By evening, I’m just lying like a starfish on my bed, all soft and exfoliated and manicured, bored out of my skull. I check my phone over and over, but aside from a good-morning text from Zack, no one has messaged me at all today. I’ve been waiting for over a week to finally have some time off, and now that the day has come, I’m lying here watching the clock on my bedroom wall tick away the seconds.
Screw this. I do not have three fake boyfriends so that not even one of them can admire my freshly shaved legs.
Jumping out of bed, I pull open my wardrobe and pick out one of my favourite pieces of lingerie. It’s an Anna Bardet: a pale pink corset with white ribbons and a built-in garter belt. I get dressed quickly, slick on some lipstick, then toss my coat over my underwear like a hooker, buttoning it carefully shut. Grabbing my keys, I slip into my shoes and head across the corridor to apartment 6B.
The guys’ flat is dark when I unlock the door and step inside. Which is odd. What are they all doing on a Sunday night? And why wouldn’t they invite me?
“Hello?” I call into the empty room. “Is anybody there?”
There’s no response. I flick on the light, and my eyes land on a pile of torn pink wrapping paper and tangled silver ribbon spread haphazardly across the coffee table. It looks like someone was trying to wrap a gift in a hurry.
Crap. I sag in the doorway, suddenly remembering a conversation I had with Zack on Friday night. He told me that he and Luke were planning on visiting their families this weekend. I was knee-deep in emails about late postage, so I’d just nodded and then immediately forgotten. I guess the boys are all out tonight, taking their mums for extravagant Mother’s Day dinners, like good children. And here I am, standing in their flat in my undies, like an idiot.
Well. I guess it’s Netflix, a bottle of wine, and an early night for me, then.
I’m about to turn and leave when I hear a low sigh echo from somewhere in the flat. I squint around, suddenly noticing a crack of light outlining Josh’s bedroom door.
I perk back up. Kicking off my shoes, I pad up to his door and knock. “Josh?”
There’s no response.
“Josh? Can I come in?”
There’s a cut-off sigh, then a hitched breath. It almost sounds like someone crying. Alarm rushes through me, and I shove open the door.
Josh is sitting hunched at his desk, his head in his hands. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a loose, worn T-shirt with a hole in the sleeve.
“I’m busy,” he intones, not looking up. His voice sounds weirdly choked.
I frown, glancing around. The lights are all off. “Josh? Why are you sitting in the dark?” He doesn’t move. His shoulders are heaving with uneven breaths. “Josh—”
“I said I’m busy,” he snaps, his head finally jerking up. “Layla, I don’t have time for this right now.”
I stare at him. Josh and I have bickered plenty over the last three years, but he’s never snapped at me before.
“… Josh?” I say softly. “Has something happened?”
He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “Shit. Sorry, L. You can come in. I just…” He turns back to his laptop. The screen glows, illuminating his face in electric blue. He swallows thickly. “I’m sorry,” he says again.
I pause, then step inside the room, looking around.
I’ve never been inside Josh’s bedroom before. He’s a lot more private than Zack and Luke, so when I stay over, I sleep in their beds instead. I imagined his room to be as pristine and bare as an IKEA catalogue, but it’s actually a lot more cluttered than I expected. His double bed is covered with rumpled navy sheets. A handful of colourful festival lanyards are hanging on his door handle, and his walls are dotted with signed convention posters. One entire wall is lined with bookshelves, stuffed with thick-looking books. As I step closer, I realise they’re textbooks, with titles like Attachment Theory in Relationships and How to Solve Conflict and Appease the Inner Child.
I point at them. “Hang on. Do you actually know what you’re doing?”
He follows my gaze, running a hand through his ruffled hair. “Hm?”
“You say on your show that you’re not qualified,” I point out. “You have more textbooks than most people would need to buy for a five-year psych degree.”
“Well,” he says after a moment. “I want to help people. I can’t do that if I’m giving bad advice.”
I turn to look at him. He looks exhausted. His face is pale, and there are dark circles curving under his eyes. “You really care about this, don’t you?”