ADORA - 20 DAYS AGO

Paying off the last $20.000 feels strangely uncomfortable, which isn't the word I thought I'd use to describe paying off debt.

It leaves me with a question I don't have the answer to. What now?

The debts are paid, my dad went through therapy and is apparently feeling much better. He's ready to run the company again, which means I can relax and enjoy my college years.

I sit on the park bench in downtown Boston and wait for Mark to pick me up. A shady neighbourhood. Full of old, grey, blocky buildings surrounding the patch of green. The night is warm, sultry even. The air is thick. The grey clouds above me look like they'll burst.

I peel off my peach-coloured coat and put it aside. It feels like my blood is boiling in my veins, something is itching me from inside, some need I've been lately feeling.

When I found out my dad had a gambling problem two years ago, I made sure our insurance company stayed alive. Grandfather helped. He ran the company while my dad went to therapy. I mostly dealt with administration. And I was the face of the company.

It was a PR stunt my grandpa came up with. A young girl has to take over her father's company and pull it out of crushing debt while he recovered from his gambling addiction.

For two years, I wasn't allowed a flaw. I couldn't relax, let loose, enjoy my youth, because someone might see and the narrative might crumble. Daughter following father's footsteps.

The $20.000 I returned to my father's "friend," a guy too afraid of the government to receive money electronically, marked the last of my debt slavery.

I thought I'd finally feel free. I want to feel free. Instead, I'm restless, twitchy, and there's some misplaced anger churning in my stomach.

Mark is fifteen minutes late. My misplaced anger finds its target. I decide to call him, hating how it makes me feel like a clingy girlfriend.

He answers after five rings, "Hey, babe! Where are you? We're already here!"

"Mark, you were supposed to pick me up." Quiet anger boils in my veins, mixed with disappointment, but I feel no surprise.

"Ah, shit, babe, sorry, I forgot!" Mark curses. He's surrounded by people; they're laughing and shouting in the background.

Envy jolts through me. Petty, vicious envy. I should have already been there, enjoying my night. Instead, I'm meeting sketchy people in shady neighbourhoods.

"I've already told the driver he can go home." I sigh. "We agreed you'd pick me up."

It's not merely the fact he didn't pick me up. It's that we hadn't been alone in three weeks. We're always hanging out around other people. It's always someone else in the room with us.

"I'm so sorry, babe, I'll call you a cab." Mark is only half-present in the conversation. His attention is split, a part of him is listening to people around him.

"I can call myself a cab, Mark." Another sigh leaves my lips.

Someone shouts something his way and he's laughing, partly forgetting I'm still on the line, "Alright, babe, I'll see you soon!"

"Bye." I hang up.

Cold frustration slides down my spine. It's different from anger. Anger is hot and engaged. This feeling is distanced, detached, apathetic.

I think I'm Mark's trophy wife, even if he's not aware of it. I'm his for showing off, I'm his achievement. And he loves me, I know he does. But he loves me like I'm an extension of him.

The night quickly falls, darkness swallows the park. I'm one click away from ordering a cab when I remember where I am, and my finger hovers over the screen.

Eric Slade lives here.

Something awakes in me, something petty, and vengeful, and vicious.

Eric Slade is Mark's high school best friend. They aren't that close anymore, but they still hang out from time to time. I think they're competing, or they enjoy hurting each other.

Mark screwed Eric out of the possible scholarship in high school. They were both on the football team, but Eric's mother was very sick back then and he wasn't present in school all the time, plus his dealing side hustle was taking a lot of time. When the scouts came to check them out, Mark told Eric the wrong time. They never saw him play. He lost his possible scholarship.

Their lives took different routes after that. Mark went to Harvard; Eric went to jail.

I stare at his name on my phone screen.

The match in my hand is lit. All I need is an excuse to set everything aflame.

We might be going to the same party.

So, I do it. I call him.

"Hello?" The sound of his voice affects me more than it should.

"Eric? It's Adora." I'm aware of how my voice changes; it slightly drops, turns sweeter, the bitchiness turns down a notch.

"What's up?" He doesn't sound like he wants to talk to me. "I've no idea where Mark is, if that's what you want to know."

"I'm actually in your neighbourhood."

Silence, then a whisper, "Oh?"

"Yes." I nod, my fingers are already squeezing the tight hem of my short, red dress. "Are you going to The Druid?"

It's a bar near campus where Mark loves to spend his afternoons and his parents' money.

"I am." Eric's voice is even lower now and I can feel his tension over the phone. "Do you need a ride, Adora?"

"I do." I let out a sigh. "I'm sorry, Mark was supposed to pick me up and he forgot-"

"Come to my apartment." Eric cuts in.

"No, it's-"

"Adora." There's a command in his voice. "You're not going to wait outside for me."

"Okay." I nod and get off the bench.

I walk through the small park, glad there's no people around. I know the number of his apartment. I've known it ever since Mark mentioned it two years ago, when Eric got out of jail. He moved to Boston, mostly because Massachusetts decriminalized marijuana.

Eric and I... We're complicated.

We kissed once, back when I was sixteen, two weeks before I started dating Mark. Ever since, something lingered between us, like an unfinished business itching every once in a while.

Nothing ever happened, but I always knew somewhere in the back of my mind it was better never to engage with him at all. I kept my distance. I stayed away from him.

Because when I'm close to him, I'm always one drink away from making a mistake.

The door of his building creaks as I push it open and a stale, moist smell assaults my nostrils. Every step up the stairs is heavier, more reluctant, yet every step feels like the way back is disappearing.

I think about Eric sometimes, when I'm alone. I think about coming to his door, I wonder what his apartment looks like, I think about his body and his lips, always just a bit too close to me.

Right now, his door stares at me, closed, offering one more chance to walk away. I knock.

Eric opens the door and leans against the frame, his muscles strain against the fabric of his white t-shirt. My glance briefly rushes up and down his body.

It's the grey sweatpants that always do it for me, because I'm that basic.

I think he knows it too, because he smirks down at me. Big, dark eyes stare at me, always with just a smidge of boyish arrogance. He hasn't shaved today; a shade covers his strong jaw.

His light brown hair is wet, droplets stain the collar of his shirt. I think I've interrupted his shower.

"Hi, Adora." Eric's smile is always just a little bit coy. "What brings you here? I thought princesses were supposed to escape from dangerous dungeons."

"Yes, well, this princess has some leftover debt." My voice is slightly too strained and it feels like my heart is jumping up and down with each breath.

Eric offers a questioning gaze.

"My dad borrowed some money from a guy who lives here, had to return it." I explain and because I'm trying to calm my conscience, I add, "Are we going to The Druid?"

He offers a grin, "In a minute. Come in."

Sometimes I wonder whether Eric knows how he affects me, whether he can feel this everlasting tension between us. Then I think I'm alone in it and the thought frightens me.

Eric's apartment is small, but cosy. The only separate room is the bathroom. Kitchen, living room and bedroom are all in one. The smell of sleeping, mixed with weed, lingers in the air. The bed isn't made, the sleek, simple, dark brown kitchen is clean, like it hasn't been used, the leather couch seems comfy. A full whiskey glass rests on the wooden table. It's strangely comforting and secluded.

"It's nice here." I comment while Eric disappears in the bathroom.

I can see him through the crack in the door. My gaze lingers on his strong back muscles as he takes off his shirt. Hair strands tickle the base of his straining neck. I want to run my fingers over his skin.

Eric turns his head slightly and chuckles, "The door wide enough for you?"

My head snaps to the living room in front, my heartbeat picks up the pace, "Sorry."

"Never apologize." Eric pushes the door open. He's wearing a black shirt and jeans, his tricepses strain against the fabric as he picks up his wallet and keys from the table and shoves them in his back pocket.

"Are you ready?" I ask, sweat gathering under the collar of my coat, it's too warm in his apartment.

"Are you in a hurry?" Eric's eyes slide over my red dress and he grabs another glass from the cupboard. "Cause I need another drink before I get to The Druid."

"I thought you hated everyone at Harvard." I murmur, my voice only slightly strained. I take off the coat, unable to stand the heat in the apartment. Eric's movements stop and he shamelessly looks over my bare arms, my naked thighs, my V-neck.

That's the game. I call him, he invites me over, I take off my coat. It's a silent conversation and I understand every word.

"Well, lawyers, politicians and corporate overlords are my enemies." He continues pouring me a drink and when his gaze settles on the glass, I'm relieved.

I chuckle, "Why hang out with their offspring, then?"

Humour edges the corners of his lips, "What's the best way to defeat your enemies?"

"Join them?" I squint.

Eric lifts his gaze, "Fuck their daughters."

Merely hearing him say the word sends a shiver down my spine. He walks over and hands me a glass; his fingers briefly brush mine. Right here right now, I think he's aware of his effect on me. It's evident in his eyes, his confidence, his lingering stare.

Subtle, brushing touches. That's our game.

Eric sits on the couch. I join him. Our knees bump.

Silence only lasts for a few awkward moments. "What are you doing here, Adora?"

I take the sip to hide my tension and shrug, "I needed a ride to the Druid."

He's too close to me. I can feel heat radiating from his body. The glass in my hand turns into a shield; it busies me, gives me something to do so I wouldn't blatantly stare at the man next to me.

"Why couldn't Mark give you a ride?" Eric's eyes never leave my face.

He always does that. He stares at me while I bathe in my anxiety and he won't look away, he won't do me the pleasure.

A laugh escapes my lips, frustrated and mean, "Mark's busy playing beer pong."

Something shifts between us. The game continues, but it's deeper now. Eric looks away, he knows this is the closest we've ever come.

He stands up too quickly, "We should go. Mark is waiting."

I swallow my heartbeat and nod.

"So," Eric holds the door for me and locks after I'm out, "You're mad at him?"

My stomach flips upside down, "Are we going to talk boy troubles?"

Eric smirks and rushes past me down the stairs, "We don't have to talk at all."

Once we're finally out, I welcome the fresh air. Eric's motorcycle is parked in front. The black vehicle looks expensive, way more expensive than Eric should be able to afford. But criminals can obtain anything.

Eric sits on the leather seat, "Hop on."

Sometimes I think Eric is what's left of my rebellious phase. The thing is, that phase got cut short. My mother died, my father almost gambled all our money away, and I had to grow up immediately.

My dress is too short for a motorcycle. Eric's jeans scratch the naked skin of my thighs and another wave of heat climbs up my spine. I wrap my arms around him, needing to hold onto something. His body is strong and warm.

I'm tempted to lean against his back, to run my fingers through his hair, hold him even closer, but I don't.

Eric shoves his leather jacket between us, creating a barrier, "Keep this safe for me."

"I'm already too hot." I complain, ignoring my rapid heartbeat.

"Good." Eric's voice drops. "I don't have to burn alone."

My insides twist and my heart drops to my gut as the motorcycle lurches forward. My grip around Eric tightens.

As the wind whooshes through my hair and my breathing evens out, I revel in the feeling of losing control. For two years, I wasn't allowed to make a mistake. Everything depended on me.

Now my heart is looking for trouble.