[a/n]: 5.8K WORDS. this is my longest chapter ever, and to celebrate, i would appreciate loads of comments with genuine reactions and theories as you read (ovb on the app). enjoy! another a/n at the end.

19: Fallout

            I am putting all of my effort into making amends with Caggie, it is the only healthy thing I can concentrate on now which has the smallest possibility of leading to me having a breakdown, which I can feel on the horizon. I am a mess, I conclude, looking in the mirror in a ridiculously short dress which barely covers my ass, a neckline low enough to be considered inappropriate for public. I want to blame my state of dress on everyone else; Charlie for being a major fuck up in the last months of my high school life, for confusing me, for making me doubt myself, Graham for telling me he is responsible for ending my one year relationship, Byron for telling me that Freya is back and all of our work helping him get better is for nothing, Caggie for the abrupt end to our friendship, Devin for fucking dying.

            I want to blame other people for the state I am in now, but the idea of not taking responsibility for my own actions, something I have always done, repulses me just as much as the feel of my tongue running across the front of my teeth. My makeup is smudged, most of it on the pillow I have just moved my head from, and I am a poster advertising the morning after. My main concern right now is finding Caggie in this wretched house, and leaving before anymore can be said about my appearance here last night.

            I struggle to find my phone beneath the pile of clothes scattered at the end of the bed. The sound of a groan has me pausing, and looking up sharply at the head of dark hair at the top of the bed. I can barely recall anything of the night before, other than arriving and having drinks shoved into our hands whenever they happened to be empty. I don’t understand how this is something Devin and Caggie enjoyed doing to themselves every week. My gut is churning, and my hands are shaking as I search for my phone.

            I drop it once I manage to get my hands around it, and I take a deep breath to calm myself down. This feeling of panic is one I am not entirely foreign to, but it makes me pause as my gut clenches. My battery percentage is ridiculously low, but should be enough for me to make a phone call at the least, for a taxi to get me out of here immediately. I know enough about what happened last night to understand why I feel so stiff and shameful. I feel as though I should have hypocrite stamped onto my forehead.

            “Kasia?” There is a groan, and I watch him sit himself up in the bed, the realisation of our transgressions catching up with him. I gulp as his mouth falls open a bit before he smiles, rubbing at his eyes as though that will somehow stop the amount of light entering the room through the window. “Fucking hell,” he curses, “I knew you’d come back.”

            “Shut your mouth,” I hiss, standing up to my full height, phone in one hand and heels in the other. “This doesn’t mean anything.” He is welcome to read into this much more than it is required, but I am not prepared for him to continue with the notion that this is us reconciling, because I have not forgiven him, I don’t want to talk to him and sex does not connote to love.

            “Oh god,” he mutters, “I’m going to get beaten up.” I don’t rush to reassure him from the blatant truth, that yes, if this does get out, he will be hunted down like an animal by my brother and Graham and Sebastian, and the dick between his legs won’t be there for much longer. There is no point lying to him because he does not deserve the novelty of an escape from reality. “Charlie’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”

            “Yes, probably,” I say shortly. “That’s why we should just keep it to ourselves, alright?” He doesn’t reply, and I grow worried at his reluctance to agree to keep this a secret between the two of us, which will save him later down the line; he should be thankful I am offering him this at all. “Logan, promise me,” I am begging at this point, because it won’t just affect him, either. The only thing he’ll have to worry about is the chance of him getting a punch. I will have to face disappointment from so many people, for falling into the trap of Logan C. and taking it to a whole other level, too. I want him to understand that there is so much at stake for the two of us right here, not just him afraid of losing some man pride. But Logan is so wrapped up in the idea of himself he probably won’t even care at all, because this will be his sick and twisted vengeance because I ended things with him and ended up happy.

            “Fine,” Logan sighs, “I won’t say anything.” He runs his hand through his hair, and blinks at me. “It’s always you, Kasia,” he says under his breath. I don’t bother with replying, content that this will not travel further than this spare bedroom at Idris’ house, provided he doesn’t know already.

                        ◦  ▲  ◦  ▲  ◦

            Caggie insists on the two of us getting lunch, to fulfil her fantasies of finally feeling like one of those girls on the ridiculous Reality TV shows that she watches, and I am hopeless but to agree to everything she wants to do. I think this may be what is really necessary to get our friendship back to where it used to be, and when she lets me know that she enjoyed herself last night, just the two of us, how it had always been, I am so happy that she is not the only one. This is what I have really missed, my best friend, not Charlie or Byron, Graham and Sebastian, but the one constant who has stuck by me through everything.

            We end up at a café she claims to have discovered months ago, with cakes to die for, and I laugh at the familiarity of Caggie’s exaggeration. She orders for me, an iced tea, for I have been bought up on the stuff in my home, and a slice of red velvet cake, quick to assure that I will just die because it is supposed to be the best thing ever. I laugh with her, or the closest I can get to one, my throat feels rough, and the only thing I have done so far today is have a shower at Caggie’s house, as though that will wash away the lasting guilt I feel has settled into my skin. Caggie suspects that I got up to something shady last night, and I am thankful that she hasn’t asked about it so far.

            “I should have bought you here earlier,” Caggie lets me know, stirring her cup of coffee. We are sitting right by the window, bean bags for chairs, and Imagine Dragons is playing. There is a counter filled with all kinds of treats, and if the idea of an excessive amount of food wasn’t making me feel sick, then I would most definitely be ordering more than just one slice of cake. She stabs her chocolate cake with her fork, meets my eyes and smiles before making a show of eating a bite. “Devin actually showed me this place.”

            “Really?” It is one thing to learn of her going out and partying with her – not even from Caggie herself – but another to believe that this level of camaraderie extended from the hours of drunken misbehaviour. This is a moment where I feel like our friendship is not genuine, because I like to believe that Caggie would tell me that she went out for tea and cakes with a girl who was murdered three months ago. It is not an expectation that is hard to believe is capable of occurring, and the simple fact that it didn’t is what scares me. “I never knew you were close.” I have been under the impression that I am one of the few friends that Caggie knows and trusts, and I hate feeling needy or clingy when I am proved wrong about this.

            She shrugs her shoulders, like this is all irrelevant and not worth talking about, which is so far from the truth I feel tempted to push the plate of chocolate cake away from her and watch it shatter on the floor just so she’ll understand that this is important to me. Because this is a friendship I thought I knew like the back of hand, like knowing that Byron will never be over Freya, Skylar will always be nothing more than reliable, and to be proved wrong about this makes me question everything I thought I knew and the people I have closest to me. “We hung out a couple times. You were with Charlie, Adrienne was in a detention centre, you know.”

            “What?” I feel compelled to shout at her, because this is such an important piece of information and she cannot act so blasé about it. However, I am forced to lean closer to her over the table and keep my voice low, for the front door has just opened, the chimes ringing, and Adrienne has just stepped over the threshold, in the good old irony I am becoming to explain this whole fucked up situation I have found myself immersed in. “This isn’t something to joke about, Caggie,” I warn her.

            “What’s not a joke?” I push myself back from the table, the bean bag moving to the side. Adrienne is smiling at us, like she has ever said more than two words to either of us in our entire existence. I have not seen her this close since junior year, and the change that happens in twelve months is shocking. Her hair has grown, she’s gotten thinner and the smile on her face is so much like Devin I feel like we are back to where we started, the beginning of the cycle.

            “Kasia doesn’t believe me when I tell her that Charlie might ask her to Prom.” I feign a smile around the straw, taking a deliberate sip of my iced tea.

            Adrienne smirks at this, “Oh,” she smiles at me, as though she is in on some joke at my expense. “I thought you and Logan were back together.”

            I am choking, and she is so proud of herself for catching me off guard, it is written all over her face. Caggie freezes across the table, looking at me and hoping that it isn’t true. I barely manage to regain composure, assured that this is how people die, choking on their bad decisions with everyone else’s disappointment attacking you from every direction. “You know?” It has been only hours since I left Idris’ house, and I want to say I am surprised that it has gotten out so quickly, but then I remember that this occurred at a Idris party of all places, and it was never really my secret to begin with.

            When Adrienne tells me that everyone knows, the only thing that I can really focus on is finding Logan C. and wringing his neck, never mind the amount of damage control I’ll have to do.

                        ◦  ▲  ◦  ▲  ◦

            “Have you heard already?” I am partly responsible for making sure Faye doesn’t bump her head off the playground equipment as she chases her friends, giggling, but I am desperate to uncover the truth from Skylar, to understand how wide spread the fallout is. Since meeting him this afternoon, he has been tight lipped and withdrawn, face taut and complexion pale. This is a Skylar I have never been witness to, and I don’t like the silence dragging between us, the one word answers, and the short replies. It feels as though he has just remembered who I really am, not his friend, but Charlie’s ex-girlfriend, and that hurts so much.

            Skylar has quickly become someone I can depend on, a friend to fill the gap that Caggie had left, a confidant I can trust where Byron fails. I am relying on Skylar’s shameless loyalty to make me feel better, and I am clawing away at my knuckles, sat on this park bench, praying for him to say something to me at long last. I don’t want to be friends with him because he is close to Charlie, but because he is someone I trust and want to be around.

            He sighs, rubbing at the skin between his eyebrows, fingering the edge of the cap he is wearing backwards. I lean closer to him, desperate for an answer I already know, because he will have already heard, and so will Fred and Charlie, and this makes the situation so much worse. I am so eager for people in my corner, because for the past few months it has felt like everyone has been so against me, and now they finally have a reason to be.

            “Kasia,” Skylar lets out a breath, focusing on his sister so he doesn’t have to look at me, sitting so close to him he can probably smell Caggie’s perfume that I used way too much of this morning. “I just . . . don’t get it.” He finishes weakly, and I watch him press down on his fingers, rub his knuckles, repeat.

            “W-What about Charlie?”

            Skylar looks at me, and I should already know this answer, and I think there is a small part of me that already does, is prepared to hear that he is so disappointed in me, but I am holding onto the thin thread of hope that says otherwise. “Charlie’s pissed, of course. He wants you to seek him out, so he can shout at you, to get an explanation, but . . . goddammit, Kasia, Logan of all people, seriously?”

            “It was a mistake!” I sputter, tears in my eyes, “I was drunk! Skylar, you have to understand that I didn’t know what was happening and I regret it so much. I just want Charlie to talk to me,” I sob, voice cracking and hands covering my face, “I miss him so much, Skylar, and now—now he won’t even look at me, will he?” He moves closer to my side, an arm over my shoulder and I am crying into the fabric of his hoodie, hiccupping at the lack of oxygen getting to my lungs. And I know I am ridiculously pathetic right now but I want this moment so much I refuse to pull myself together.

                        ◦  ▲  ◦  ▲  ◦

            It’s Sunday morning and Byron and Graham have arrived for their first home cooked meal since they have moved into their own place. Mom is glad to have her son back, Dad is impressed neither of them have managed to kill themselves whilst they’ve been gone, and I can’t look either of   them in the face. Everyone is so caught up in hearing stories of what the two of them have gotten up to so far, that I manage to get away with stabbing at my eggs, not hungry when I know the three of us are walking in circles around each other, avoiding each other as best as we can.

            “As long as neither of you are bringing back a baby the next time you bother to see us again, then I’ll allow you to keep the house.” Dad tells the two of them, frying pieces of bacon. This is an atmosphere I want to be immersed in, laughing and asking if either of them have any clean clothes to wear as they are both as far away from domesticated as they can possibly get. I want to forget that Caggie has not returned my calls or replied to my texts, or that Skylar sent me straight home because it is not his place to say how Charlie feels, as though I don’t know already.

            Graham snorts at this, and Byron rolls his eyes, and then they meet mine. I pause, holding my breath, frozen, and he seems to be, too, before he looks at Dad again, refocusing. “Just be quiet over there old man.”

            “Who you callin’ old man, punk?”

            All three of them are laughing, and Mom is smiling into her glass of iced tea, and I feel so far out of the loop right now I don’t know where the end is to try and get back in and actually feel like I am wanted here.

                        ◦  ▲  ◦  ▲  ◦

            “How drunk were you Friday night?” This is what I have been waiting for, not only someone asking for my recount of events, but Byron actually talking to me again. I admit that I have missed him so much more than I had ever been prepared to have, and I am almost worried that is sort of dependency on my brother is unhealthy. I feel like I am wading out in the middle of the sea, helpless and alone, latching onto the first person who comes along and offers me a helping hand. This is not someone I am proud of being, because I am nothing alone, and that is what scares me so, so much.

            “Pretty much wasted.” After the first round of shots offered my way by Idris himself, I decided to let my inhibitions free, and really enjoy myself because it was a party. I had started laughing at cheap pick-up lines, entertaining the idea that someone other than Charlie could actually be interested in someone as boring as me, and I had loved the attention. Caggie tells me I have an attention whore complex when drunk, and with all of the small snippets of Friday night that I can remember without wanting to bash my skull in, I agree with her wholeheartedly.

            Byron nods at this, and I am almost certain he is dodging the subject to be polite, testing boundaries that have previously been knocked down in our disregard with each other. “But you gave your consent, right? When you went upstairs.”

            “Oh my god,” I draw back from him, horrified at the accusation, as Byron is just as equally embarrassed. I understand my actions have been out of character for the limited amount of idiosyncrasies that I possess, but this is something else entirely. “No.” I say sternly. “I may have been drunk but I’m not stupid. It was consensual.”

            “You can’t blame him for asking, Kas,” Graham drawls, and I am reminded that these two are a package deal, and it can’t do for me to talk to one and then ignore the other. I am not usually in this position where it is dependent on me to be the one offering forgiveness. “I mean, damn, you hooked up with Logan C.”

            It stings for Graham to say it in the bluntest context there is, because it is so much more than him telling me of sexcapade which I don’t want or need to be reminded of. I am so used to him mincing down his words when he talks to me, and now he is talking to me like I mean nothing to him.

            “Why does no one ever say his last name?” Byron asks.

            “His last name is McKenna,” Graham tells him, “he just doesn’t use it because it’s girly as fuck.”

            “Are we beating him up then?”

            I don’t have the time to tell them that neither of them are beating anyone up, “Hell yes,” Graham cracks his knuckles for an added effect, “I’ve been dying to land a good punch.”

                        ◦  ▲  ◦  ▲  ◦

            Byron heads to the car immediately after saying his goodbyes, and Graham is shifting from foot to foot by the front door. I am unsure of where we lie in terms of a friendship we once had and the ruins left ahead of us. Byron is our middle ground right now, forcing the two of us to be features in each other’s lives, a conversation starter where our lack of shared interests falls, and without him here right in this very moment, I am clueless. Mom has left for work, as it may be a Sunday for everyone else, but for her it is a working day. Dad is cleaning up the remains of breakfast, and in this hallway, I am stood hand curled around the door, hoping for Graham to just leave without saying anything.

            “I’m sorry, Kas,” Graham tells me, and I am frozen beneath my own skin. Graham doesn’t apologise, because he has never said anything he is not wholly prepared to back up one hundred percent. He is stubborn, but not ignorant. He knows what he thinks, and intelligent enough to know the consequences behind every word that leaves his mouth. His jaw clenches at my lack of response, as I continue to stare at him, blinking, breathing, biding time, but not speaking. “I’m really fuckin’ sorry. You have to understand that I wasn’t trying to be malicious when you and Charlie ended. I honest to God thought I was doing the best for you, letting you return to something that you loved. And I’m so