Page 4 of The Ring
How many were there?
One? Two? Three?More?
All these questions plague my mind in a continuous loop.
There is something about her that infuriates me like no one else can.
I wanted to shut my mind up, so right after brunch I went to a pub, drank a lot, and found the girl who looked most like Cornelia and took her home. But the thing is, no one really looks like Cornelia. There’s something about her that’s unlike anything you have ever seen.
Maybe it’s the way her eyes shift from green to blue depending on what she’s wearing, or how her luscious hair is the most incredible shade of brown, with tints of gold and bronze when it catches the light. Or maybe it’s her face, with those angelic features. And the way she moves—with such grace and confidence—like a swan is hypnotising. Yet sometimes, when she’s had a bit to drink, she gets clumsy, which is hilarious.
I could search for a thousand years and never find someone quite like her. But with enough alcohol, any light brunette with shoulder-length hair and coloured eyes can help me pretend—for a while—that I am with her. I know it’s messed up, that every time I have sex with someone, I imagine it’s Cornelia. But if I can’t have her, this is the next best thing.
The girl from the pub was decent sex, but the best thing about her was that I didn’t have to throw her out in the morning. She just got up and went away. I hate when they stick around, hoping I’ll take them for breakfast or something. Can they learn to read the room? Me having sex with them has nothing to do with them; it hardly has anything to do with me, but everything to do with Cornelia.
I woke up with a killer hangover, and after staying in bed for a while hoping it would miraculously go away—and failing—I finally dragged myself to the kitchen in search of water and maybe something to eat.
I step into the living area and spot West at the kitchen counter, dressed in a crisp blue button-down and black trousers. Coffee in hand, eyes glued to his phone. We’ve lived together for three years, not counting the years we shared a dorm in Edelweiss, the boarding school we all went to. As soon as we finished school, we bought this place and moved in. I liked it, though I would have preferred it if the developers, when they made the flats, had kept more of the original construction, like the mouldings or pillars. It’s a penthouse on Park Street in Mayfair with three bedrooms, four bathrooms, and an open-plan living area.
If you walk in from the hallway where the bedrooms are, you’d see three couches—the first, an L-shaped one facing the wall where the TV is, and the other two, crescent-shaped, facing each other. All three are white. Behind them sits the dining table, and past that, the kitchen. The front door opens directly into the living room. The flat has two storeys: the first holds the living space, my bedroom, and another bedroom we use as a guest room. The second floor has the rooftop terrace and West’s room—the biggest one—which he won in a card game.
“Rough night?” he asks, glancing up from his phone as I cross the kitchen and reach for a glass.
I nod, pouring myself some water. My head is pounding.
“I met your friend. She tried to be sneaky, but on her way out, she ended up smacking that plant by accident,” he says, gesturing towards the front door, where a flower pot lies broken.Shame. That one, along with the matching one on the other side of the door, is one of the few decorations we have here. The living area is minimally decorated, with nothing except the art on the walls, each piece lit from above by its ownlamp. West chose most of the furniture, and I’m pretty sure he kept things sparse on purpose, so the art would take centre stage. “I think she was a bit drunk,” he adds.
I rub my eyes. “I’ll clean it up later.”
“She sort of reminds me of someone,” West muses, eyes glittering. “I just can’t put my finger on it. Care to give me a hand with who it is?”
He’s baiting me. He knows exactly who she reminds him of. It’s the same person the last twenty girls I’ve brought home have reminded him of.
I glare at him. “Remind me why I agreed to live with you?”
West is my brother in every way except the least important one, biologically. I met him when I was ten years old, and we’ve been friends ever since. A decision that, in moments like this, I regret a bit.
“I keep you humble,” West says casually.
I growl at him.
“Given your choice of company last night, I assume you’re not as pleased as my sister that Cornelia is back… or maybe it’s the opposite,” he wonders.
I don’t answer him. Instead, I take a few sips of water. My feelings about Cornelia being back are still a mystery to me. Half of me feels finally complete, like when she went away, she took a part of my soul and now it is finally back, but the other half feels mad, ashamed, and many other feelings I don’t quite get. She is a living reminder of the worst mistake I have ever made and the worst thing that has happened to me, but she is also the person I have loved the most in my life.
“What actually happened between you two?” West asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Yesterday was the first time West asked outright. Which was surprising, to say the least—not that he asked, but that it was thefirsttime. After what happened with Cornelia andme, I retreated into myself for a few days, trying to make sense of it all. And when I finally came out of it, West seemed to understand that this was something I really,reallydidn’t want to talk about. Or maybe I just looked really shitty, and he was kind enough to respect that until now.
Now that Cornelia is back, it seems his grace period is over.
“Didn’t you get your answers at brunch yesterday?” I glare at him as I drop onto the barstool beside him. “By the way, thank you very much for that,” I add sarcastically.
“Really, TJ. What did you do?”
“Why do you assume I did something?” I ask indignantly.
“Come on, it’s Cornelia, and as capable as she is, there’s no way she could have fucked up your relationship this badly—did you…” He pauses, as if weighing whether to say what’s on his mind. “Did you, like, get her pregnant or something?”
