Laurel's apartment felt empty. Emptier than it had felt even the nights she'd kicked Gareth out. There was a sense of finality, of fatalism, that although she decided they should take a break, that break was a break up. And she didn't like it.
She dropped her bag by the table and shrugged off her coat – chucking it across a vacant chair – and headed straight for the red wine she'd meant to drink with Gareth last evening. She murmured curses at herself as she poured herself a glass, she murmured curses at him between mouthfuls of wine.
"Fuck," she eventually said audibly. She slumped down on the couch and gazed into her drink. She couldn't rationalise anything that had happened in the previous three days, but she was pretty sure none of it was bug-related. Unless their new way of avoiding their hosts having sex was to cause them to argue nonsensically. Was it even within the reach of alien bugs to create the concept of a prior sexual relationship with Michael Moore? Republicans – yes. But space bugs?
Laurel took another swig of her drink before she placed the glass down on the coffee table. Finally kicking off her shoes, she tipped her head back, covering her face with her hands.
Gareth's behavior had been inexcusable. He was acting like a little boy who couldn't let something go, but wasn't brave enough to be honest about it – only wrap it in excuses of political ideology and go on the offensive with smugness and disdain. And he'd tried to shame her. Gareth, the guy all too happy to jump into bed with her while she was drunk and going on about brain bugs, was squeamish at what was actually an incorrect number of past sexual partners.
The first part was down to stupidity, the second was being hypocritical and mean.
She finally sat upright again, blood rushing to her head as she righted herself. She was angry. He had tried – and failed – to make her feel small, whether that was his original intention or not. But despite this anger, she felt as empty as her apartment. As brief as the romantic part of her relationship with Gareth had been, Laurel already missed it. In the space of three days it had fallen apart, their friendship was all but certainly over, and the increasing tension between their bosses would put them directly at odds without a glimmer hope in the outside world.
Contemplating this, her eyes casually skimmed the coffee table: her laptop. Her work. LA.
Her life.
Her life without politics, and bugs, and bug-controlled political dynasty family members. Laurel could just go. Sure, she wouldn't have the money from her dad to pay for her film, but she could ask Luke for help given the time she had put in to his office, and get a job in California in the meantime to raise some of the funds. It wasn't impossible – she had options. Her crowd-funding source still had some way to go before it would be anywhere near matching what she needed, however. Maybe it was time for a fresh start altogether. Maybe she could go to London or New York. A fresh city with fresh ideas and completely new projects which she might be able to get funding for.
As Laurel reached the end of her positive, productive train of thought, she wondered why she still felt so low. Her vision re-focused on the almost-finished glass of wine on the table. A kind of blunted pain had taken up residence in her chest as her mind wandered back to Gareth leaving her office rejected, dejected, with his ever smitten eyes clouded in sadness and regret.
Goodbye.
She picked up her wineglass and downed the rest of the liquid. She stood up off the couch, just managing to avoid tripping over her shoes, and meandered back to the kitchen to leave her glass. Remembering that she hadn't checked her phone in some time, she looked to see if her brother needed her for anything. A small part of her hoped for an apologetic text or answerphone message from Gareth, but her screen was blank, save for the clock showing it was one am. She had been sitting there for hours.
As she stripped to shower, she fought hard against the pleasant memories of the planetarium. He had wanted her: she had wanted him. She stood under the shower, the water pouring over her head and down her face. No one would have seen the tears as she cried them. Frustration. Regret. Heartache. True anger. She couldn't pinpoint the dominant emotion, but she was sure they were all represented.
The tears subsided as she washed herself and shampooed her hair, but the pain in her chest could not be shifted. She continued to feel it as she finished towel-drying her hair and donned her robe. Sleep would not come easy that night.
Forgetting about her hair, Laurel changed, grabbed her coat and her bag and headed out the door. She couldn't leave it like this.