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Unsuitable.
Henry’s critique sounded so cursory, like he just needed an excuse to get me off the stage and picked the first thing that came to his mind. It didn’t feel racist in the blatant way The Tragedies’ experiences were. I can’t shake the feeling that he really rejected me because I wasn’t good enough, and he just wasn’t willing to say it.
I turn over in my bed, tucking the blanket up to my chin, staring out of the window. I like sleeping with the curtains open, watching people walk through the streets, the sound of loose laughter in the air, the star-speckled sky winking back at me. It makes me feel less alone to know there’s a whole world beyond my doors. Usually, staring out the window would lull me to sleep, but today my head is as noisy as the drunk group of university students stumbling out of the local pub.
I flip over and stare at my ceiling, that aching feeling of rejection crashing through me like waves. Again and again and again, until it’s too much.
I scramble for my phone on my bedside table, take it out of sleep mode and dial Zayan’s number with nothing but a singular desire pushing my every move: I need to hear him tell me I’m good on stage.
‘I don’t suppose this 3 a.m. calling is going to become a regular thing, is it?’ Zayan’s voice is sleep-soaked, rough, like he’s been woken up. I look over at my alarm clock and, sure enough, a bright red ‘3 a.m.’ is staring back at me.
The words are on the tip of my tongue to tell him why I need to speak with him. I want to say, Zayan, say it to me again. Tell me you thought I was good on stage. Good enough to act opposite you. Good enough to rival the LSDCATS. Just tell me.
But I don’t. Why? Because it hits me that I’ve officially lost my mind. That I’ve just called my fake partner, desperate for reassurance, all because I can’t handle my own anxiety.
Forget the red flag of Zayan’s emotional unavailability for falling in love – my impulsive desire to make bad decisions at 3 a.m. is starting to feel like a hazard to the unassuming people in my life.
‘Farah?’ Zayan questions, becoming more alert.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, before clearing my throat. ‘I’m sorry, I – I butt-dialled you by accident.’
‘You butt-dialled me at 3 a.m.,’ Zayan echoes doubtfully. I say nothing in response, and silence sits between us like a weight. I’m about to end the call with a sheepish goodbye and make a self-deprecating joke about not calling again when he surprises me with a question.
‘Do you want to play a game?’
‘That sounds mildly threatening.’
‘I mean it innocently.’
‘Why do I feel like you’re lying?’
‘You don’t trust me, Farah?’ he asks, his voice all soft and teasing. I hear rustling in the background, and I imagine he’s adjusting to a more comfortable position.
‘Do you trust me?’ I volley back.
‘I suppose this game will tell you if I do.’ Zayan’s poking at my curiosity now, knowing I’ll cave in.
I hold out for all of three seconds.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘What’s the game?’
‘You let me ask you one question, any question, and you have to answer it. And in return, I’ll offer you the same.’
‘And if I really don’t want to answer?’
‘You owe me a favour,’ he says. ‘Anything I want.’
‘How do you know you won’t be the one owing me a favour?’ I ask, affronted.
He laughs. ‘Shall we play, then?’
I think it over, trying to predict what he could possibly ask me. He doesn’t know much about me, so he could ask something generic. If he thinks he’s hitting deep, he could ask about my family, my love life – but those are things I won’t mind answering about.
‘All right. But I want to go first,’ I say, hoping to lay the ground for this.
‘Ask away. I’m an open book.’
A laugh escapes me. ‘You’re more locked up than a thirteen-year-old’s secret diary.’
