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“I don’t want you to go,” he says eventually.
“Then you should be nicer to me.” I mean to sound sassy, but a little hiccup in my voice makes it come out pathetic.
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.
“I know you have issues, but you can’t keep taking out your frustration and misery on me, Cam.”
“I know.”
“I deserve better.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s all my fault. I’m an arsehole, and I don’t deserve you. I deserve to be on my own.”
“No,” I exclaim, “don’t do this. You always do this. You always turn it so it’s about you.”
“But I’m the one at fault.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about what you’ve done wrong and how you need help.” I’m getting hysterical, but this argument is following the same pattern it always does, and I don’t know how to stop it. “This is about me. What I want. What I need.”
“All right. Tell me, then. Tell me what you want me to do.”
I swallow hard. What you want me to do. It’s still about him.
If you were my girl, I’d treat you like a queen.
Tears rush into my eyes. “I’m going to have a shower,” I say, and I walk out of the room. I go into the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. Then I sit on the toilet seat and burst into tears.
I cry for a good five minutes, and then the sobs finally die down. Standing, I switch on the shower, then take off my sari, trying not to think about Henry unwrapping me with such obvious delight. I strip off the petticoat and my underwear, then get into the shower.
Slowly, I wash my hair, remembering his fascination with how long it is, and how soft. Then I wash my body with the shower puff, trying not to remember his hands moving across my skin in the early sunlight.
I feel as if I’m slowly washing him away, and the thought makes me so sad that I start crying again.
When I finally come out of the shower, I dry myself, then stare at my reflection. I have shadows under my eyes, and I look miserable. I have to get ready for work, and I don’t want Henry or anyone else to think I’ve been crying.
It would be easier to phone in sick, but today is the office Christmas party and officially the last day of work before Christmas, and I have to go in. So I do my face carefully, using the time to calm down, applying foundation and powder, outlining my eyes with kohl and black mascara, then applying a scarlet bindi sticker between my brows.
I try not to think of the way Henry kissed me there.
I look at the hickey on my neck and remember his deep groan as he sucked the tender skin.
Ah… jeez.
Finally, I dry my hair, then twirl it into a tight rope and pin it up in a ballerina-style bun. It’s a harsh look, especially with the way I look so wan with big dark eyes, but it feels appropriate today.
When I’m done, wearing a bathrobe and turning up the collar to hide the hickey, I unlock the bathroom door and go out into the bedroom.
Cam is there, as I knew he’d be, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, his hands in his hair, although he straightens when I come out.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “I heard you crying.”
“I’m fine.” I collect a scarlet sari from the drawer—I’ll take it with me and put it on before the party. This morning I’ll just wear a top and leggings. I retrieve them and some fresh underwear, and go back into the bathroom to put them on, not wanting to do it with Cam watching.
When I come out, his gaze skims down the tight white top with its high collar and the black leggings. “You’re losing weight,” he says.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull on a pair of flat sandals, not answering. When I stand and go to walk out, he moves to intercept me.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
