I go home the long way, body encumbered with sweat, the tennis ball gripped in my hand. Every once in a while I’ll look down at it in confusion.

That did not just happen.

And yet it did.

The boy wrote his number on it and threw it back.

Call me x.

I shake my head as I scoff at the houses opposite. It had to have been a joke. He wouldn’t have just done that instinctively without giving it real thought first.

But then I can’t kid myself when I can still see the seriousness of his gaze, the way he looked me up and down. The ghost of a smile on his lips as he scribbled, resting the ball on his raised knee.

No. He meant it. I’m sure of it.

The house smells warm when I enter. Mum flitters round the kitchen, cheeks flustered. She pulls a baking tray from the oven, cakes still bubbling a golden brown.

“Good practice?” she asks.

I bob my head. She doesn’t ask anymore.

I debate with myself whether I should tell her about the events of this morning. But I stop myself. Do I want to be rushing into things so soon after my separation with Dayson? It’s been seven months.

What would he think of me if I start attaching myself to someone else?

Shallow little bitch, he said once.

I swallow hard, stare at the tiles. Don’t want that.

I’m strong. Muscly, yes. But strong.

The boy can wait. The episode with him can be scraped from my mind.
It was nothing, just a little fling.

It doesn’t mean anything at all.

And so I nod my head again and throw the ball into the bin on my way upstairs.

* * *

The room feels more cramped now. Even though it’s in the exact same state as when I left it an hour ago, it still feels like the walls are pressing down on me.

I survey the mess. Textbooks are littered all over the floor, some with their spines cracked, most without covers that were lost years ago. There are socks without their partners, bras with bent wires, and sweet wrappers so old that I can’t identify what brand they were.

Sighing, I stoop down to gather a few of the bits of rubbish. It must be that action that forces me to succumb to the job as I lower myself until I sit cross-legged on the floor.

Then I begin to sort through the humungous pile of garbage scattered across the bedroom floor.

It takes a while. I sort things into piles. As I do, it leaves me feeling lighter, and I begin to forget about the incident this morning.

And then something catches my eye. Underneath a pile of unwanted clothes sits a small jewellery box, a little scathed and dusty from spending so long down there.
Something wrenches in my chest. It pulls back and suddenly I’m fighting back a sob.

It escapes anyway, choked.

Taking the box in my hands, I feel its rough corners. Inside lies a beautiful pendant. A sparkling diamond that shines against the contrasting backdrop.

The pendant Dayson gave me.

I remember it now. The first few months we were together, he’d been infatuated with me. I remember the shine his eyes as he sat on this very floor with me.

Close your eyes, he’d said. And so I did.

Then I'd seen the beauty that lay inside the box, and wondered if there could be anything more beautiful.
I remember the gentle way he handled the clasp, the softness of his hands as he brushed my hair away and slid the jewel around my neck, the slight intake of breath as he took in the sight of me.

You look beautiful, he’d said.

My heart bursts. Not because of that, but because of what he said afterwards.

He’d said three words.

And so I rock on the floor of my filthy bedroom, tears running down my heating cheeks, memories of Dayson filling every part of my mind.

He turned sour after that. So sour.

I remember his constant nagging. Every minute of everyday he would ask me where I was, and when I didn’t answer he would get pissed.

On and on like that for weeks. All while he was probably fucking other girls.

And yet it’s still confirmed. It wouldn’t do me any good to start a new relationship.

I, Chandy Dixon, am not ready.