Virgin Lips

31. Now they know you're alive

☆☆☆☆☆

I woke up abruptly, having heard a sudden noise. Normally, I'd have thought it was Reese and Shaw causing a ruckus until I wake up to give them breakfast, but my kitten were right there beside me, half asleep, as startled as I was.

Frowning, I blindly reached for my phone to unlock it and see what time it was. Ah. I thought it would be the middle of the night, but no, it was 4 pm. Obviously, there were a lot of messages and missed calls, some even from my parents. My conscience told me to at least put a status where I tell everyone I'm fine, I'm just hibernating from the world for a bit, but I didn't feel like it.

I dragged myself out of bed, deciding that maybe I should eat, or at any rate the cats should eat. When I went into the kitchen, the noise I heard before was repeated, but this time it was accompanied by some chatter. I felt a sharp pang to my heart when realization hit me: Ben.

He wasn't alone, though. Maybe that's why he wanted to have that talk exactly yesterday, not a day later. He did say that whoever he was always on the phone with would come to New York at some point. I guess it's time for Mr. and Mrs. Harris to begin their new life in the big city. Well, pardon me if I feel like puking.

I gave Reese and Shaw their lunch/dinner, which, needless to say, they pounced on. Poor babies, I've been so lost in my depressed bubble that I didn't even feed them as much as I normally do. Not that they starved, I left them enough food for a day, at least.

While I was rummaging my mostly empty fridge to find some food, I hear another noise – this time one I recognized easily: the door. Someone was knocking insistently on my door. In fear it would be Ben – as unlikely as that would be, since now he's busy with his better half –, I ignored it. The person on the other side kept knocking, but I wasn't gonna budge.

I dug deep into the peanut butter jar to make one last sandwich before having to mandatorily go buy groceries, and headed back to my room – the only safe haven in this turmoil of betrayal and deceit. However, before I could enter, I heard the front door opening, or rather, being forced open. Somebody pretty much broke it down.

Rolling my eyes, I went ahead and entered my bedroom. Let burglars steal what they want, it's not like there's anything valuable in here. But I was sure it wasn't robbers.

"Joanna!" A shrill voice called louder than dogs could bear.

I winced, recognizing it instantly. "Paris ..." Like the city? Like Gilmore Girls iconic character? Nope. Like Paris Hilton. I sighed. My youngest cousin. "What are you doing here?" I turned around, rolling my eyes. Even more when I noticed the tall jock she was accompanied by.

"You ask???" She yelled – because Paris Hilton Williams – yes, her middle name is the celebrity's last name – doesn't know the meaning of calm and posed. It's either overdramatically over the top, or nothing. The Sir Lancelot beside her was too busy playing with his phone to even try to fix the door he'd just broken down with his brute force.

"Yes, I'm asking." I replied in a monotonous voice, not at all incline to extend this obnoxious visit any longer than it needs to be. Paris moved to New York last month with her boyfriend, which was the compromise my aunt had come to after her daughter had giddily announced she'd get married after high school.

It wasn't much of a bargain, if you ask me: Paris still gets to sleep with her boyfriend, despite her conservative mother's protests, and she doesn't even need to sneak around like she used to. But for my aunt it's better. She says it's because she hopes Paris will see what a deadbeat her boyfriend is when he can't help her pay rent, but I think it's because if shame has to be, then let it be far from everyone.

Paris rolled her eyes theatrically, admiring her nails. "You went missing."

"Uh ... no, I didn't? I'm right here."

"Well, you didn't answer your phone, your mother told my mother, my mother bugged me." She scoffed, then took a pic of me – in all my absolutely indecent splendor. "There." She claimed, after having presumably hit send. "Now they know you're alive." She sent me a disgusted look. "I'd rather be dead than wear that," – she pointed at my attire, made of a grey extra-large t-shirt with more stains than I could count, and extra-large tracksuit pants, which were paired with messy hair and puffy cheeks. Have I been crying? Oh, why would I? Only because of Ben – assuming his name really is Ben?

Paris didn't linger in small talk – thank God –, once she'd replied to her mom – or mine? –, she snapped, her fingers, and her Sir Lancelot came back to real life, swiftly leaving the apartment. "I'm not dragging my ass to this dumpster again." My cousin scoffed. "You better start talking to your mother." And just like that, she left.

Once I was sure they were really gone, I sighed, and went over to the door. It wasn't severely damaged, but it still needed some fixing. Normally, I'd need a locksmith, but growing up in an overdramatic family teaches you to do housework, even the "manly" ones.

A bit of manual work later – luckily, I didn't need to change the look –, the door was the same old one as it used to be. I stood there, staring blankly at it for a moment. I've lived here for over 2 years now, and nothing has ever changed.

Ben pushed me to believe I could actually make something of my life, and even though something would compel me to say that part of me never really existed, since the Ben I thought I knew never did either, I don't think that's true.

That Joanna isn't simply Ben's JoJo. It's Jeremy's Jo, it's Joanna Brooks, the ambitious freshman that took the world on, aiming for the moon, not wanting to make do with the stars. That Joanna isn't a dream, she did exist, and she was coming back. Why should she give up?

So what if Ben lied? So what if nothing of what we had was ever true? Does that mean that I should go back to quiet Joanna that accept abuse from Scott and had forgotten all her dreams in favor of a lifelong agony slaving away in a diner?