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Inside, I go straight for the shower, not waiting for the water to heat, and scrub myself ferociously from head to toe. Once my skin is red and stinging, I towel myself dry and apply the same vigour to brushing my teeth, scouring my gums raw until the spit in the sink is stippled with blood.

It doesn’t work.

The imprint of Kincaid’s mouth and hands remains on my body. The taste of him lingers in my mouth.

I force myself to eat, then curl on the sofa with a book, reading and rereading the same pages until I abandon the effort.

When it gets late enough to go to bed, I don’t bother, remaining right where I am, dozing and jerking awake all night, barely sleeping.

In the morning, I’m still in too much of a state to attend school. I phone in sick, and take another shower, only remembering once I’m back out that I left Aidan without explanation, yesterday.

Chess

Hey, sorry to skip out on the match but I had to go home sick. Congratulations on winning your first game!!!

A few minutes later, he replies with a long text string of triumphant emojis, bringing my first smile of the day.

Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, I bundle the filthy rugby shirt into the washing machine with my other laundry and get in the car, driving to the central library. It’s a place I love and treat like a second home. It’s warm, has more books than I’ll ever read in my life, and—best of all—comes with free wifi.

When I log into my bank account, the money Kincaid transferred is already sitting in there, and I breathe out a sigh, staring at the numbers for the longest time.

But it’s not for daydreaming about being rich, it’s for taking care of my problem.

In five minutes, I’ve changed the money into cryptocurrency and transferred it to the wallet of Richard’sbad guy.

To send it this way—with no recourse if something goes wrong—makes my skin crawl. Even if I have the details right, the man could be a con artist. It’s not like I can take him to court if he doesn’t follow through.

But it’s done. The money’s gone.

I can worry myself to death and it won’t change a thing.

Although I have homework, I’m too fidgety to concentrate and return home, arriving in time to switch the clothes to the dryer.

Within an hour, my phone buzzes with an incoming message.

Number Withheld

Monday after next, 6pm till midnight

Get everyone out of the house or the job won’t be done

No rainchecks or refunds

Relief floods my body, tears spilling down my cheeks.Halle-fucking-lujah.

Less than two weeks and it’ll all be over.

Once the freezer is gone, I don’t need to stay in this mausoleum of a house. I can live out of my car, showering at school, using the mall as a bathroom during the weekend. My bills will plummet. Instead of mindless worry, I can concentrate on my studies and work hard to change my life for the better.

The good news also puts what happened with Kincaid into perspective. Compared to the nightmare I’ve been living the past three months, it was nothing.

And even if it wasn’tnothing, it helped resolve my far bigger, far more troubling problem.

The dryer finishes its cycle, and I grab the laundry, folding my uniform ready for next week, and hugging Kincaid’s shirt to my chest. Warm from the dryer, it’s lovely. The odour of sweat and grass has faded but there’s still a trace of his dark and spicy scent.

Curling with it on the sofa, I decide to stay home from school again tomorrow. Give myself some space to process what happened, and if it isn’t enough time, too bad.

I still have work on Friday night, but the bar will be so busy it should act like a circuit breaker, preventing me from moping.