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One week. One full week - that’s how long it’s been since you’ve spoken to either Jim or Clarissa.
You don’t know what’s wrong with you; you could say you have daddy issues, make some excuse that Jim has always been a strong, comforting figure in your life. Hell, you could say you were so swept up in the moment and had absolutely no control over what you were doing, you were just acting - but none of that would work, and you knew it.
Ever since that night you spent with Jim, drunk on wine and making love in his bed, you’ve been wracked with guilt. The moment you opened your eyes, your head aching and your mouth dry from the alcohol you had imbibed in, lying naked next to Jim’s sleeping form, you felt guilty. The type of guilt that keeps you awake at night, staring at your ceiling in the dark, your regret chewing a hole through your abdomen, the feeling creeping its way into your chest, until you carried the weight of your guilt like the burden it was. Now, a week later, you look as horrible as you feel: dark circles under your eyes, dull irises from lack of sleep, and most notably, the way you practically leap out of your skin whenever your phone goes off, like you're afraid of whatever could be lurking behind your screen.
That’s why you’ve decided to come clean.
Well, that’s the real reason. However, to make yourself feel better, you tell yourself that Clarissa deserves to know the truth. Really, you can’t decide which would be better: cutting both Clarissa and Jim off, and just never speaking to them again, pretending like what happened between you and her father never really happened, or coming clean, and effectively destroying her trust in the people closest to her. However, your selfish desire came out on top, convincing you that you just simply couldn’t live with this guilt eating away at you for the rest of your life. So, even if it was technically the right thing to do, you knew deep down that you weren’t doing it for Clarissa; you were doing it for yourself.
So, when, this morning, you received a text from Clarissa, asking you to come over, you picked yourself up by your bootstraps and did just that.
When you’d arrived, you’d expected typical, bubbly Clarissa, springing out to meet you. Warm, sunshiney Rissa, asking why you haven’t been over all week and why you aren’t responding to her texts.
What you hadn’t expected, was to walk inside to find Jim sitting on the couch, looking like a scolded child, his hands folded in his lap and his head hung low, with Clarissa standing before him, a deep frown on her face.
They don’t seem to hear you when you enter, so you make a point of closing the door a little harder than necessary, so they’ll hear you. It does its job, and both Jim and Clarissa’s heads perk up, looking in your direction. Clarissa’s gaze is hard, tense, and unreadable - the only absolute being that she’s unhappy. Jim, on the other hand, looks sheepish, apologetic, and he purses his lips into an almost sort of regretful, rueful smile towards you, before looking away quickly, as if ashamed to be near you. Clarissa folds her arms over her chest, straightening her back as she looks at you, and, in the coolest tone she’s ever spoken to you with, she utters:
“Sit down, please.”
You know, then and there, that you’re busted.
The worst part is that all you can think about is how you should have told her sooner, rather than letting her find out on her own; then, perhaps, she would be more forgiving. Just another selfish thought to go along with your selfish actions.
Your throat feels thick, dry, but you sit anyways, not daring to utter a word. You sit on the couch near Jim, though you’re sure to keep as much distance between the two of you as possible. You almost immediately find yourself wringing your hands together, a subconscious effort to self-soothe, as you brace yourself for the inevitable. And, just as you predicted, it comes.
“I wouldn’t imagine you’d have anything to say for yourself, would you?” Clarissa’s voice is cold, flat, and she doesn’t give you the privilege of being emotional.
She looks you dead-on as she speaks, and you find yourself almost squirming beneath her intense gaze. Yet, you hold firm, not wanting to be emotional, if she’s not going to be. Taking a deep breath, knowing this will probably be your only chance to explain yourself, you open your mouth to speak.
“I-”
“I mean, you guys weren’t even smart about it. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? You had your fucking location on, dumbass - who the hell spends a whole night at their friends’ dad’s house when their friend isn’t even there? You’re a fucking weirdo,” Clarissa cuts you off, speaking quickly and irrefutably. “And then, I come back from my mom’s on Sunday, and your socks are balled up in my couch. I mean, seriously?”
Jim, all the while, has his head hung low, looking down at the ground in shame, not speaking a single word. Clarissa, noticing this, turns to him, starting to dig right into her father just the same as she did you.
“And you,” her tone now, speaking to her father, is almost venomous, “what the hell is wrong with you? Honestly, how creepy do you have to be?”
In another moment of selfishness, you’re almost glad she’s seemingly angrier at her father than she is at you; that way, at least, you can tell yourself that you’re not the most at fault. As if reading your thoughts, Clarissa turns back to you with an exasperated sigh and a shake of her head, her expression only able to be described as disappointed and betrayed.
“I’m moving in with my mom,” she explains, which causes Jim to almost imperceptibly twitch, as if this thought truly wounds him. “And I don’t want to hear from you again. Block my number, block my socials, I don’t care; just don’t fucking talk to me again.”
With that, Clarissa turns, her words final, as she leaves Jim and you alone in the living room, the silence tense and heavy. The shock that hangs in the air is tangible, and you swear that you could practically chew through the tension. For a long moment, neither Jim nor you move, not even speaking, and it’s practically dead silent in the house, as if the both of you were holding your breath, afraid of what the other might say.
Deciding to, for the first time all week, be brave, you slowly stand from the couch, not letting your gaze flick to Jim, no matter how much you want to look at him, to take in the state of him at this moment. Still silent, you turn, content to return home to lick your wounds. As you begin to make your way to the door, Jim speaks up, in a soft, hoarse voice, as if he’s been crying, or rather, is about to cry.
“Wait, I…”
You pause, your hand extended for the door, but not quite on the door handle yet. You glance over your shoulder at him, but you don’t turn around to fully face him.
“...I’m sorry, I…” he continues, but trails off, seemingly just as at a loss for words as you are.
Having just solely destroyed your childhood friendship, you don’t grace him with a response. You simply turn back, twisting the door handle, and stepping through the door.
For the very last time.