9. Daphne

Chapter nine

Daphne

D ating someone secretly while they’re pretending to be with someone else is really tough.

I sit on Alex’s couch, my legs tucked under me. The room is dim, just the glow from the streetlamp outside filtering in. His dorm suite smells like him, a mix of cologne and laundry detergent.

Plato had it figured out, I think. Kindred spirits, two halves of the same soul. It’s not about completing each other, but recognizing yourself in another. That day on the sidewalk, Alex with his back against the wall, words tripping over his tongue, bullies laughing… I didn’t feel sorry for him. I saw myself. Our connection was instant.

“Comfortable?” he asks, breaking into my thoughts.

“Very,” I answer, trying to sound casual. Still, there’s tension here. We can’t go out, can’t be seen. Because of Celeste.

He shifts beside me, feigning interest in some book on his coffee table. We’re supposed to be watching a movie while pretending this is normal. But how can it be? I’m the secret, the other woman, even though Celeste is the one playing pretend.

Alex’s spine is a rod, stiff and unbending. He blinks once then twice, too slowly, like he forgets how. I reach out, my fingers finding his clammy ones, and squeeze. It’s called grounding. I learned it as a teenager when my fourth foster parents forced me into therapy.

Once Alex takes in a deep breath, I shift closer and rest my head on the curve of his shoulder. It’s fine. We’re both going to be okay.

He exhales. I feel it, the tension melting away from him in the form of a shudder. Strange how small gestures can undo knots in our psyche.

Selfishly, I want everyone to know that Alexandru Whitmore and I are together. For over eight years, I’ve loved him from afar. Meanwhile, without any selfish motives, I also aspire to show Alex that he’s deserving of affection. I believe him when he says that he’s no longer actually dating Celeste, because why would he lie to me?

He wouldn’t.

Which brings me to bring up something boyfriends and girlfriends do. I’m talking about dating.

“Wanna go on a real date for my birthday?”

He turns to me with wide eyes. I clearly caught him off guard. “When’s your birthday?”

“Two weeks.” I hold my breath .

“Damn. I’m sorry.” He pulls back, the wall coming up again. “Celeste and I will still be doing this whole charade.”

My chest tightens as hurt washes over me. It’s cold and unwelcome, and reminds me entirely too much of my childhood. “Oh.”

I know that he’s taking her to homecoming, but I still hoped we could do something low-key. I don’t want to push him, though, because everything between us is too new. I’m afraid to push the boundaries he’s set in place because if I lose him, I don’t know how I’ll recover.

“I get that this isn’t easy, but Celeste and I have been together for years. I should be thinking about marrying her, not—” He clenches his jaw.

“Be here with me.” Guilt twists inside me. He’s making it sound like I’m holding him hostage or that I’m blackmailing him.

I’m so utterly confused right at this moment, and it hurts. “Peel my skin back and poke at my muscles” kind of hurt. A few days ago, he implied he broke up with her for me, and now it sounds like I’m an inconvenience.

But my heart is young and love is fickle, so I keep my thoughts to myself and decide to paddle through my own feelings. I’m used to being alone, anyhow. It’s how I survived.

I have to believe that Alex chose me. He may love her, but he still picked me. It’s not regret he’s feeling right now but guilt .

“Exactly.” There’s a harsh laugh, devoid of humor. “After you left, she was there, you know? She made me feel like someone could actually care about me. How can I humiliate her?”

I close my eyes and press my lips together. I shouldn’t have asked. Now, I’m the monster. The one who doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings but my own.

“Sorry,” I whisper, my heart sinking. “I didn’t mean—”

“Let’s drop it.” He stands up, suddenly distant. “What do you want to watch?” The question hangs unanswered as the TV flickers silently in front of us.

I pick up the remote from the side table and surf the channels until I stop on a cooking show. The chef chops onions with swift, confident movements. “This okay?”

“Fine by me.” His gaze doesn’t meet mine.

A few minutes tick by, filled with the sizzle of food and the chef’s soothing voice explaining a recipe for some kind of stew.

Alex shifts beside me. “Want anything? Snacks?”

“Certainly,” I say. His sudden energy is puzzling but welcome. “What do we have?”

“Um, chips and salsa. I think there’s hummus?” He scratches the nape of his neck, looking adorably lost in thought.

“Chips and salsa sound good.” I muster a smile, trying to lighten the mood .

“Got it. Wait here.” As he stands, I consider how we used to be and how I want us to be again. If I cannot have him in public soon, maybe I may have a piece of him again, even if it’s alone.

“Hey!” I call after him as he reaches the kitchenette. He turns, a question in his eyes.

On one of the rare occasions that I practiced the harp at his house, he cooked roasted chickpeas. He looked so adorable sprinkling chili powder, sea salt, and a drizzle of maple syrup onto the frying pan. It was nice. Back at home, my mom specialized in microwaving hot dogs and ordering McDonald’s cheeseburgers. Well, they were hamburgers. You gotta pay extra for the cheese—like, a whole dollar or two—so Mom never allowed it.

So, naturally, I ask, “Will you make me dinner sometime?”

Alex’s cheeks redden. “I told you I don’t cook anymore, but I could borrow my parents’ chef if you want a meal.”

He doesn’t get it. It’s not the meals I want; it’s his meals. I’d take a peanut butter sandwich made by him over a Michelin star chef.

I don’t tell him it’s his meals I want. Or that I’d be okay with even a peanut butter sandwich.

I don’t push. I don’t appear too needy.

I’m so afraid of losing him. Of pushing him away with my neediness. I want to tell him everything, to be honest about my feelings, but I know that’s a risk I can’t afford to take .

I’m trapped in a cage of my making, and the worst part is I can’t even tell anyone.

Most of all, I’d rather suffer in silence than be completely alone. I’d take a thousand stab wounds for Alex every day.

“Sounds fancy.” I raise an eyebrow in an effort to remain playful despite the tightness in my chest.

“Only the best for you.” He grins, then disappears into the kitchen area.

There’s no way I could tell him why I wanted him to make me a meal. It’ll only remind Alex how different we are and how better off he was with Celeste. The last thing I need is to expose my fucked-up shit in front of him.

Alone, I stand up to stretch my legs. My eyes drift to his calendar, which is pinned to the wall near the door. Dates are color coded. I note a page titled “Prior Commitments”.

Weekend with parents: November 7. Take Vic!

December 2: LAST FOOTBALL GAME! WHOO!

May 14: Fundraiser. Try to get out of it??? Unlikely.

Well, at least during his weekend with his parents, his fake-dating ploy with Celeste will be over. Is it stupid to hope he’ll invite me along?

I’m not aware, but what I am aware of is his sports fundraiser is the same day as my spring orchestra concert. The last one of the year. Every section is supposed to get a solo, and since only Victoria and I play the harp, I have a real chance at earning the coveted spot.

Unfortunately, I also remember that just how the spring orchestra concert is the biggest of the year, so is the sports fundraiser.

This is my first year at WU, and even I’m privy enough to know that the year-end fundraiser is the biggest, most important event on campus. Naturally, Alex will be expected to go.

All football players and cheerleaders are. Including cheerleaders like Celeste. It’s such a big event that Celeste is excused from our last concert so she can attend the sports fundraiser.

Funny, considering WU is largely an art university.

My heart sinks as I realize I will not mention the concert to him. What’s the point?

Turning away from the calendar, I settle back onto the couch, curling my feet underneath me. The chef on TV has moved on to dessert, something chocolatey that makes my mouth water. However, the on-screen sweetness doesn’t reach me, not really. Not today.

I’m lost in thought when my phone buzzes. Eden’s name flashes on the screen. Could be nothing. Probably. A text, simple as any other.

Call me crazy, but I know it’s not before I read it.

Eden

There’s a letter from a “Lynn” for you.

Fuck! This can’t be happening!

The room tilts, choking me. I need air, space, something to ground me.

My mother, Lynn, isn’t supposed to contact me. How in the hell she even sent a letter from prison is baffling. In my opinion, she already received an incredible deal. Fifteen years to life with the possibility of early release for attempted murder. The only saving grace is a lifetime personal protection order.

The more I think about it, the more I’m freaking out.

Hastily, I slip off the couch. Alex is still in the kitchen, clueless and happy. I can’t ruin that.

I rush into the bathroom and close the door with a soft click behind me. The small tiles are cold under my feet, giving me much needed grounding. Yet it’s not enough. So, I lean against the sink in a daze, to stare at my reflection. My face looks pale, eyes too wide.

“Ruby lips above the water

Blowing bubbles, soft and fine

But, alas, I was no swimmer

So I lost my Clementine.”

Breathe, Daphne. Just breathe. It’s not real.

My chest tightens, squeezing until each breath becomes a battle. I grip the edge of the basin until my knuckles turn white .

Grounding.

Focus on the sound of water dripping from the faucet.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I’m back there. In our trailer.

Mother’s raspy voice sings to me while my lungs burn.

“Ruby lips above the water

Blowing bubbles, soft and fine

But, alas, I was no swimmer

So I lost my Clementine.”

I slide down to the floor, curling up against the tub. When that doesn’t work, I tuck my knees to my chest and hug them close. Everything feels too much. The walls press in, inching closer with every shaky inhale.

The tub is empty.

Dry.

I am safe, and she’s not here. Alex is.

If I scream, someone will hear.

The door has been locked.

I am in control of my body.

I pull out my phone again and stare at the message. Lynn. Why? How? The questions spin, unanswerable whirl winding inside my head. I type out a response to Eden, anything to make her believe all is well.

Me:

Thanks, I’ll check it out tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when I can deal with it.

Tomorrow, when maybe I can breathe again.

I sit there, on the chilled tile, willing my heart rate to slow. One beat. Then another. Each one echoes, a reminder I’m still here, still fighting.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Eventually, the tightness eases.

My breath steadies.

I can stand without the world spinning.

I splash cold water on my face, blotting away the evidence with a rough hand towel. Can’t let Alex see. He doesn’t need this. He has enough to deal with.

“Easy, girlfriend,” I repeat to my reflection—a silent vow.

When I step out of the bathroom, I wear a smile. It doesn’t quite reach my eyes, but it’s all I have.

“Everything okay?” Alex calls from the kitchen, his voice laced with concern.

“Fine,” I fib, settling onto the couch. “Just needed a minute.”

He nods and accepts it without question. Later, he returns with snacks, and we fall into an easy rhythm. The words are light between us. However, inside, my heart still trembles, holding onto the secret weight of my trauma. After our show ends and we say goodbye, I stalk down the stairs to my suite .

I can’t help it. I need to see the letter Mom sent me.

But when I get there, I am incapable of opening it. So, I hide it away in a stack of books in my room.

After all, if I ignore it, it doesn’t exist, right?