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Carrigan
Carson - I want to fuck you again.
I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve read his message, but no matter how many times I close down the app, then reopen it again the words never change. I don’t understand. He was the one who said one time only, that was his rule not mine. Not that I ever expected either of us to be interested in a repeat performance, but regardless that was his condition.
He got to be in charge, no condom, and one time only. Those were his rules.
My skin shivers a little as I think about the sound of his voice when he said those things, about the feel of his hands on me, his dick inside of me. It’s only been a couple of days but already the pain has faded from the memory, and now all I can see and feel and taste when I think about us together is pleasure. So much pleasure, that now I’m not sure how much of it was real and how much is a fabrication I’ve created to gloss over the fact that it was just an act and not something deeper.
I know he’s expecting a reply, but I have no idea what to say. He hates me. When we had sex it was for a purpose—to break the will—so what reason would we have for doing it again?
Staring desolately at the generic hotel room around me I choke back the sob that threatens to consume me. This morning after I decided not to go to school, everything that’s happened in the last few days all hit me at once.
I don’t have anywhere to live, my parents hate me, the money is gone and with it everything I envisaged my life would become. My sole purpose for being was getting that money and now I have no idea who I am and what to do.
My trust fund is large enough that I don’t have to worry about money, but do I buy a house, an apartment, or do I just stay at this hotel until I graduate and go to college? I’m so used to having my days, my weeks, my life planned out for me, that now all those plans have fallen by the wayside I don’t know what to do.
I’ve picked my cell up, poised to call my mom three times already today, because without her unyielding structure I’m not sure I even know how to exist. For the last few years she’s instructed me on everything from my hair and clothes, to my friends and classes. She’s organized my life in a series of dinners, events, and parties, and now that none of that matters anymore, my life is just one long empty calendar.
Tallulah would tell me this is my opportunity to discover who I am and figure out what I want to do, but I’m not her. She’s brave and I’m weak. If this will has taught us both nothing else it’s the fact that when faced with life altering decisions, she will do the right thing and I’ll just do as I’m told.
The thought of going back to St Augustus is almost unbearable. By now everyone will know that I’m no longer poised to inherit billions and without it, I’m just a bitch without her pedestal.
There are other prep schools in the city and hundreds across the states, I could enroll somewhere else, where no one knows who I am, where my surname isn’t recognized and isn’t important. I could finish out my senior year and then go to college. But the reality is that I’m not sure I can get through college without my sister to do the work for me. Apart from a couple of electives, my sister has taken all of my core classes for me for years, she’s the smart one, not me.
Tallulah would help me if I asked her to, but isn’t that what started all this mess, her coming to my aid because I wasn’t smart enough to succeed on my own. No. I’ve already fucked over my twin enough, this is my problem and I need to grow a pair and figure out how to stand on my own two feet.
Tomorrow I need to go back to school, I’m Carrigan Archibald and if nothing else I know how to act like I’m the smartest person in the room.
* * *
It’s harder than you’d think to find a prep school uniform at short notice, but there’s no way I’m going to collect my clothes from my parents’ house. By now they’re probably on a beach somewhere avoiding the scandal I caused when I broke the will and my mom attacked me in a room full of high society, but I still don’t plan on going back home to find out.
Dressed in the familiar St Augustus uniform I feel a little more centered than I did yesterday. Out of habit I bought straighteners to do my hair in my custom poker straight style, but this morning something stopped me. Maybe it’s my backbone clicking back into place and reminding me who I am. I’m not sure but whatever it is, it pushed me to do something out of character. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I twist from side to side admiring the halo braid that curves around my head and the loose strands that fall in waves on either side of my face.
Buttoning up my blazer I smooth down the front and glance down at the white socks that cover my knees, reaching almost to my mid-thigh, leaving just an inch or two gap between them and the hem of my skirt that’s a little shorter than I’d normally wear it.
I know most people hate the uniform, but I’ve always loved it. The plaid skirts, the navy blazers, they make me feel like I’m in gossip girl or one of those high school romance films Tallulah loves so much.
For the first time ever I wish I knew how to drive, then I could take myself to school now that I no longer have a driver, but instead I’ve arranged for a car service to pick me up and deliver me to St Augustus. I’m nervous, but I refuse to show it, so I sling my satchel over my shoulder, stare at myself for a second longer in the mirror, then leave the sanctuary of my hotel room and head downstairs to wait for my car.
I’ve timed my car to get me to school exactly five minutes before the bell rings. This way I won’t be the last person to enter the building, but the majority of the other students will already be at their lockers and hopefully I won’t have to deal with the gauntlet of staring faces the moment I get out of the car.
I call on all my years of self-important bravado and etiquette classes to provide me with enough confidence to stride to my locker with my head held high. I won’t cower, even though a part of me wants to.
The moment I take my seat in homeroom, Emma Handsworth rushes to my side. “Oh my god Carrigan is it true?” she asks, her eyes wide and horrified. She’s the younger sister of one of the guys on my great-grandfather’s list, her family is old money, but they were never prestigious enough for my parents to ever let me consider marrying her brother.
“Is what true?” I ask, turning to face her, my expression masked by my all too familiar air of superiority.
“That you’re broke?” she shrieks.
I scoff and roll my eyes. “Don’t be absurd Emma.”
“Fine, not broke, but I mean is it true that the money’s gone?”
“The money isn’t gone, it still exists, but if what you’re asking is, if I’m still in line to inherit it, then the answer is no,” I tell her dispassionately.
