It’s just before three when a Metachat key pops up in my inbox, and I smile properly for what feels like the first time in weeks. Tori! Tori’s here!
I copy the code down and key it in carefully, the unmistakable fizz of excitement bubbling away inside me. I’m not quite sure when I went from “suspicious conspiracy theorist” to “actively looking forward to communicating with this person,” but a switch has most definitely been flicked. My only problem now is I’ve got to hide it until I’ve figured out if Tori feels the same way. No one likes an overexcited fat chick, after all.
Hey. You’re home early. Or has work finished where you are?
I know. Shameless digging, but can you blame me? I can’t just ask her outright where she lives. That would be weird.
Left work early. Not having a good day. Feel like someone’s attached jumper cables to my spine. Freaked out.
Oh no! Is it the weather?
It’s shit here and that always makes me feel jumpy and weird.
No, not the weather.
Something happened this morning . . .
not sure if it’s what I think it is, but it’s freaked me out.
OK . . . you can tell me, if you want. No pressure. But I might be able to help?
The seconds tick by. Still no reply. Oh, crap, what if I’ve overstepped the mark, what if she thinks I’m taking liberties, but then why bring it up if she didn’t want me to ask about it? Gah, I hate this, it’s like when people do those horrible ambiguous “some people are shit” or “you are terrible—you know who you are” posts, except I don’t know and I automatically assume it’s me. It’s why I ended up abandoning my first attempts at social media and opening new accounts, to wipe the slate clean. Well, that and the insufferable bullying and the fact that I simply don’t give a shit about what anyone I went to school with is doing—
I dunno if I’m right, but I think I saw my psychobitch ex this morning. I was grabbing a coffee, and I saw her walk past the window. I nearly had to hide in the fucking loo so she wouldn’t see me. If it is her, it can’t be a coincidence, can it? I moved away to get away from that bitch! And now she’s here, in my town, strutting around like she owns it? I can’t deal with that. But I can’t move again, I’ve got a job here and everything now. I’m sorry to dump all of this on you, you don’t deserve it, but I need to tell someone or I’m going to explode . . . arrrrggghhhhh!!!!!!!!!! *rage*
Wow, that’s . . . dramatic. Might explain a bit about her, though. Looks like she’s trying to claw back as much control of her life as she can. And I can’t help the little smug smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth. She has a psychobitch ex—and she’s telling me about it. Not her work friends, not her followers, but me. Shame I don’t really have much experience (okay, none whatsoever) in the whole ex department.
Yikes
Dumb, I know, but I can’t just launch in with omg, I’m so chuffed you’re trusting me with this, and I want to help you in any way I can.
What was she doing?
I dunno. Just walking, I guess. It wasn’t so much what she was doing, more that she was even here. I live in a backwater shithole! Nothing ever happens here. Why would she even move here, if it’s not to find me and torture me again? Oh, Amy, what do I do?
Amy. That bursts my bubble. I’d forgotten I’d called myself that. Major regrets now. Why couldn’t I just be honest in the first place? Well done, Beth, way to go in the Making Life Difficult For Yourself stakes again. Big round of applause.
First off, I’m no expert . . . but maybe you could check her online? Stalk her for a bit? See if she’s changed her location anywhere or if she posts any photos with places you recognize . . . with any luck, this is just her doppelganger and you have nothing to worry about.
And my name isn’t Amy, but maybe we’ll tackle that after I’ve (hopefully) done something right for a change.
Omg that’s actually genius. Why didn’t I think of that? Fuck me . . . hang on . . . brb . . .
Why am I holding my breath?
You’re right!! No evidence of moving. Location as it was before. No photos of here. Unless she’s literally arrived today. And even then, she’d tell everyone cos she literally documents everything she ever does online. Omg, I think I might actually cry, I’m so relieved. All that worrying for nothing? I am such a fucking moron. Thank you so much, hun. You’re the best! Xxx
I’m the best. See, it’s up there in black and white. AND three kisses. Maybe today isn’t such a write-off after all. Now all I have to do is own up to not being an Amy.
That’s it. Just type Sorry, but my name is actually Beth. Easy-peasy.
. . . fuck.
As if on cue, my phone pings; it’s the real Amy, and she’s been busy. On Facebook she’s sharing dumb listicles with me, mainly ones about life at uni and cats. So far, so cliché. She’s also messaged me, asking for my email as she couldn’t find it in the uni database. I almost say that she was probably looking under Beth rather than Bethany, but instead I just give her my home email since that’s easier for me to use.
I’m trying to construct a confessional to Tori when a new email notification pops up. In it are all of today’s notes, neatly typed up.
Had nothing better to do this afternoon, she replies when I ask her about it. U better get better soon or I’ll turn into one of those weirdos who do nothing but study all the time!!
This kind of leaves me speechless. I keep trying to turn her around in my head, but no matter what I try, she just doesn’t fit. She’s pretty. She’s sparkly. She certainly isn’t fugly. So why on earth does she want to be my friend? She must have some kind of defect (apart from a terminal case of over-perkiness) that she’s hiding from me. That’s all I can come up with.
Tori’s back on track, sending me links to a new target. Okay, how am I going to do this? Quick and to the point, like ripping off a Band-Aid, or slow and gentle, like a breakup?
Yeah, I think I just answered my own question there.
Tori, can I tell you something?
Course. You can tell me anything :)
Oh, you say that now.
I just have something to admit. My name isn’t amy. I told you it was amy cos the internet and all that but I feel really bad about that now. Just wanted u to know. Pls don’t be too mad . . . :(
I wince, my fingers crossed on my left hand while my right goes off groping in my bedside cabinet for a candy bar. Tori’s reply comes through just as I manage to grasp one.
Lol! You’re so funny. I guessed it wasn’t your real name. I mean who gives their real name straight away? I could have been anyone! Don’t sweat it, chick. I get it.
I pause, mid unwrap, and set the chocolate down without taking a bite.
You sure? You’re really ok with that?
Yeah! It’s not like you’ve shot my dog or robbed me or anything. Fuck, half the people I’ve slept with don’t know my real name. Who needs that hassle, amirite? :P Seriously, though—don’t worry about it. I mean it.
I can’t believe she’s being so cool about this.
Really? I’ve been worrying about this for a while cos its plain you’re not a freakshow or anything. should have told you ages ago but the time was never right . . .
I know how it is. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to keep yourself safe. Like I said, I get it. Although I’m not so sure about the freakshow thing . . . ;)
Oh really?!
Hey, why do you think I have a psychobitch ex?! Once you go Tori, nothing else compares! ^_^
She ain’t wrong.
Oh, but one thing . . .
Yeah?
What IS your name?! You still haven’t told me!
Oh god i’m such an idiot! It’s Beth.
Beth? I like that. Much better than Amy. Amy’s a bit basic bitch, you know what I mean? Beth, though—yeah, that’s much better. Like the chick on The Walking Dead.
Lol! Wish I was called Carol now, cos she’s hardcore.
Beth was a bit whiney. Cute ass, tho.
Lol, you know it! And she got to eat snakes with Daryl. That’s pretty hardcore . . .
And that’s that. I am seemingly forgiven. I scan each of her posts for any hint that she might be playing me a line, for anything that could be construed as a barb, but nope, she’s clean. It may be raining out there, but it’s beaming bloody sunshine in here.