The Exact Opposite of Okay(74)
He says nothing, staring at me without emotion. Remorseless.
“Are you hearing me?” I’m almost crying. “You nearly ruined my life, Danny. Did you know that I’ve been kicked out of the screenplay competition? Did you know Betty is being attacked by journalists and politicians every day? Did you know that now, when I walk down the street, it’s so excruciating knowing how many strangers have seen me naked that I just want to disappear? Did you know that on Saturday night, after it felt like I’d lost everything, I genuinely wanted to not be here anymore?”
He drops his backpack to the ground and leans back against a tree, finally letting a crack of emotion show on his face.
I keep going. “You broke into Carson’s phone, and you leaked those messages. ?You pretended to be him, and you spoke to a journalist. ?You allowed Ajita’s sexuality to be revealed to the world because, why? Bitterness? I don’t get it. Why would you do this? Why would someone who claims to love me want to systematically ruin my life? Have you enjoyed it, seeing me in this much pain?”
He still doesn’t say anything, just rubs his face with his hands, looking like he might throw up.
I scoff, throwing my hands up in the air, letting my voice rise above the trees. “Or was that your goal all along? To annihilate my sense of self-worth so that I’d collapse into your arms and beg you to fix me?” I raise my voice and scream so loudly a flock of birds fly away from a nearby tree. “You nearly killed me! Is that what you wanted?”
This gets a reaction. He pushes off the tree trunk and flies toward me so fast I actually recoil.
“No, Izzy! All I wanted was you?!” His eyes are shining too, but he yells like he’s made of pure anger. “How do you think I feel? I love you so damn much, Izzy, and just because I’m not Channing Tatum I’ve been relegated to the Friend Zone for the rest of eternity. I have to watch you chase the same good-looking assholes that every other girl wants to fuck, then pick up the pieces after they inevitably screw you over.”
My eyes narrow and I fight the urge to spit at him. “Oh my God, I’m so sick of your entitled bullshit. You didn’t get what you wanted, so you lashed out with the sole intention of hurting me. Hurting me for not wanting you back. How do you think I feel, Danny? My supposed best friend thinks I’m obliged to go out with him just because he wants me to?” I clench and unclench my fist. “Yeah, I messed up when I kissed you, and I’m sorry if that led you on. But stop with this poor little Nice Guy crap. You really think being ‘friend-zoned’ is worse than finding out someone you thought valued you as a whole person just wanted to fuck you? If my friendship is not enough, then fuck you. Just . . . fuck you.”
Danny snarls in an ugly way. Then he says: “You know what? This isn’t about me. This is about you and your complete inability to be emotionally available. Are you even capable of love, Izzy? Or are you just too damn scared to let yourself feel anything? You’re . . . you’re dead inside.”
This is like a stab to the chest. I genuinely double over a little bit. “So the only reason I could possibly not be attracted to you is psychological damage? I can’t believe you’d . . .” I trail off, speechless for probably the second time in my life. And then the floodgates open, because I’m exhausted and just all-round devastated that my former best friend is being so cruel.
“What do you want me to say, Danny? That I’m so completely broken and fucked up that I’ve come all the way back around to detached?” I gasp as I choke on a sob, but I keep going. “That there’s a gaping parent-shaped hole in my life? That I use humor as a coping mechanism? That yeah, I am terrified to fall in love because of what happened to my parents?”
“Iz –”
“No, Danny. Stop. You’re butthurt, and you’re lashing out at me again, and you think it’s justified because you believe you have a right to have sex with me, a right to my love, but just . . . stop. We’re done. Our friendship is done. Which is totally fine, because it turns out it was never enough for you anyway.”
And then I walk away. Because for the first time since this all started, I genuinely believe this is not my fault.
I do not deserve this. Not one bit.
Friday 15 October
9.05 a.m.
As soon as I get to school I go straight to Mrs Crannon’s office. I checked her timetable, and first period on Friday morning is one of her only frees of the week.
She seems surprised to see me as she’s tucking into a delicious-looking Danish pastry. I briefly wonder if Mr Rosenqvist is wooing her into friendship with Scandinavian delights. I would so be here for a Crannon-Rosenqvist buddy comedy.
“Hi, Mrs Crannon,” I say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Do you have a sec?”
From behind her towers of books, she says, “I’ll always have a sec for you, Izzy. Take a seat!”
I’m feeling bolshy, so I plonk myself down into the Iron Maiden chair without a second thought. I’ll apologize to my buttocks at a later date.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to look at her rather than twiddling with my zipper as I usually do during serious conversations. “Can I be honest with you, Mrs Crannon?”
One of her warm smiles lights up the room. “Always.”
“Okay. Well, ever since everything blew up with, you know, the pictures and everything, I’ve been too ashamed to come and talk to you.”