“Piss off, Sash,” Robert bites back.
“What? When have you ever been nice just for the sake of it?”
“I’m always nice.”
“You’re nice when you want something, and if you’re always nice then that’s only because you always want something.”
Great, they’re fighting again. Over me, it seems. I’m like a constant topic of contention for these two, and I really don’t like it. But there’s something in what Sasha says that strikes a chord with me. Is Robert only being nice because he wants something? That something possibly being sex, taking his touchy-feely behaviour into account.
“You’re wrong, Sasha, so just shut up,” Robert snaps at her. It looks like he’s grinding his jaw.
“Not wrong, but whatever,” Sasha replies, leaning back in her seat and throwing her arm over her face to block out the sun.
The rest of the drive is mostly silent, with me listening to music on my earphones. Every once in a while Robert’s eyes will land on me through the mirror, and I’ll do my best to pretend I don’t notice. When we arrive home, Sasha goes to take a shower and I grab some water from the fridge, the hot day making me thirsty.
I’m standing, looking out the window into the garden, when a warm hand slides along the back of my neck.
“You look like you’re in the mood for a long, relaxing bath,” Robert whispers in my ear.
I back away from him. “What are you doing?”
“Touching you, suggesting a bath,” he answers, looking at me like I’m thick.
“Since when did you do stuff like that? Just stop, Rob. It’s weird.”
Despite what happened between us today, I can’t get used to him being tactile. Perhaps it’s my brain telling me I’m wandering down a troublesome path by letting him suck me in. He’s so beautiful and easy to fall into sometimes.
“Weird?” he asks, annoyed.
“Yes, weird.”
“You didn’t seem to think it was weird when I was sticking my tongue down your throat earlier on.”
“That was a moment of insanity.”
“It was a moment of something,” he answers, his gaze examining me as though seeking some minuscule change.
“I’m sorry. I’m being rude. It’s just been a long day, and I’m tired. I’m going to go lie down for a while.”
I turn away, but he grabs my wrist. “Don’t run away from me, Lana.”
“I’m not running away. I told you, I’m tired.”
“Let me lie down with you, then,” he responds.
“I can’t. Sasha’s right upstairs.”
“Fuck Sasha. Why would you give a shit what she thinks anyway?”
“Because she’s my friend, and she’s your sister. I don’t want to do anything that would upset her.”
He pauses for a moment and eyes me. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Of course not. Sasha would think I’m an idiot for being with you. Jesus, even I think I’m an idiot for considering it.”
“You’ve had a crush on me since you were twelve,” he states.
“What does that have to do with anything? And I had a crush on you, Robert. Past tense. I soon learned the error of my misplaced admiration.” Ha! If only.
He steps closer, backing me up against the wall. “Past tense, really?” he asks, running a hand along my hip. “Pull the other one, Lana. I know when a girl likes me, and you really like me.”
Abruptly, he steps away, grins, and walks out of the room.
I heave a sigh of frustration, pick up my beach bag, and make a start on putting my wet stuff in the laundry.
Eight
Later that evening I’m lying on my bed surfing the Internet when I get an email alert informing me I’ve been tagged in some photos on Facebook by none other than Robert Phillips. Great. He must have uploaded the shots he took on the beach today. I avoid logging in like the plague, switching off my computer and putting on some relaxing music so that I can do a bit of yoga in my room.
Thirty minutes later I’m all yoga-ed out and my laptop is calling to me like baked goods to a stoner. Giving in, I hop onto the bed and turn the thing on. When I log in, Robert’s pictures pop up immediately. But I ignore those for a moment, because there are some notifications from a couple of days ago telling me he’s liked and commented on a few of my own photos. God only knows what I’ll find here.
Jesus. Christ.
Robert has managed to pick all of the pictures where I’m on my own, nobody else in the shot. Most of them were taken either by Sasha or by my grandmother Penny, who has a thing for filling up photo albums and recording every important event that happens in our family.
The first picture Robert has “liked” is of me at my uncle’s sixtieth birthday party two years ago. I’m sitting at a table in the local country club, wearing a green dress, and there are burst balloons, empty glasses, and used party poppers scattered across the table. It must have been late in the night. I have that sheepish, embarrassed look on my face I always get when being photographed.
In the comments section Robert has written: You look so young in this one.
The next comment is on a picture of me that Sasha took. We were at a music festival last summer when she came home to visit. It was a brutally hot day, I remember, and in the picture I have a cold bottle of water pressed to my cheek, standing amid a crowd of bodies. The shot is taken up close. Robert’s comment consists of a single word: Hot.
Does he mean hot as in hot or hot as in temperature? Ugh. I almost laugh, knowing he’s written it just to confuse me. The final comment is on my profile picture, the one of me on the beach at home that my mum took. The one Robert said I looked “pure” in, whatever that means. His comment reads: Not trying to be creepy, but I’m making this my screensaver.
God, is he serious?
I can’t help it — I write a comment back: That is creepy. Don’t you dare do that.