primadonna girl || wilbur soot

Chapter Fifty-Eight

[REAL LIFE]

Clara is not pleased in any sense of the word. It's her and Wilbur's three monthiversary, and he can't even be bothered to send her a text.

She tells herself it's because he's planning a surprise because their celebration will be so grand that he has to build the suspense. Maybe he's trying to scare her, just to shock her with a profession of his love.

Love? Love is a big word. Is that what Clara feels for him? Is that what he feels for her? She doesn't quite know. All she knows is that the scope of what she feels for him is huge.

Perhaps love doesn't even cover it. Perhaps what she feels is more than what she can put into words. Perhaps... perhaps Wilbur just forgot to text her.

He said he'd be by at 7:30. He said he'd give her a five-minute warning. It's 7:27, and Clara is sitting on her couch. He told her he was taking her somewhere really fancy... like long-dress fancy.

She's got on this gorgeous red gown. Red to mirror their first date. It has a sweetheart neckline, and a tight-looking top part, before it fans out silkily, fabric airily sweeping around her legs. Her hair is done and she's wearing red lipstick. She knows that red on red is a little much, but the lipstick will be gone as soon as she sees Wilbur. She just hopes red lipstick goes with his tux.

He told her all this information two days ago. It's preset. He didn't text her last night, but she passed out as soon as she got home anyways so it doesn't matter. Clara thought she'd wake up and a message would be waiting but alas. She'd have to wait to see him to ask what's up.

George has been shockingly out all day. Salem had some late lunch event and she took George with her to meet some models, and then afterward they went for a long walk to unpack their lives at the moment. Clara thinks George will be home soon for dinner.

Now it's 7:29. That was two minutes of Clara's brain running a mile a minute.

Trains run late sometimes. The tube gets delayed. Maybe he's walking slower than normal. Wilbur isn't always on time. Well, usually he's early. But why does that matter? There are other factors involved. It's not his fault. He wouldn't do this to her.

Now it's 7:40. She's just been sitting there, thinking, wallowing, processing. Why is she freaking out? There's no reason to freak out.

Except now it's 7:50. Her phone dings and she thinks it's Wilbur. It's George, telling her he's grabbing dinner at a restaurant. He's run into an old friend from uni.

It's 8 pm. Wilbur was meant to be at her house thirty minutes ago. Her text that reads "where are you?" is still unanswered.

8:11. "i'm getting worried" is not answered either.

8:26. She's scrolling through her phone, still sitting on that damn couch, still praying that he's going to get here. He wouldn't leave her.

8:44. The fan is making her chilly, so she pulls up a blanket over her legs. Clara curls on her side and turns on the TV.

9:15. Clara gives up. She retreats to her room solemnly, making no noise. She slowly slips off her dress, letting it crumple to the floor in a sad pile. She puts on a pair of sweats and an oversized T-shirt. Her eyes stop at Wilbur's sweater which is folded neatly in her closet.

9:28. It's time for her to take off her makeup. Still no word from Wilbur.

And it's at 9:43 when a knock sounds on her front door. It's loud and scattered. Wearily, Clara pulls herself from her bed, and stalks to the door, taking her time. Wilbur certainly took his.

She's so mentally drained that she's not even sure if she can bring herself to be mad. She'll try her best though. But mad is not the first emotion she feels when she opens that door. It instead is disgust.

The door swings open to reveal Wilbur. His hair is messy as all hell, falling into his lidded eyes. He is wearing a tux, but it's entirely disheveled, tie not tied, collar up and popped. The first three buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing his chest. A large stain covers his front, starting at his collar and ending at his waist. There's a flask in one of his hands. He sways where he stands, leaning on the doorframe. But it's not any of this that hits her first.

It's his smell. It's the bitter, rough smell that sends her reeling. It's the smell of running and fear. It's the smell of confusion, and not knowing why your best friend is touching you in places that you keep so private. It's the tangy smell of vodka.

Clara doesn't meet his eyes. Instead, she turns away from him and bounds to the kitchen, to the garbage can. And she makes it just in time to stoop low and vomit into it, choking because she can't breathe. Her vision is blurry and her head is spinning.

The smell follows her. There's a hand on her back, and she flinches at it. The hand is attached to the smell.

"Whasswrong, love?" Wilbur slurs. Clara turns and looks at him, horror in her eyes. It's as if she's seeing someone completely different.

He's Wilbur and then he's Molly and then he's someone that she's never seen before, someone that she never wants to see again. It's too much too much, and she's quivering all over.

He grips her wrists tightly. "Sorry, I'm... a little late. Whasswrong?"

She's shaking and drowning and she can't breathe. Clara rips her hands away from him, shoving past him, raking a hand through her hair.

"No, no, no, no," she mutters. She registers the salty taste of tears as they roll down her cheeks.

"Why're you pushing me away, love? I said I was sorry." It bothers her that Wilbur actually looks broken, that something in him has shattered with the way she dismisses him.

"Don't touch me," she hisses, rubbing her arms as if she's covering her wounds.

"But... but I love you."

Those words make her let out a heart-wrenching sob. She wanted to hear them. She wanted to hear them oh so badly, and she wanted to say it back. But not like this, never like this.

His eyes droop sadly as if he really doesn't understand what's so wrong, as if he's not getting why she can't just be normal.

"I... I need to get out of here," Clara gasps, not meeting his eyes.

"Oh but please, I said I was sorry. I'm just a-I'm just a stupid fucking idiot, I said I was sorry. Don't leave, oh please not don't leave me." He's descending into hurried ramblings, drunk thoughts unable to pull themselves together. All he knows is that he doesn't want her to go.

Clara scoops up her keys and her phone. Wilbur reaches for her but she dodges and weaves around him, breathing through her mouth, unable to pick up the scent.

"Clara I just love you so so much, and I don't know what to do with all my love, and you're just so amazing, and I love you, I love you-"

Every word is tainted, every beat strikes her deeper and deeper. Clara shakes her head, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. She can't say anything back she just can't. She can't even look at him.

Clara slips on her shoes and high-tails it out the door. He follows her but it doesn't stop her slamming it in his face.

And as she turns to run far far away from her own home, she can hear it from behind the door.

A small broken sob.

REZZINA SPEAKS...

I'm sorry I'm so sorry. bUT THIS ISNT THE LAST CHAPTER!!! THERE ARE TWO MORE PLUS AN EPILOGUE (I'm considering adding another one but its unlikely). things will get better I promise I love you all too much to leave you on a bad note. i know this sucks but wilbur is a stupid little idiot and I'm sorry for doing this to you. never drink this much folks, just communicate like normal people. reread the gf chapter to make yourselves feel better. hang in there until Thursday my loves, I have sympathy for you all. on another note, thank you so much for all your appreciation and engagement. ill make this up to you. I LOVE YOU ALL AND SEE YOU THURSDAY!