Trust Me. Angela Clarke

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       Freddie

      Oh my God. She shook her head. No way was she gonna move in with him. She was only twenty-four. Was he crazy? She had her whole life ahead of her.

      ‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea.’ Freddie swung her legs over the side of the bed.

      ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

      She’d let him get too comfortable. She’d got too comfortable. ‘This – us, like it’s fun and stuff, but no.’ She thought of her parents’ wedding photo: her mum twenty-four years old in her lacy white dress. Each time her dad smashed the frame during a drunken rage, her mum just replaced it without mentioning it.

      ‘No?’ He sat up, the duvet falling off his naked body. ‘What have the last few months been then? You’ve stayed the last twelve nights and you’re saying this is just – what? A fling?’ His eyes were wide. Stung.

      Shit. She’d let her guard down. She didn’t want to be a jerk. ‘You know I’ve been sofa-surfing for months.’ She grabbed yesterday’s knickers from the floor, turned them inside out. ‘This has just been temporary, while I find new digs.’

      ‘You’ve been fucking me because it’s convenient?’

      It wasn’t like it was all one-sided. ‘You’ve had perks too.’ He was thinking with his dick.

      ‘Thanks a fucking lot, Freddie!’ His cheeks burned red.

      Anger she could deal with. She pulled her bag open. ‘Where’s all my stuff?’

      ‘I gave you a drawer.’ He pointed at the Ikea set under the telly and Xbox. His bottom lip shook.

      ‘You gave me a drawer?’ No one has ever made space for you before, Freddie. That must mean something.

      ‘Don’t you like staying here?’ He reached to brush back the frizzy curtain of hair that had fallen over her face.

      Yes. She couldn’t breathe. She needed to get out of there. ‘It’s not that.’

      ‘You don’t like me then?’ He let his hand fall back against the blue duvet.

      ‘Course I like you.’ She dived at the drawer. Quicker would be better. Pulled it open, started scooping her stuff into her bag.

      ‘Then why don’t you stay?’ He was up now, moving toward her. His arms wrapped round her as he kissed along her naked shoulder, her neck. She felt her body give under his touch, as one hand ran over her shoulder, circled her nipple. The air in the room was hot, foetid. August was gradually turning the heat up on London. Smothering them. She would hurt him. Hurt them both. Be strong, Freddie.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I can’t do this.’

      His arms dropped. He stepped backwards. She didn’t look. This is for the best.

      ‘But…’ His voice wavered. ‘I think I’m falling for you.’

      She froze.

      ‘I love you, Freddie,’ he said.

      Freddie swept the last of her things into her bag and ran. She clattered out of the flat, pausing at the foot of the communal staircase to pull on her vest and shorts. Her heart was screaming at her to go back. Be strong. She heard him stumbling for his jeans, his keys, calling after her. She bolted out into the street; the sunlight wrapped itself around her in a stifling embrace. Happy bloody Monday.