I’m walking home from Emma’s when my phone starts ringing in my pocket. Pulling it out and seeing
Arrick’s name, I let it ring and just slide it back in place. His calls have been getting more frequent, with
repeated texts to get me to answer him all day. Trying my hardest to ignore him; I can’t face talking to
him right now. I know he will only repeat the same things he said in my bedroom, and I really cannot
face it.
My heart is in no way ready for another rejection from him, and I’ve been trying everything I can to keep
him out of my head. I breathe a sigh of relief when it stops ringing, knowing he won’t leave a voicemail
because he has a weird aversion to those, and I’m hoping he doesn’t send another text. It’s obvious
he’s finding cutting ties hard, since he’s been my best friend for years, and this is completely new for
us. Even in the past two years when he went to the city, we still had contact if we wanted it. I’ve never
cut him off and ignored him, and my frequent drunken calls meant he never really had space to miss
me at all.
I can’t deny that I miss him too, but it’s just never going to let me move on if I fold now.
I know that’s all this is. He’s missing me because he can’t get hold of me. In time, he’ll get used to it
and then he won’t notice anymore. I have to protect my heart! Read enough ‘how to get over him’
websites this week to know the only way for me to move on is complete radio silence in all ways.
Severing ties and giving myself the space to accept and breathe.
My cell beeps with a new text, despite hoping he wouldn’t, and I can’t stop myself from looking.
Sophs, talk to me, we need to talk about this. x
I shove the phone back down into my pocket and gulp down the sudden pang of emotion that hits me
hard again. I hate that he’s a decent guy, that despite all of this, he is trying to do the right thing and
smooth this over. Find some sort of middle ground for us.
There isn’t one. I’ve had time to come to terms with just how badly down that road to love I am on with
him, and it’s deep. My behavior was like a neon sign for months that I was falling apart without him and
I can’t ignore that Natasha is in his life and will probably be forever. He never dated women long term
before her, choosing a life like Jake, and playing the field a lot before he settled down. Arrick is almost
twenty-six now, probably ready to settle with a wife and kids, while I’m just a kid to him; young,
reckless, and childish. Even if his feelings were more, I doubt he would be happy with someone like me
and that hurts more than anything. The last thing I even want is marriage and kids, from anyone.
I barely hit the doorstep when it rings again, scooping it out impulsively I look down, seeing his name
once more and frown that he’s being more persistent this time. He rarely repeat calls in a row.
Checking the time, I realize he should be in his changing room for his fight tonight and shouldn’t be
trying to think about anything but that. He should be focused on getting ready, his hands wrapped in
bandages and gloves, and psyching himself up. I hold my breath a moment, caught in doubt and hope
that maybe he’s changed his mind about us.
Reality slaps me in the face almost as quickly, realizing that Arrick always calls me before a fight, to
wish him luck. He always said I was his good luck charm and two words from me guaranteed a win. He
is weirdly superstitious about it and knowing him, stressed out that I haven’t. I bite my lip anxiously. It’s
such a stupid ritual, but I have no clue if he really needs it that much. I know he and Jake are super
weird about good luck stuff when it comes to sports, and I find myself standing and staring at my
phone, really contemplating this. Wondering if by not wishing him luck I somehow jinx him into losing,
ruining his undefeated record he’s worked so hard on. It would explain his constant calling if he really is
that anal about this.
In two minds, I quickly type out a text, hoping it will stop him calling and send it on.
Good Luck with your fight. x
Moments later my phone rings again, his name flashing up, and I almost cry in desperation. I can’t
keep filtering his calls and texts, it’s agony, and he just won’t stop trying to reach out to me if he’s
desperate for my verbal wish. I reject button him this time, hoping he will get the hint, and then decide
to take drastic action when it immediately rings again.
Swiping into my contacts, I highlight his name and then add him to my automatic block list. Feeling like
absolute shithead while doing it and hating the way my hand and insides tremble and ache as I do. I
honestly feel like I’m stabbing him in the chest with a huge, long, blunt pointy thing, and I hate myself
for it.
Arrick won’t be able to call me anymore, he won’t be able to text, and he’ll know it the next time he
tries, which will probably be in thirty seconds. I feel sick to my stomach at taking such cruel and drastic
action, but I’m determined to put this pain behind me. It’s like severing my own limb, and tears sting my
eyes, doubt filling my head. I stand for a moment staring at his name on the screen, my thumb crossing
the text, the picture of him and me making duck face selfies together. We look so carefree and happy,
on a trip to California a few years back. With a searing, splicing pain in my chest, I allow one tear to roll
down my cheek, push the button on my phone to black out the screen before throwing back my hair
and head home with a much heavier weight pulling me down.
***
I stand in front of the mirror in the salon, while the stylist lifts my hair up at various heights behind me, a
look of calculation on her face as she tries to decide what I should have done. I told her to go in for the
kill and transform me in any way she pleases.
“I think maybe a sleek bob, or a pixie cut, would add some maturity to your face. This long hair does
nothing but baby you.” The woman gestures behind me and I shrug with indecision. Watching as she
pulls it up to simulate a bob and I can see what she means. With the hair lifted and jaw length, it ages
me about five years, changing my face shape and the whole look.
“Oh, my God yes, a sleek bob would look sexy as hell on that bone structure.” A smooth English accent
comes out from behind us, as a slim redhead slinks into view, picking up a strand of my hair and
admires it in the mirror beside me. “Definitely a bob, collarbone length and super high at the back. You
know, sassy, classy, and sure to make the boys wink and all that. Edgy, yet super smoking hot.” She
paws over my hair, narrowed dazzling eyes, scanning my blonde locks effortlessly.
“Do you work here?” I blink at the girl who doesn’t look that much older than me, dressed in a figure-
hugging shift dress and pearls, matched with sexy shoes and killer fifties makeup. She is a complete
contradiction to the girls from the city, yet somehow, so much sexier, while being completely dressed
from neck to knee. That upper class accent just adds to her allure and I want her dress so badly. It’s
like an Audrey Hepburn remake and so freaking cute, I cannot help but eye up the sexy stilettos and
wonder if they are Louboutin.
“Hell no, Dahling. I’m Camilla. I’m here for my awful roots.” She smiles and tilts her head at the mirror,
messing with her non-existent regrowth. “Ghastly, I look like death. Can’t believe I even left the house
like this.” She winks, her precision red-lined lips forming the most seductive of smiles, and I am
strangely captivated by this overly sensual beast. She has something that just draws you in and holds
you prisoner effortlessly.
“You live around here? I’ve never seen you before.” I watch as the other girl leans in and touches up
her lipstick, completely bold and unashamedly, in the mirror beside me then blows herself a kiss.
Something about her confidence just makes me like her. She has this air of giving no shits and doesn’t
seem to care who is looking at her pampering herself in the full-length mirror, while admiring her
stunning reflection.
“Just! Mummy and Daddy bought a holiday home here, so we’re here for a few months to catch some
sun and integrate into the community. You know all that golf and caviar lunch nonsense. Daddy seems
to think the only way to get the best from being in a golfing club is to get chummy with all the
members.” Camilla rolls her eyes and smiles widely at me. “What about you? Are you a local or just
popping by to have the best stylists in town pimp you out?” She laughs a deep husky and sensual
laugh that turns a few heads her way, and makes it clear she doesn’t care about who looks at her at all.
“Local. I live about a mile away from here, and I’m just looking for an update to my style. Sick of looking
like a kid.” I go back to lifting my hair as the stylist primps and preens it behind me. Fussing with
different lengths and looking to me to make my choice.
“So, what’s the decision?” The stylist pops her head out in the reflection and catches my eye. I hesitate
and look at Camilla with a wave of doubt. For a second, I scan her over in her obviously dyed bright red
hair and classic get up, and suddenly feel brave. This bold woman standing so close and beaming so
daringly, inspires me. I want to be as in control and confident as her.
“What she said ... Let’s change the color too. Make me a new person that no one will recognize.”
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