Without realising it, I remove my phone from my pocket, unlock it, and hover my thumb over Natalie’s number.
Should I just give her a bit of time? Talk about things once she’s calmed down?
Another glass of wine removes my inhibitions, and I call her, listening to the rings until they take me to voicemail.
What do I do with my evening now?
Watch a television show that doesn’t matter? Go to sleep early? Mark books and plan lessons?
Is that all there is to my life?
Or I could just sit and sulk in the darkness, keep ringing her, and wait until my legs choose to carry me to bed.
19
Harper
The first thing I do is text Danny. I’ve never had that before, having someone to go to — I’ve dealt with every problem I’ve ever had on my own.
Not anymore.
My mum left.
He replies within a minute.
Are you serious?
Yep. I came home and she had a suitcase.
Is your dad okay?
He came home just after me and saw it.
Didn’t even do anything.
Didn’t even put up a fight.
Oh my god, I’m so sorry.
I just can’t believe he didn’t even bother.
What kind of a man doesn’t care about his wife leaving?
He didn’t even cry.
Maybe he was trying to be strong.
For you, I mean.
My dad doesn’t care enough to be strong.
There’s nothing ‘strong’ about him.
He’s weak.
Maybe it was for the best.
Maybe.
Still sucks though.
I mean, mother of your daughter walks out for another man and you don’t even care?
Shit.
Another man?
Yep.
Do you know who he is?
Don’t know. Don’t care.
This is really shit, I’m sorry to hear it.
Is there anything I can do?
Would you like me to send you a picture?
Of me, I mean.
I consider this question, lying upside down on my bed, staring at the ceiling as guitars blare out my speakers.
I wish there was something he could do.
Some way to make me feel better.
Yes please!
Send me a picture.
One of you smiling.
One that will make me happy.
He doesn’t reply, and I worry I was too demanding, but after a minute one comes through.
I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
He’s so handsome.
Ruffled hair, chiselled chin, clear skin.
Your turn.
God, no. He’s too good for me. He’s too out of my league, I don’t want him to see what I look like.
I panic.
But he’s not like that. I’m sure of it. I trust him. He trusts me. I know who he is.
I turn the camera round and take a selfie. The first few look stupid, but I finally find one that looks the least stupid, and I send it.
Wow.
You’re gorgeous.
No I’m not.
You really are.
I was worried you were going to secretly be a fifty-year-old man or something.
I chuckle.
Then another picture comes through.
In this one, he’s topless. Slim. Athletic.
Wow, you really are hot.
Your turn.
What do you mean?
I sent a picture of me without my top on…
It takes a moment for me to understand what he’s saying, and then…
Oh, God, I don’t know if I want to do that. I feel nervous.
But good nervous, I guess. Excited.
No one’s ever seen me without a top on — no one outside the girl’s changing rooms after PE, that is, and even then I tend to face the wall.
But he sent me one…
I guess I probably should.
No pressure.
Just want to see : P
I take off my top. Look at my belly. If I breathe in, I can make it flat. If I take the photo from a high angle my breasts might even block it out.
I’m wearing a purple bra. I’ve never really thought about what bra I’m wearing before. I’ve never had to.
I take the picture and send it before I can convince myself not to.
:P :P :P :P ;) ;) ;) ;)
Wow.
I am lucky to be talking to someone so stunning.
Please, I am not stunning.
You really don’t know, do you?
Don’t know what?
Just how beautiful you are.
I’m not beautiful.
I wish your dad could see what I see.
If he realised what an amazing girl you are, perhaps he’d treat you like an adult.
A sting of sadness hits me.
I’d been smiling so much, he’d been making me feel so good, and now…
He seems to realise this, as after a few minutes silence he sends another message.
Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.
I didn’t mean to bring your dad up again.
I mean, I meant what I said, I just hope I haven’t upset you.
You haven’t upset me.
Are you sure?
Yeah.
I don’t know.
It sucks that my dad doesn’t even care enough to talk to me.
It does. That’s not what a real dad is like.
I guess.
He deserves to be hurt.
That’s a bit harsh.
Don’t you think he does?
He causes you so much pain, doesn’t he deserve any?
I suppose.
When you put it like that.
I just hate guys like him.
I’m sorry if that’s too forthright.
It’s okay.
I’m just really glad I have you to talk to.
And I am.
And now I have two pictures of him.
Two pictures that I gaze at all night before falling asleep with my phone in my hand.