Page 55 of Vying Girls (Girls of Hazelhurst #2)

Nic

Now the fire’s out, it seems an appropriate time to finally do what I came home for. I slam the door of the washing machine, groaning as I straighten back up. This fucking day. It’s taken it out of me in more ways than just physical.

It’s quiet down here. They’re all upstairs, doing whatever throuples do. Though, suppose they’re not really a throuple. Can’t imagine Haz and Elly wanting to do much with each other. Whatever their dynamic, it leaves me firmly on the outside. Which, to be fair, I don’t blame them for.

Maybe the sickness runs in the family. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, listening to a silent house, wondering when I went from denying what he did to comparing our techniques. Well—without the paedo bit. Just the hurting Tilda bit.

Maybe this is what I’ve been running from this whole time.

If Dad was fucked in the head, did that mean I, by extension, was too?

I don’t have another parent to compare myself to.

Sometimes I forget I ever had a mother, being too young to remember her, hearing Dad’s different versions of why she left over the years.

There was only him, and I was so like him.

At least I tried to be, tried so fucking hard.

I had none of the charm, the confidence, just that pervasive solemnity, the matching intensity and, of course, the height.

It’s awful, letting the truth finally settle in.

For the first time, I understand Tilda’s compulsion to cut.

If I could cut him out of me, I would. But what if there’s nothing left afterwards?

There was only one person who ever exalted me, who saw me for everything good I could be.

And she’s upstairs, cuddled in the arms of my friends and wondering why I hate her so much.

Tilda, who never did anything fucking wrong.

I all but collapse at the table, thankful for the whirring of the washing machine behind me. It drowns out the roar in my head.

With my hands outstretched, I watch the flexing tendons, the snaking blue veins.

His blood in them. Damien’s, too, in a different way.

It was Blakely who told me early trauma changes blood metabolites.

That if I was to ever bear a child, all the harm could be passed onto them, and then on and on and on.

Damn Blakely and her enviable breadth of knowledge, so unaware of the utter panic her seemingly innocuous conversation had caused.

The promise I’d made to myself to never, ever have biological children.

The cycle has to end somehow. If I can’t save myself, or Tilda, I can at least spare some innocent, non-existent child.

I can almost hear Tilda’s voice in my ear.

Yeah, but, it works both ways. Happy things affect our blood too. Stop being so mardy.

It lifts my lips, just for a moment, before my brooding’s interrupted by Haz entering the kitchen. She doesn’t look my way as she crosses to the fridge, like she missed me hulking here at the table.

‘Hey.’

She removes a carton of milk and slams the door. ‘Hey.’

Still no looking at me. I feel myself bristle, taking a steadying breath against my rising defensiveness.

‘Are we out tonight?’ I ask, casually as I can.

‘No. Tilda wants to stay in.’ Now she looks at me, her expression a hair away from a glare. ‘She’s kind of had a day of it.’

‘I know. I was there.’

‘Yeah, you were. Always there for her bad times, aren’t you, Nic? Funny that. Almost like you’re the cause of them or something.’

I watch as she makes up a protein shake, careful to keep her back to me. My voice is resigned, almost tentative, when I ask, ‘What did she say?’

‘Enough to get the picture of things.’ She turns, one arm folded as she gulps down the shake. ‘You never said. About your dad. You never mentioned that.’

I open my mouth, about to ask what, but there’s no point. I know what she’s implying. Clearly Tilda’s told her everything. I don’t blame her for her anger but, god, it hurts. For the past four years, I’ve relied on Haz being on my side for everything.

Is there anyone else? I shake my head at my moroseness. It’s not the time and I deserve everything I get. The reckoning’s finally here. Should have known it was coming for me.

‘Fucked up, Nic. All of it. Thought you were a fucking feminist. Girls like Tilda, they don’t lie, man.’

‘I know,’ I say quietly, wishing with everything that I was saying this to Tilda. All she’s ever wanted is for me to believe her.

‘She was sexually assaulted,’ Haz goes on, her voice rising in volume, ‘as a child, by your dad, and you tell her it’s her fault? That’s fucked, Nic. Fucked.’

‘I don’t think it’s her fault,’ I snap. ‘Jesus, Haz. Of course I don’t.’

‘But you think she lied about it, don’t you?’ When I don’t answer, she continues, ‘We’ve all had shit happen, Nic. Real fucked up shit. But we don’t go round blaming other people.’

‘No, we just go blaming ourselves, right?’ I can’t help but jab. There’s no fire behind it, my last shred of pride making a valiant effort. ‘Until we’re convinced we’re some kind of cursed monster.’

‘Don’t turn this around on me. Actually, you know what?’ She pushes off the counter, slamming her empty bottle down on it. ‘Fuck you, fucker. Just stay the hell away from her until you’re ready to deal with shit properly.’

Then she leaves, leaving behind a maelstrom of emotions like Hurricane Harriet had just made a repeat visit. I blow out a breath, surprised at the stinging in my eyes.

When my phone buzzes, the battery all but dead after the rushed charging this morning and all the use of Google Maps trying to find Tilda’s place, I snatch it up, keen for any distraction.

Skylar: Vaults later? Bringing my blue friend xxx

Well, that would certainly help on the distraction front. What’s the alternative? Stay haunting the lodge whilst its other three residence avoid me the best they can?

Sure, I type back. No going hard though.

When she replies with a bunch of winky faces, I darken the phone.

Fuck my washing. I can deal with it tomorrow.

I eye my boots by the door, thinking I should probably get out of here.

It’s early for the Vaults but no doubt Skylar’s already there, hooking everyone up with a night of guaranteed happiness.

I’m still staring at the kitchen table when Tilda enters, the sound of her lighter steps making the whole of me tingle before I’ve even glimpsed her.

‘Alright there?’ she says as she comes into view, glancing at the darkening windows. ‘Want a light on or something?’

I finally shake myself from my stupor, swiping up my phone as I stand up. ‘No. I’m off out.’

‘Oh. Where?’

‘Vaults with Skylar.’

Her eyes study me as I drag on a light jacket, flicking with a curious mix of jealousy and despair. I bite on my tongue to stop myself telling her that I’ve got no interest in fucking Skylar.

But me and Tilda aren’t like that. That isn’t what this is.

‘Please don’t go. Come hang out with us.’

I scoff, putting another step between us. ‘Don’t think I’m wanted, Matilda.’

‘You are,’ she whispers, her tone almost wheedling. ‘I want you.’

‘Then you’re more fucked than I thought.’ Dropping to my knees, I pull on my boots, tying the laces so roughly they bite into my hands. My voice is almost imploring when I say, ‘Don’t follow me, Tilda. I’m sick of hurting you.’

Tilda

They’d wanted me to sleep with them tonight and I had to fight to say no. It’s Wednesday, not our official night to share, but after falling in drunk after Vipers, it’s inevitable we end up in someone’s bed. Usually Elly’s since Haz doesn’t like to share hers with anyone other than me, apparently.

I just needed a night to process, to work through everything without giving into the distraction of their kisses and caresses and everything else they so freely offer. I got my fill of that earlier, talking over my shitshow of a day, cursing my stupid mother and her even stupider boyfriend.

They were worried I was going to run again, a thought so bloody laughable.

I don’t want to go anywhere knowing that freak’s stalking me.

My window’s shut, bedroom door locked. Haz and Elly couldn’t get in here even if they wanted to.

Except, of course they could. They’d both break the door down if they had to.

It was only after our film wound down sometime after midnight that they finally departed, Haz glaring daggers of threat even as she kissed me goodnight, Elly smiling goofily as she told me again just how much she loved me.

Then there was just me and the memories of Nic from earlier.

I regret all the things I hurled at her, no matter how true they were.

It’s so hard to see past her nastiness sometimes, to not let it sway my opinion of me.

When people reflect back how I feel about myself, it’s easy to take it as law, to let it corroborate everything my stupid brain thinks to be true.

Closing my eyes, I try thinking past all that, to the hidden vulnerabilities beneath. Despite what she says about hate-fucking, I don’t believe she would have done that three times if that’s all it was.

And then there were those remorseful looks the couple of times she’s accidentally hurt me. The glass room night, that time I whacked my head, and then earlier, kissing the nail she’d just cut to the quick.

There was her coming to my rescue this morning too. She hadn’t even known about Damien, she’d just come on the off chance something might happen. Not Haz, or Elly, but Nic.

And, of course, the kissing. That hadn’t been about sex, not at first. There was desperation behind those lips, her grip on my face so painfully tight, like she wanted to push me away and simply couldn’t.

There’s no mistaking any of that for anything other than care. Even my lying brain can’t refute that.

Keeping my eyes closed, I replay those moments over and over, trying to imprint them in my mind. To think on the truth and not all the ugly things beside it.