Genevieve
I DON'T FEEL LIKE MYSELF.
Ford waits outside my house every goddamn morning with my specific hot chocolate order complete with only pink marshmallows. Initially I was repulsed that he discovered that crumb of information from West Point, but I've grown exhausted at the thought of repeating an argument with him about it. Ever since he watched the video of me and some guy at a house party in my senior year—I've never reached that peak of inebriation since—I've long since locked down Ford as one of the people I most despise.
He even went as far to divulge my porn preferences, scouring for trends and patterns to discover that my favourite positions are reverse cowgirl and riding. What calibre of person does something so... so disturbing as that?
Usually I would defend myself and those I care for; I'll be impulsive and fixate myself on my own goals and beliefs, but there's something so abruptly not configured inside of me that's distorting that. I'm clueless as to what it is and how to weather it, leaving it to render me more unhinged than usual.
Quinn and I are sitting in one of our public relations concepts and contexts lectures, and she chooses the moment when our lecturer exits the room to take a message from a fellow colleague to lean in close to me. She whispers, "Are you okay? You've been quieter than usual these past few days and it's unnerving. Is it the breakup?"
Talia and Quinn were first to know about the breakup the following morning, but what I omitted was the fact that Ford facilitated it. All I simply said was that I felt like Harris was too far from the guy that I originally fell for and I was having doubts with the avenue the relationship was headed. They bought it, but their saddened expressions to the fact that they'll seldom be on the opposing end of Harris' charm was and is evidently infuriating, though I tried to conceal that blip of emotion. And still endeavour to now.
I shrug with the shoulder closest to Quinn as she's gazing at me observationally, assessing every little movement, hesitation and response. "Maybe," I settle with, turning to return her scrutinising gaze.
In my heart I believe it's that simple and Occam's Razor applies to this. But my gut is telling me something else. My gut believes that there's something else added to the concoction that's morphing my personality and performance into someone I'm not, and I'm not ready to entirely dismiss that sensation. They always say to trust your gut, but I'm at a complete loss for what else can be the answer.
What I'm also not ready to do is confess to Quinn and Talia about the night that Ford turned up at my house. He confessed he saw Harris fuck me from behind against my window while I was blindfolded, and he's watched me from his bedroom window for ten fucking years until he moved in with the guys. While I've known of his previous antics, I've never been aware of the escalation and severity of them.
And yet, I'm so infuriately stuck on him. My mind won't relinquish him.
For a second that night, I thought he'd kiss me.
And for another horrifying second, I think I would have let him.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I scold.
I've just come out of one relationship—credits to Ford fucking Brody for that one—and I'm ready to kiss the guy that just confessed he's watched me like a Peeping Tom? A guy I've witnessed kill someone and batter the shit out of someone else to claim victory.
Why do I accept the hot chocolates he buys for me in the mornings? Why do I accept the array of drinks he offers sporadically during the day?
Because he's offering olive branches and I don't want to be on the wrong side of him, because I know he will make good on his promise to protect me from the killer that plagues Westville. So I surrender because I don't just want to be another name and another victim.
