You know those ads where the woman opens the gift—any jewellery gift—and her face shines, glorifying the entire situation? This is it. I feel like the woman in the ad after her significant other handed her jewellery.
I touch the chain, my finger poking at the music note charm. There are two other charms. One is a shiny orange heart. I smile, feeling the warmth slipping down my cheeks at the paintbrush charm attached to the chain.
Conner takes it out of the box, and I raise my right arm. He lowers the bracelet, wraps it around my wrist, and binds it with an adjustable clasp. After it’s on, I rub my eyes, and my shoulders shake, trembling with warmth and adoration.
“Why are you crying?” he asks softly.
“It’s just…This is the first time I’ve gotten something for my birthday in a long time. Thank you.”
I wipe at the tears, but they keep flowing. I can’t contain these emotions. And when Conner leans closer to me, my armswrap around him, and I bury my face into his shoulder, letting his shirt soak up the tears I shed.
His arms move around my back, and his lips find my neck, planting sensual kisses across my shoulder, neck and jaw.
“Take me to the bedroom, Conner,” I breathe into his ear.
He stands, I wrap my arms and legs around him, and we move into his bedroom this time.
My fingers are shrivelled.Having two showers so close together isn’t an excellent idea. Nevertheless, it had to happen, for guests are arriving shortly.
I sit on the chair in the kitchen and watch Conner grab plates Mrs Jones bought and set them, as well as tall diamante glasses, on the counter beside the pizza.
After removing my sheets, the washing machine beeps, and I remove Conner’s bed sheets and stuff them in the dryer. While I make my bed, the buzzer goes off. I still, and even knowing I mentallyknowwho it is, the thought of Dad getting released before the trial comes to mind, and my stomach drops. My heart reminds me of a drum beating loudly in my chest. I feel sick as my eyes dart to my open door, contemplating whether I should lock it.
Conner goes to the door and pushes the button beside it, and Sammy’s loud voice fills the apartment. My racing heart slows, and I place the pillows on the bed after fixing the sheets. As I leave the room and sit on the lounge, there’s a knock on the door. Conner opens the door for Sammy and Dylan. Dylan holds a square box. He speaks to Conner, and Conner points to the kitchen counter.
“Happy birthday, Noya!” Sammy cries. She removes her hands behind her back and lowers a gift bag with a cute, tiny kitten print. “Open it!”
I bite my lip while I tear at the tape. The bag opens, and I take out a small box. I eye Conner after realising it’s from where he got my gift.
“We collaborated,” Sammy answers when I open the box and see the B.F.F. charm.
I unclasp the bracelet and slip the charm among the others. “I love it,” I breathe.
Sammy leans her arm against the lounge while I place the bag and small box on the coffee table. “Are you coming back to school tomorrow?”
“Uh… yes,” I agree. “I still need to hand in a few assignments, and Conner has his exams this Wednesday, and then he graduates.”
She looks at the boys heading onto the balcony to smoke. Her eyes darken once the door closes, and she turns her attention back toward me. “Andy asked how you were doing. I told him you were doing better.”
I stiffen, avert my gaze, and chew my bottom lip. “He’s not going to talk to me tomorrow, is he?”
“No,” she answers, shaking her head. Sammy shuffles uncomfortably and says, “There’s something else I wanted to warn you about before heading to school tomorrow.”
“Oh…”
“A group of girls in Year Nine are handing out flyers.” Sammy rummages in her bag before pulling out a folded piece of paper. She hands it to me, and I open it, my eyes widening and my stomach dropping at the headline. “They want you to be their spokesperson because… you know.”
“I’m not interested,” I declare while folding the paper and tossing it beside the gift bag. “I didn’t escape what happened tome, only to relive it for thousands of people. I want to move on with my life.”
Sammy pets my leg while saying, “I know. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. They’re keen to have you talk at their seminar for domestic violence victims.”
I scrunch my face, feeling the pain as the memories flood in of the countless times Dad hit me. Then, thinking about talking about all those times again to people I don’t know. It’s nothing I thought about doing or wanted. Thousands of other people are more capable of expressing their lives as victims of domestic violence. Brave, courageous people worthy of the spotlight.
That’s not me. I wanted to live my life and leave the past in the past from the start.
“If they come up to you at school, I’ll tell them to piss off.”
I breathe a laugh, then sigh. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”