Good Boy Gone Bad

53 ➵ Danielle

♕ Danielle ♕

On Friday morning, Ash's mum talked to me in her front garden. She offered (again) to read over my assignments. In the sun light, her hair almost appeared white, like some ancient queen of a fantasy realm.

She taught me a few words in French, and I told her the language is beautiful. She sighed and said she wished she had taught Ash how to speak it, when he was younger – as her attempts were futile as he grew up.

As I walk to the study hall (mentally preparing to sit between Charles and Morgan giving each other goo-goo eyes), ready to focus for exam prep, I can't help but think about what it would be like if my mum was still around. I wish she was still here. Would dad have left if she was?

The thoughts start making me jittery.

If you don't count to fourteen Ricky is going to die.

I count to fourteen. Three times. Four times.

Argh! Every time I think I'm getting better it hits all over again. Did I take my meds this morning? I'm sure I did. Did I?

I've been too distracted lately. It doesn't help that I can't stop thinking about what Robin and I did the other night. His mouth. His hands. His fingers.

I'm new to all of this. All I know is that I'm giving him a chance to – to be my boyfriend? Robin Wade: boyfriend material. The thought alone makes me almost laugh.

Maybe I can teach him exactly how I ought to be treated, exactly how relationships should work. Oh wow, that sounds so rich coming from me. Maybe we can teach each other exactly what we need.

I'm taking this way too seriously. At this point, it's all hormones anyway. It's not like I'm in love with him or something.

A metaphorical brick wall stands in front of me, unflinchingly. Stoic.

I don't have to look up. He smells like the sea breeze, like lemongrass and mint. Everything fresh. I know it's mostly the laundry detergent his mum uses – she's excruciatingly anal about cleaning. Like me, I suppose.

"Excuse me – " I say, attempting and failing to get out of his way. I side step, only for him to mirror me, blocking my path with his broad shoulders. "Ash," I say, stubbornly.

"Are you serious?" he says under his breath. "Are you seriously giving him a chance?"

My jaw drops. I glance around the bustling halls. "Do we need to talk about this right now?"

He grips my wrist – not gently – and drags me into the closest empty classroom. Struggling against the pressure proves useless.

"Ash!" I snap and rip my hand away from him. "You can't just pull me – "

"I just need to know if you're actually that fucking stupid. Are you fucking serious?"

"Am I serious?" I say, bewildered, voice heightening in pitch.

"You bailed him out already – isn't that evidence enough that he's not a good guy? That he's just going to drag you down with him?"

"None of this is your problem. I'm not." I'm fed up. I'm at breaking point with him.

"You're not what?"

"I'm not your problem. You only ever show up to tell me that I'm messing up. You made it clear that we aren't – or ever were – friends. So why can't you just leave me alone?" I can't believe I said all that. But I'm proud of myself for doing it.

He opens his mouth to speak then closes it.

"And yes, if it helps elucidate things for you, I am giving him a chance. Because he asked for one. And I like him."