Treacherous

Sunday morning comes too suddenly for Angela, who starts awake on her couch. She squeezes her eyes closed, then opens them again, taking in the brightness of her living area. It takes a moment to understand why she fell asleep here, rather than in her comfortable bed, but the realisation comes crashing down far too quickly. 

From the corner of the room she hears a scraping sound. She looks to see Spork, filthy as he digs at the dirt that's now permanently embedded into the carpet. He's standing dangerously close to the broken shards of the shattered plant pot. 

'SPORK.'

Raising her voice at him is unintentional. It's out of fear for his safety, but it merges with delayed anger from last night. She's filled with immediate regret as he turns, legs shaking in terror. If her heart isn't already entirely broken, the sight of him shatters it completely. Her chest tightens, and tears spring readily back into her eyes. 

'Come here, baby,' she softens her tone, desperate not to cry.

She shifts off the couch and onto the floor, holding out her arms to him. He moves toward her cautiously, slowly sniffing her fingertips before eventually allowing her to pet him. As she strokes him she catches sight of her hands, which are still covered in dirt from her outburst last night. She makes a mental list of her priorities for the day: 

- Task one: clear up broken plant pot.

- Task two: clean her dog.

- Task three: clean herself.

- Task four: buy a rug.

If only she'd scheduled her plant-smashing breakdown before Amanda had taken her to Ikea. That way she could've bought a rug and been pre-prepared to cover the muddy corner of her apartment. She ignores the irony that the trip was the catalyst for all of this, and instead tries to focus on getting herself up off the ground. 

Tasks one and two on her list are straight forward. She disposes of the broken pottery quickly, eager to avoid Spork getting near it again. Then she runs the vacuum cleaner over the soiled carpet a dozen times, praying that it will lift the reminder of her outburst from the room, but the dirt stays locked in. At the very least, the shards are gone. 

Cleaning Spork is usually arduous. He's a nervous dog by nature, especially when water is involved, so she makes sure to be extra patient with him today. She should extend the same courtesy to herself, but she can't: accidentally frightening Spork is just another thing she's managed fuck up this weekend.

Spork tentatively shakes himself off as Angela places him on the bathroom floor. She's afraid to be apart from him after scaring him this morning, so she sets up a pillow and blankets in the corner of the room; that way she knows he's safe while she takes a shower. He waddles over to the pile of blankets, happily laying down in them. Angela wraps a towel around him, gently patting him until he's dry. When she's done, she cocoons him in a blanket, stroking him tenderly until he falls asleep. 

With everything else attended to, she has no choice but to look after herself. Both her clothes and her body are filthy, and for a second she considers stepping into the shower fully clothed. It seems easier, allowing the water to just wash over her without having to make any effort except lifting her feet, then turning on the faucet; to feel the physical heaviness of soaked clothes, rather than the heaviness in her heart. 

She pushes the thoughts away as she undresses, finally stepping into the shower. 

The water is too hot, but she doesn't care enough to turn it down, she just lets it scald her. She watches her skin turn red from the heat, then from the force with which she scrubs away the dirt. Maybe, just maybe, if she washes hard enough she can remove the memories of Saturday along with the grime. If she could just forget the look on Amanda's face. The way her voice sounded... Angela isn't sure how long she stands, watching as the water drains with mud, then soap, and eventually runs clear. 

She spends the rest of the day swaddled in a blanket on the couch. Her back aches from the poor night's sleep she'd had last night. She debates laying in bed, but she doesn't deserve comfort. The only reason she’s allowed herself to have a blanket is because she couldn't bare the thought of Spork getting cold as he cuddles up next to her. He's already asleep, and she watches the rise and fall of his breathing. It steadies her. Calming her down until she allows herself to be overcome by her own exhaustion.

When she wakes up on Monday, Angela has never been so glad to have a no-shoot week. Aside from a livestream on Friday, followed by a show on Saturday, she's completely free.

It's a rarity for her schedule to be so clear, and in some ways she's glad: it should make avoiding everything a little bit easier.

Unfortunately, it leaves time for thinking, so she does her best to avoid anything that might remind her of the weekend. She notes the main things to steer clear of: obviously there's Amanda, but also songs and TV shows about romance, or books with any kind of intimacy. Essentially: no seeking out anything about love. 

Love would be easier to avoid if Spotify would stop recommending playlists which might as well be called "so your best friend rejected you: let's cry about that"; or Netflix would stop playing trailers for ridiculous friends-to-lover romcoms. She downloads a podcast episode, only for Smosh Mouth to be advertised before it starts. Her phone is across the room before Amanda's voice can sound. 

She barely makes it through the morning before she's been driven insane by her own mind. Thoughts of Saturday swirl through her head: Amanda's laughter as they toured the aisles of the store; her concern when Angela had wanted to leave; the hurt and anger in her eyes when Angela had... She cuts off the thought, desperate not to remember. It's too raw. Too painful. 

The rest of the week passes in a similar way. Angela spends it moping on the couch, staring mindlessly into space. The carpet is still muddy: she hadn't had the energy to buy a rug to cover it, and she tortures herself by looking at the spot every so often. She can’t close her eyes until she’s exhausted enough they close by themselves: she’ll only see Amanda in her dreams. 

By the time Friday rolls around, she’s lost in a haze. Still, it’s easy enough to make a show at work. Amanda is the only person who knows what happened, so Angela can put on a performance. At least, she thinks she can.

A performance needs make up, so she spent well over an hour this morning making sure she looks her best, and she does: she knows she does. She needs props, too: anything to keep her hands busy. As soon as she arrives at the office, she heads to the kitchen to make coffee. It's empty, aside from Chanse, who's busy making a drink of his own. She sneaks up on him, surprising him by standing quietly at his side until he notices her. 

‘Jesus, Angela,’ Chanse greets her, jumping slightly at her sudden appearance. He looks her up and down before speaking again. ‘You look-’

‘Incredible, right?’ It’s pitched as a joke, but she means it: she looks amazing. She just wishes she felt half as good as she looks.

It’s not that she doesn’t usually look good, more that doesn’t usually have time to cultivate a full-on face of make up. She’s a chronic over-sleeper, missing her alarm pretty much every day. But her alarm hadn’t woken her this morning. In fact, she was already awake when it sounded; shutting it off with forceful irritation. She’d barely slept.

Her hair is loose, straightened and slicked down, showing off her large gold hoop earrings. She’s made an effort with make up, too: eyeshadow painstakingly applied to her eyes; brows gelled down; lips lined and glossed. Usually she prefers black jeans and a t-shirt, but today she's in a dark, double-denim ensemble: her shirt is buttoned up, but cropped, revealing a tight white vest beneath it. Her skirt is short and asymmetrical. It's hot in LA, so her tights are thin, barely worth wearing. 

In short: she looks hot.

Perhaps it’s childish to focus on her appearance just to antagonise Amanda. It’s not like she'll look twice at her anyway. Amanda made her feelings, or lack thereof, abundantly clear.

This isn’t for Amanda, Angela reassures herself. It’s for her.

Chanse snaps his fingers in her face, demanding her attention. 

'You look insanely good, but can you focus?'

'Huh?'

'Compliment me, bitch.' 

He strikes a pose, then turns in a circle, spreading out his arms to make sure she can see his outfit as a whole. She's not sure how she missed it, because his outfit is utterly insane. He's wearing a bright pink jacket: teddy bears adorn the top of it, with pink rhinestoned hearts on their chests. On anyone else, it would look ridiculous, but somehow Chanse makes it work. 

'You look great, Chanse.' 

'Please, I look incredible.' 

'It's going to be hard to take you seriously today, that's for sure.' 

'Hey,' he pushes her slightly. 'You're just jealous.' 

'Sure,' she laughs at him. 

It feels nice to laugh again. To forget how much pain she feels, even for a second. 

They're interrupted by a small squeaking sound from the doorway, as though someone had stepped on a lego and tried not to scream out in pain. Angela and Chanse whip their heads around in unison. 

Of course Amanda looks fantastic.

However much effort Angela had put into her appearance, Amanda has tried twice as hard. She looks effortlessly beautiful, but Angela knows it can’t be as effortless as it seems.

Her hair is up, put up loosely in a claw clip with strands falling in gentle curls around her face. She's wearing a high-necked white shirt, with a floral, flowing coverup over the top. Light denim jeans accentuate her long legs. Her make up is subtle, but stunning, and her eyes pierce through Angela's heart. Amanda looks away quickly, refusing to hold her gaze. 

'Okay, we all look insanely hot.' 

Angela hears Chanse comment. Her eyes are still locked on Amanda: she can't tear herself away. 

Amanda's attention is long gone from her. She busies herself by pretending to look in the refrigerator, then randomly opening and closing cupboards, not looking for anything in particular. 

Chanse waves at Angela, catching her attention while Amanda's back is turned. He points to the taller woman, pulling a confused face at Angela. 

Angela knows he's trying to ask her what's wrong with Amanda. Normally she'd have greeted them with at least a smile before launching into a conversation about how her week has been. Chanse knows both of them well enough to expect they'd usually have hugged by now. If things were as they should be, Amanda would be at Angela's side, connected to her like a magnet. She wouldn't leave until she was forced to. 

If Chanse has noticed already, Angela knows it won't be long before he asks questions. 

'Amanda?' Chanse breaks the quiet, trying to catch her attention. 'Are you good?' 

'Yeah.' Amanda replies sharply, slamming a cupboard door closed.

She checks her phone. It's an obvious move; the kind of thing you do to get out of a conversation you don't want to be a part of. She grimaces, pointing casually at the screen. 

'Tommy needs me, I have to go.' 

She leaves the room without looking back. Angela doesn't take her eyes off her until she's out of sight. 

'What the fuck was that?' Chanse asks as soon as they're alone again. 

Angela shrugs. 

'No, we're not doing this again.' 

'Doing what?' 

'Pretending things aren't weird. Are you guys writing some kind of sketch we need to be aware of? Is this some character work, because the vibes are off as hell.' 

'No,' Angela sighs. For a moment, she considers confessing everything, but she's not ready to talk about it. So, she continues her act. 'Yeah, actually. It's a character thing. We're working on a pitch.' 

Chanse nods, if only to humour her. From his pursed lips and narrowed eyes, it's clear he doesn't believe her. 

'Sure,' he says, nodding again slowly. 

Angela takes a deep breath, then releases it forcefully. 

'I have to pee. I'll meet you in the greenroom?' 

She doesn't wait for Chanse's reply before she bolts out of the kitchen, letting the door slam closed behind her. She half runs to the nearest bathroom, desperate to get inside without being stopped by anybody else. 

'Angela?'

She's almost at the door when she hears Tommy's voice call out. Under her breath, she lets out an anguished sigh before turning around to speak to him.

'Hey.' She's not in the mood for small talk. 

'Hi,' Tommy smiles at her, drawing out the word.

He wants something from her, that much is obvious. When she doesn't reply, he clears his throat before speaking again. 

'A could of people have noticed...something off today.' It's not a question, just a statement. He looks expectantly at her, waiting for her to speak.

'Okay.' If Tommy's about to call her out for her attitude, she'd rather he gets it over with quickly.

'Is Amanda okay?' 

She should have expected that would be his question, but it knocks the air out of her anyway. Of course this is about Amanda. Of course nobody cares about her in all of this; only Amanda. 

'Why is everyone asking me about Amanda? What am I, her fucking PA?' She doesn't mean to raise her voice as much as she does, and she hopes the office is empty enough that nobody else hears her outburst. 

Tommy blinks twice, keeping his eyes fixed on Angela. His mouth forms into a thin line. It's hard to gauge what he's thinking. 

'Okay,' he replies calmly. 'Do you want me to pretend you didn't just yell at me or would you prefer to talk about whatever is going on between you and Amanda?' 

'Nothing is going on.' She practically spits back at him, unable to control her emotions. How idiotic to believe she could handle this. She whips her head around the room, desperate to make sure they're definitely alone. 

'Oh, I see.' 

'What?' 

'Nothing. Just a lover's quarrel from you two.' 

Angela is ready to vomit. Tommy can't possibly know the brevity of his words, but it hits a nerve. 

'Get fucked, Tommy.'

Angela turns on her heel, walking into the bathroom and locking it. 

He doesn't follow her. 

Angela stays in the bathroom for far too long. It's not comfortable, sitting on the cold tiled floor, but it has to be better than running into Amanda again. Or screaming at anyone else in the middle of the office. At least in here she's only a danger to herself. 

She's not crying. She's barely aware of time passing. She just sits, waiting for someone to care enough to find her. 

Amanda would've known where she was.

Chanse texts, then calls her several times. She leaves the messages unanswered, and lets her phone go to voicemail. 

She can't be sure, but it's probably been an hour before a knock sounds at the door. It's nervous and tender. She knows it's ridiculous to assume, but she can't help but hope...

'Angela?' 

It's Chanse: he's finally tired of being ignored. It was insane for her to hope it could be anybody else. 

She unlocks the door and he pushes it open. He keeps his body close to it, trying not expose her to the office in case she's crying. It's sweet, and she appreciates his concern. He locks the door again as soon as he's inside. 

'Angela, what the hell is going on?' His eyes are wide and full of worry; brow furrowed as he looks at her sitting on the bathroom floor. 

Suddenly, it's too much to keep inside. It's impossible to stay quiet any longer: she has to tell him everything, now. She opens her mouth to explain, but her voice catches in the back of her throat. If she speaks, she knows that she'll break down, and if the rest of her week is anything to go by, once she starts crying, she won't stop. She swallows her tears down, shaking her head. 

'Later,' is all she can choke out. 

Rather than pushing her for an explanation, Chanse holds his hands up in surrender. She breathes a deep sigh of relief, trusting that he'll wait until she's ready. He's not going to force it out of her. Not yet, at least. 

'Tommy said-' 

'Shit,' Angela interrupts him before he can get the sentence out. It's not subtle, but she's too tired to hide her exasperation. Obviously, Tommy's told Chanse what happened. 

Chanse throws her a confused look before continuing. 

'Tommy said we have to take photos. For socials.'

'Oh,' she feels some of the tension she's holding onto leave her body. That she can do. 

'We all look good, why would we not wanna document this?' 

'That's true,' Angela agrees, finally smiling a little. 

'So you'll come take some pictures?' He asks, holding out his hand for her. 

It's a small act, but Chanse isn't usually a fan of physical affection, so she appreciates the gesture. She nods, and he guides her out of the bathroom, leading her around the office until they're almost at the front door. 

'Outside?' Angela asks in a puzzled tone. 

'The sun is perfect so the lighting is best, we can't waste it,' Chanse says.

It's a good point. Chanse opens the door, then backs away, patting his jacket pockets. 

'Shoot, I forgot my phone. I'll be two minutes. You head out, I promise I'll be out soon.' 

'Sure.'

Angela's halfway out the door before Chanse calls back. 

'I'll be quick,' he says, jogging away. He turns around, calling out over his shoulder as he rounds the corner, 'Amanda's out there already, just wait with her.'