffee; I thrust the corner of the photograph into the flame, watching Dominic’s face waste to melted ash. It quivers to a grimace before glowing orange in tiny spheres of ember…which reminds me of Art. Smite has become my default setting, alas, and he bore the brunt of it earlier, slow-burning eyes and all. I dunk the smoking remains of the photo into cold coffee and relish the pleasing little hiss it emits.
I wish I could just have sex with Art and be done with it. No fussing or relationship or trying to figure out the matted labyrinth of a boy’s brain. On this basic chemical level, my body agrees with his touch; maybe that’s all I need. He could be my random, and after, we could just go about life like the busy bees we are. Hell, my body likes this idea especially. The pain in my back ebbs to shivers further down, and I ignore the nagging voice that tells me Art feels more than just a fuck to press my thighs together before hormones overcome me, and I do something that’ll only strain my back further.
Though I ache for that, too. God, do I.
My phone goes off. Mills, finally.
Am on for Fri. Just have 2 get my Sims to fall in lurve first.
I grin as I text her back. Priorities ;) At least she’s not asleep yet–insomnia means she’s back to normal, I hope.
Then my eye wanders to the tiny white voicemail icon in the corner of my screen. It’s been there for over a day now, nearly two. If it’s Dominic–which it must be, since he’ll have sussed out my blockfest–then I should listen and delete as part of my purge. With a deep breath, I dial voicemail and then squeeze my eyes shut as I bring the receiver to my ear. Closure awaits. It’s nothing to be afraid o–
“Um. Hi.” Art’s voice. Art’s soulful, dry-humoured posh boy voice. My heart plummets down into the rough cushion of the carpet. “Cait. It’s me. Art, I mean. I got your number off Hazel. I’m sorry to disturb you, but ringing felt a bit more personal than a text.”
I can feel my knuckles turning white around the phone. Oh crap. God.
“Look. I’ll keep it brief. I…I wanted to check in and just say, I’m looking forward to seeing you again. Maybe give me a call? See you…soon.” He exhales heavily, all static and earthy breath, and I’m yanked back to the moment in the hall where he stroked a playful finger across my lip and my tongue snuck out to meet him. Now, with his brusque words and wavering tone, he’s a spidery ball of contradictions. I just–well. I want to lick his finger again. I want to press my mouth over his entire fist until I’ve tasted every millimetre of tanned skin.
I spend a moment just letting the message sink in. Of all things, Art actually sounds nervous. My inner overanalyst spins into gear: he’s picking up the pieces because you work together. He’s covering all the bases so it’s not awkward, trying to be friends…and yet somehow, I don’t quite buy it. It’s gone midnight, so way too late to reply to him. But tomorrow, I could do it, if I can find the guts.
I take my second deep breath of composure. Then I kneel down, scrape up the bloody mess of my heart from the carpet, and shove it into place with a wince-inducing squelch. Scarlet mist flashes on my palms, flickering with every blink. I may not have guts, but I feel for all the world as if I just held a heart in my hands, still beating. In my mind’s eye, it writhed.
Yeah. I need to stop reading this weird ass book.
Chapter Twelve
If there’s one thing worse than a seminar about Google algorithms, it’s a seminar about Google algorithms where it hurts just to lean back in your chair.
“In order to understand changes in organic web traffic,” says our tutor, jabbing at his Power Point display, “we first must comprehend how major updates function. If you’ve read the notes on Google Penguin and Google Panda, then you’ll know the basic…”
This is what I get for choosing digital marketing. I thought they’d just be teaching us stuff we already knew about Twitter, or forcing us to make YouTube videos; why don’t they say in the prospectus that some points of uni are actually quite hard?
The tutor hands around a list of websites. We have to suggest changes in order to improve the sites’ rankings, taking into consideration keywords, industry, current traffic and anticipated algorithm updates.
“I wonder,” Rich mut
ters beside me, “if we can make a case for names like Penguin and Panda being racist. Because then I can totally get out of this.”
“And you’d leave me here to suffer?”
“Depends.” He gives my thigh a nudge with the blunt end of his pen. “You got cake in that bag?”
“I have zero in that bag besides a bit of paper–I can’t freaking carry it.” I saw the doctor first thing, who diagnosed the very official-sounding lower back strain and gave me some painkillers that feel suspiciously opiate. Maybe I can sell them to Drew.
“Good job I brought this then, eh?” Rich pulls an iPad out of his satchel. “Cait. What would you do without me?”
“Look pathetic on Instagram.”
“Exactly.”
We pick a website to start with–a cat appreciation forum; who even chooses these?–and load it up to go through various stats.
“Now here’s a dilemma,” Rich says. “Do I share my notes with Drew?”
I rub my back absentmindedly. “Is he hungover again?”
“Yep.”
“Meh. If you don’t, he’ll only nag me until I share mine.”
“Good point.” He taps his pen against the beech desk. “You…heard anything from that guy?”
I freeze. “You mean, date guy?”
“Yeah.”
“I did, actually.” And now Rich is going to make me talk about it. This is what I get for utilising their man-advice skills: I have to provide updates. Like I’m Facebook. “He, uh, left me a voicemail. Said he was looking forward to seeing me again.”
Rich blinks. “Oh did he, now?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s good news. In fact it’s better than that. I’s like an olive branch, only the branch–”
“–Is his penis. Yeah, yeah. I get it.”
“So you replied to him?”
“I…not yet,” I mumble.
“Why the hell not?”
Because I’m so far from ready for a relationship, dear Rich, that last night I could have sworn I scooped my own squelching heart off the carpet. “You know, Vicky saw the picture of your cupcakes.”
Tainted Touch Page 12
