Lesson 9 – The Messenger

“I’ll go buy a new one after I close the shop. Just… tell him I’ll be late.”

Jen fumbled with her very much worse-for-wear, dead mobile as she spoke. I had told her that she could easily phone from mine to inform her boyfriend of three months, yet she insisted I go, because “his phone would be on silent mode, and he would not hear it.”

The fact that she had sent me to her apartment on my way home to deliver her message shouldn’t have bothered me so. But as I walked towards the building, I could not help thinking about how my efforts to avoid meeting him ever since they got together had failed.

Miserably so.

I had refused countless invitations to meet them both together on a “friend date” for as long as she showed me a picture of him.

Jen had been studying in Scotland for years and had just returned home. We barely kept in touch. At least, not in a very meaningful way.

She hadn’t known. She couldn’t have known.

I shivered, not from the chill that had fallen upon that late afternoon, but from the thought of seeing him again.

Breathe. It is just a simple message.

I suppose it cannot be helped. This encounter would have happened, sooner or later.

Upon reaching the apartment block, I pulled my jacket and scarf closer to my face and walked towards the door. As I was going to ring the bell, another tenant opened the main door on his way out, and, smiling, left it open, gesturing kindly for me to enter.

Damn. It was as if the stars themselves wanted to pave a clear path between him and me.

I thanked the man and stepped inside, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists. Before long—and after three flights of steps, which I took instead of the lift in the hopes of easing my nerves—I stood before her apartment door.

Number Four.

I knocked. Once.

I waited. Nothing.

Maybe he was not there. I turned to leave, thinking that perhaps it was for the best—

The lock clicked.

I froze.

Dammit.

A familiar voice came from the doorway. “Yes?”

Reluctantly, I turned. And stilled.

Marc was standing casually at the threshold,in just his jeans, looking very much like he owned the place.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and I could see the slightest tautness in his posture.

“Lena?”

“I—”

The words got stuck in my throat. No matter how long it had been—too long for me to even care about it anymore—I still found myself unable to tear my eyes off him—his eyes—forever piercing, forever drawing me in. That I-know-you-want-me kind of gaze.

I did want him. I couldn’t, now more than ever, given everything that has happened between us, given that my best friend now dates him, but for sure—

Damn. Snap out of it, Lena. Now isn’t the time.

“Jen—she—uh—”

I tried to act all cool about it by pretending to fish into my bag just so that I could avoid his gaze, and when I finally found it—conveniently at the bottom—I took it out and pretended to text someone.

“Jen says she’ll be late tonight,” I said, not looking at him. “She needs to buy a new phone. The one she has—”

I stammered. I could feel his gaze assessing me from the corner of my eye. He did not speak. But I could feel the amusement in his expression as I struggled to form a coherent sentence.

“Thanks for that. Would you like to come in? From the looks of it, you could use a hot drink.”

What?

I tensed but refused to look at him.

No.

I had half a heart to accept, yet I didn’t trust myself. Because, despite having spent years trying to recover from the post-traumatic-stress disorder I had suffered due to his manipulations, he was still the same person on the outside. While his insides were (or at least had been) rotten, the same could not be said for—

God. No. I just can’t.

“Thanks, but I must be going now,” I said, still fixedly pretending to text someone so as not to look at him.

I couldn’t. No matter how much—

He’d hurt me so much. Feeling even a flicker of attraction from my part felt like betraying myself.

I turned to leave without so much as another glance his way. Though as I descended the steps, I could almost feel his expectation. Of a reply. An acknowledgement. Perhaps he thought I’d break down and cry, or beg for him to come back.

Over—my—dead—body.

Despite everything. Despite feeling on fire every time I think of him.

Never again.