Chapter Thirteen: Dicentra

I get back later than usual, and feeling shittier than I ever have. I know I have to pull myself together, especially as the Queen’s dinner party is in less than a week and I plan to outshine everyone else there. I need to prove to them all – especially Unova – that I’m not just another Marionette, that I am the best out of all of them. That I’m not the failure I’ve grown to believe I am.

Though I would do anything to forget my problems, I don’t have any options – not since my fight with Marceau. The only way to fix that would be to give him a call, and to tell him that I’m sorry.

I don’t do sorry.

So I walk over to my fridge, where I know multiple bottles of star juice wait to be opened. And once I reach it, I consume them one by one, drinking myself into blissful oblivion.

Such blissful oblivion.

After an hour of drinking star juice non-stop, I flop onto my sofa, drowsy and light-headed.

I should call Marceau. I feel worse today than ever and the star juice isn’t gonna do it for me. Not anymore. I want to feel… I need to feel him against me because I get better that way. Right? And Marcy isn’t going to be mad if I call him. He hasn’t heard from me in so long and I miss him and I bet he misses me too and it’s not a bad idea at all and I can’t wait for him to come over and take off my clothes and-

‘Hello?’

Shit.

‘Uhhh… Hi, Marcy.’

Silence.

‘Why are you calling me, Dicentra?’ he says flatly.

‘Dicentra? Don’t be silly, you’ve always called me Dizzy. What the fuck kind of name is Dicentra anyways…?’ I giggle at the thought. Dicentra? Such a dumb name.

‘Dicentra… are you drunk?’

‘Um… no. I’m not drunk. Who’s drunk? You’re drunk.’

Marceau sighs, sounding bored with the conversation. ‘Why are you calling me?’ he asks again.

‘I, uh, I wantedtosaysorryforbeingsuchabitch.’

‘You what?’

‘I wanted to say sorry for being such a bitch,’ I whine, ‘I was mean to you. I should’ve been nicer. I’ll be nicer. Sorry Marcy.’

Silence again.

‘Do you mean it?’

I splutter, trying to think of the right words, ‘Of course I mean it. Why would I want to be mean to Marcy? He’s so sweet and so kind and I’m always so horrible to him and- and-’ I find myself unable to continue, and my eyes fill up with tears.

‘Are you crying?’ he asks.

‘No. I’m not crying. Who’s crying? You’re crying,’ I say, though I’m pretty sure he hears my voice breaking and my sniffles on his end of the line.

‘Look, Dicent- Dizzy, as long as you mean your apology, I can forgive you. Do you mean it?’

‘Yes! Honest! I do!’

‘Right then.’ He says, ‘So I can go now?’

‘Noooo, don’t go Marcy. I want you to come over. Please come over?’

He sighs, and doesn’t respond for a while. With each second that passes my anxiety increases, knowing that the longer he takes to reply the lower my chances of ever relieving my stress. So in my head, I will him to say yes, thinking that if I will it hard enough it might just happen.

Luckily for me, it does.

‘I suppose… yeah, I guess I will.’

‘Yay! Be quick Marcy!’ and I end the call, waiting in anticipation for him to arrive.

It takes forever or it takes no time at all. I don’t know. I don’t care. But when he arrives I wrench open the door, expecting the usual things to happen – casual flirting, then kissing, then making our way to my bed… and so on and so forth.

This time though, he just stands there a bit aimlessly, looking as though he ended up in the wrong place.

‘Hello, handsome,’ I say, ignoring the lost look on his face.

‘Hey…’ he looks around the room before stepping in, then says: ‘So you are drunk.’

‘Drunk on the thought of you, yes,’ I reply, giggling.

His cheeks go a little red, and he looks away. ‘And I’m here because…’

‘Well, why else?’

I pull him fully through the door, pinning him against it at the same time it closes. I put my arms either side of his body, keeping him trapped there, then I move a little closer.

‘I- I wasn’t expecting this,’ he stutters, blushing madly.

‘What, did you think we were going to have a nice little chit-chat?’ I say, running my hands down his torso until they reach his trousers.

‘I- I, um…’

‘What’s the matter, Marcy? Cat got your tongue?’

I watch his face, watch his cheeks heat up, watch his eyes trail down to where my hands are now undoing his belt.

‘I just – it’s – are you sure you want to do this? I don’t think you’re in the right mindset.’

‘Shhhhhhhh,’ I whisper, placing a finger to his lips.

He stops talking – finally – and his thundery grey eyes meet mine. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he kisses me, and I kiss him back, pulling him away from the door. It’s desperate, and it’s passionate, and it’s everything I’d hoped for. I taste the fleeting bitterness of regret, the lingering flavour of desire, the sweet patience that he used to have but is no longer there.

We fall onto my bed, a hot, messy tangle of limbs. There’s laughter, but not because it’s funny. It’s because it’s fun. He presses me into the mattress, keeping his lips firm against mine. My shirt comes off, then his, then his trousers, then mine, and well… the rest is history.

The after leaves me breathless, satisfied, but insanely tired. I don’t move, I just lay there, staring up at the ceiling as my eyes adjust to the darkness. To say I can’t believe what just happened would be a lie. But saying it was expected…

Well, it’s amazing what sorry can do.

***

I wake in the morning with a drilling hangover, wishing that I didn’t have to go to work. It doesn’t get better when I sit up, nor when I go to the bathroom. It makes me wonder just how much I drank last night. After brushing my teeth, I plod back into my room, half asleep and desperately wishing to sleep for at least another 24 hours. But to my surprise, there’s already someone in my bed. Before I can think better of it, I shake them awake.

‘I’m sorry to wake you, but what the FUCK are you doing in my bed?’

The person turns to face me, bleary eyes and barely awake, and I immediately feel guilty. But he’s not even supposed to be here.

‘Marceau?’ I ask.

‘Huh?’ he replies, trying to get a better grasp of his surroundings.

I sit down on the bed, looking at him curiously.

‘Dizzy?’ he says, eyes cloudy with confusion. But a moment later, realisation passes across his face, and he turns to face me.

‘Do you, uh…’ he hesitates, looking shy for a second, ‘Do you remember what happened last night?’

‘No…’ I reply, but I trail off as I scan the room, clothes scattered on the floor, some of which definitely aren’t mine.

And that’s when it hits me.

Shit.

‘Yeah…’ he says, confirming my suspicions.

He gets out of the bed, stretching for a second, then looking for his clothes around the room.

‘Look,’ says Marceau, pulling up his trousers, ‘this was fun, but I really can’t do this anymore.’

‘You… what?’ I look up at him, beyond confused. Where’s this coming from.

‘I don’t want to keep doing this, okay? I’m done. I quit. I just – I just can’t.’

‘But –’ I pause, unable to find the right words. ‘But I need you. You’re the only way I can feel better. I don’t have any other options.’

‘And that’s exactly why,’ he continues, ‘You don’t need me, you need a distraction, and I just happen to be available. So you take advantage of that. And I know it was an agreement, but I don’t want to be your first option anymore.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I say, because I genuinely don’t. What happened? He knew he was being used, and if he didn’t like it he should’ve just said so. No matter to me. There’s always a replacement. But now? When things are already so shitty?

‘What don’t you understand?’ he asks, trying to keep the frustration from entering his voice.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I reply, my voice barely a whisper.

‘I’ve already told you,’ says Marceau, ‘I don’t want to. I’m done. I’ve made peace with it, and I know it might take you longer, but you have to let it go.’

‘If you really hated it that much you could’ve just said,’ I say. I knew this would come to an end one day, but I just… didn’t think it would be so soon. I don’t even know why I’m upset about it, in all honesty.

‘Would you just listen to me?’ he says, raising his voice, ‘You do this all the time. I try to tell you one thing but you always believe another. You always think that your opinion is fact. I’ve been fine with this arrangement because I know it helps you out, but sometimes there’s a line, and you’ve crossed that line too many times.’ He paces around, and I can hear it in his voice that he’s irritated – no, angry now.

‘I’m sick of being treated like one of your puppets, like just another person you can use, alright? Sick of it. So I’ve said it before, and I’m going to say it one last time, because clearly my words aren’t getting through to you. I’m. Done.’

And with that, he storms out of my room, slamming the door behind him.