I should have waited. I should have listened to him. I should never have yelled or hit him. I sigh. I should have used my head. I swipe at the tears trailing down my cheeks, I am not crying because of him, something must be stuck in my eyes. He should have deleted the pictures. He should never have kept the card, she is married and pregnant.
My shoulders sag, I run my fingers through my hair and frown at my reflection in the mirror, ready to chastise myself. A soft sigh escapes me, my frown deepens into a scowl and my lips tremble. It was not me who said all those mean things, I want him, I always do. It was the hormones, they were messing with my head and emotions. I hate periods. My lower lip juts out, maybe I was jealous too, we don't have any pictures of us on his social media accounts. The logical part of me is quick to remind me he barely uses them and I sigh, he doesn't snap either.
The only reasons we have pictures of us together is because I insist on taking them. I close my eyes to let the hurting image of Paul fade and my heart throbs painfully in my chest. His hurt was palpable, I should have opened my loud mouth to apologise but each time I tried to do that, the wrong words came out instead. Who wants a breakup? I want my boyfriend in bed with me.
How tables have turned, I sigh and rub my palms on my knees. I am never the one who says the mean stuff, I am the one who always wants to hide away or swallow my pride and apologise to avoid any form of confrontation. But I did the opposite of that.
The lights go off, I scream and shut my eyes tight as I am momentarily taken back to that room. To the blinding darkness. My heart goes into overdrive, blood rushes to my ears, drowning all other sounds and I gasp for air as I stagger backwards. I yelp when the back of my legs hit the bed, I have trouble swallowing as I look around me, I can't see, I hate the dark. The lights return, I wrap my arms around myself and eye the bulbs with my chest rising and falling.
A blurred face jumps out at me, I scramble into the bed and pull the duvet up to my chin. My eyes scan every inch of my room to find the sinister pair watching each move I make but I find none. I am alone, I know that. But Jo didn't care to take a look inside when he dropped me off, he went on his way after a wave. What if someone already entered? I gulp. I locked the doors, double checked so no one could have gotten in but I can't help the niggling feeling of being watched. Maybe it's all in my head, a lot of things don't feel right anymore. God.
Tired of tossing and turning, I return to sit in front of the vanity after making certain all the lights in my house are switched on. For some reasons, I feel safer with them on. My eyes fall on my iPhone, I tell myself not to touch it right as my fingers connect with it. Okay, I will touch it but I won't call him, I am sure he doesn't want anything to do with me after all the things I said. Besides, I picked the phone to look at those pictures of a younger version of him. Him and Chi.
That reasoning soon flies out the window, my finger hits the call button, he needs to know I am home, nothing more. Jo might forget to tell him. My foot drums into the floor as Paul's number rings uninterruptedly, my heart sinks to the pit of my belly and I sniff.
One more time, he deserves the benefit of the doubt, he might have gone to bed or left his phone in the parlour, he forgets he has one sometimes. Plus, I am the one who did this to us, I have to fix it. I redial his number two more times and I might have continued if the automated voice didn't say his number was switched off. Maybe his phone tripped off or he doesn't want me anymore.
My eyes sting with unshed tears which fast cascade down my cheeks, I bite the insides of my lip. I am not crying, no, something is stuck in my eyes and I can't get it out. I sniff. The automated voice repeats her earlier message, I pull the phone away from my ear and let it fall to the table. I take deep breaths and reach for my phone again, we never got to talking about the show, he was late. If he came home sooner, I might never have found the card, we will still be happy and in love, on our date or cuddling in bed.
A yawn escapes me, my body screams tired, I should be asleep by now. But I am not. The eyes are still watching me. I sigh, Aaron is dead, he can't get me now but at the thought of his name, a shiver of dread trickles down my spine. He is dead, I try to remind myself, the dead have nothing in common with the living. But daddy is dead too and we have a connection through his pendant, memories too sacred for someone as vile as Aaron to experience. I blink, he can't reach me here.
My fingertips automatically brush my neck, my collarbone and a smile flits to my lips. I like to pretend I still have the necklace, that piece of cold metal rubbing against my skin is the closest form of physical contact I will ever have with him. I need it back. Now.
I cast another look around my room, there is no one here, I am safe. I stand and sit back almost immediately. My head shakes, I should stay in front of the mirror, that way I will see and be ready for any incoming attacks. None of that negligence again, no Mike to take me by surprise. Mike, bless his soul and Mary's too. If she ever got out, I hope she is doing fine, life is kinder to her.
Another yawn slips past my lips, I blink and stare at my bed with longing through the mirror. Only for this night, I can do it. My phone pings, I pick it to resume stalking the show's page, in my anger, I failed to ask him for the results. I tap on their recent post, they have announced the winners, they did it a few hours ago and my eyes lift to check the time on the corner of my screen.
It takes a few seconds for me to process the digits staring back at me. I blink, it is less than six hours to resumption and if I don't want to be cranky in the office, I need to go to bed right now but my feet are stuck to the ground. I can't move. Maybe I can but the voice in my head promises me I will be safer in front of the mirror and I believe it.
Images flood my vision as I swipe right on my screen, my heart hammers in my chest as my eyes zero in on the chefs posing by a table of different dishes. My shoulders relax when the picture of Paul smiling comes into view, I chuckle and trace his lip with longing. For stupid reasons, I tap on his username mentioned in the caption and my heart stops. My eyes brim with tears at the sight of the pictures in his account and my heart resumes beating at an erratic pace.
Guilt threatens to surface and I force it down, too overjoyed to feel anything other than love. I suck my bottom lip, eyes fixated on the couple grinning at the camera like it isn't us. I swipe to the right, tears leak to my cheeks, we look so in love in this picture, if our eyes don't convey that, his lips on my temple does. A sob escapes me at the time of the post, he made it after I left the house. My heart constricts, he deleted them, all the pictures of them, her. I place a hand over my chest, I can't handle his sweetness alone.
If he can post this after our squabble, why won't he pick my calls? I am sorry. The response remains the same when I redial his number, I contemplate on calling Chi but end up on his Instagram page smiling at the spam comments asking if she is the one.
Yes, she is, me, right here. I am a tap away from sending that when I catch myself and take a deep breath. There is no caption or tag on the post so no one can identify me, my index finger hover above the picture, I double tap on my screen and the love icon appears. I did not stalk him, it came to me.
The other post is a picture of him in an apron and a chef hat, I purse my lips, I have never seen him in one of these before. I keep swiping until I reach the end, my eyes lower to the caption and my lips part open. The feeling of guilt intensifies, I don't try to fight it as it crashes over me. I am a horrible girlfriend. I gulp, I should have listened to him, slept in his room so we can talk later in the day when my head is clearer. Maybe that's why he doesn't want to speak to me.
His last seen on WhatsApp gives me an idea to type up a long, contrite message which I spend minutes, maybe hours writing only to end up deleting it. I settle for a one-line message, purse my lips and try not to think too much about it as I hit the send button. I can still see his profile picture, he didn't block me, I close my eyes, he won't do that.
Parting my hair into smaller sections, I start making chunky twists. One glance at the mirror and I erupt into a fit of giggles, I look the part of a madwoman. No sane person should be awake after midnight let alone making her hair. But I can't sleep, as much as I want to, as much as I need to. I need to tire my mind into forgetting that feeling of being watched and it is driving me insane.
My eyelids grow heavy, my hands scream in protest each time I raise it to my head but I continue the twists. I blink, the woman in the mirror smiles back at me, at the awful thing on my head and I chuckle. It will look good once I loosen it. The back of my hand goes to cover my mouth, I push aside the bottle of leave-in conditioner and lower my head to the top of the vanity. I will not sleep.
Jon Bellion's calm voice pierces through my subconscious, I rouse and wince at the kink in my neck which my hand reaches out to massage. The rest of the sleep vanishes when I sight the caller. Mr Adams. Not now. I jump, the chair clatters to the ground as I swallow and try to form a coherent thought on why he is calling me by a few minutes to seven. I ignore the chair, make my way to the bathroom and swipe up on my screen.
"Ifunaya."
His tone has me biting my lower lip, this is what he sounds like when he is unhappy with me. My voice takes on a cheery tone, "Uncle, good morning, Sir. How are you?"
The soft chuckle that greets me causes my shoulders to relax a bit, I tighten the robe around me. "I'm at the gate. Open up."
After one look at the mirror, I grimace and splash water on my face, I look like I haven't slept in days. Pinching my cheeks to appear more alive, I saunter out of the room to open the gates for Mr Adams who drives in with his black Lexus which dwarfs my baby parked in front of the house. He engulfs me in a hug, I pout when he ruffles my hair and slap his hand away. It earns me a chuckle, I invite him in but he shakes his head and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Outside, it is.
"Udoka told me you left," he starts, "why?"
Closing my eyes, I try not to think of the fact Paul hasn't called me back, maybe he told him last night. He won't ignore my calls or texts, I apologised. He has to forgive me.
"Work," I open my eyes, "I want to resume."
Mr Adams's eyes threaten to bore holes into my head, I look down at my feet in Dunlop slippers and sigh. I do need a pedicure. He clears his throat, I raise my head to see him sitting and he motions for me to join him inside. Seeing him in the driver's seat is odd, he never drives but I don't mention it.
"You can resume from his place," he replies.
This time, I roll my eyes. "Why do I need to be in his place? It's over a week now," I say. My voice is loud, my tone, disrespectful but I can't help it and I am grateful he pays no heed to it. "We don't even need the guards."
"Fine, if you insist." His tone is placating, I should be happy with the news, instead, I am irritated. "What happened with Udoka?"
"Is that why you came?" I retort. His head jerks in my direction, I rub my palms on my knees, I should have tried to get more sleep.
Minutes go by with both of us sitting inside the car in silence, I stare straight ahead at the grey coloured fence and my shoulders sag. My fingers run across the dashboard, I bring my hand back to my knee and blink. Tears spill to my pink robe, I sigh, I don't know what it is but something has changed within me. I am not usually this snappish or emotional. My head hangs low to avoid Mr Adams seeing how much of a wreck I am, I think I need help. Maybe I need sleep. Or a phone call from Paul, it will fix my mood.
"I am sorry," I finally whisper when I can't take the silence any longer. "I'm just tired."
Mr Adams arm comes to sit on my shoulder, I shrug it off. Tears dot my nightwear, I sniff. My utterance seems to have unveiled a ton of emotions which crash over me and my lips tremble as a sob escapes me. His hand returns to my shoulder, the only form of comfort I get as I cry quietly. I am okay.
"You should go home," he starts in that tone that will lead you to believe you have a say in the matter. I know it all too well. He uses it when he is certain he is doing what's best for me. This time, he's wrong, I don't need to go home. "Your mother misses you."
I shake my head, wipe my cheeks dry and straighten up. "The only place I need to be is at Pavilion," he frowns, "I'm home here."
"Home. Enugu, your mother." My lips part to protest but he cuts me off, "You need a break. This whole thing has taken a huge toll on you." I shake my head, no, this is a phase that will be over soon. "A few days of absence won't change anything, the office will do fine without you." He doesn't get it.
"Starting today, now, you are on paid leave. Take a break. Travel." My thought crashes to a stop, my eyelids flutter as I try to fight back the tears. I will lose my mind if I don't have anything to distract me, work is that distraction. "Ifunaya, please go home."
My hand moves to the door handle, I hear a click and my head jerks in his direction. Our gazes clash, I maintain eye contact, I am not leaving. I love Mmá but I can't spend every minute of the day talking to her. Since my siblings are not at home, she will keep fussing over me until I lose my mind. What if Paul wants us to reconcile? We can't get back together if I am states away from him.
"I don't need a break, I'm going to work."
He takes a deep breath, I scowl. "Ifunaya."