Chapter 5: Enmeshed Deception

The lounge room was thick with chamomile and control, the soothing vapour from Sarah's teapot spiralling upwards in lazy fingers. I sat stiffly on the sofa, the cushions too firm underneath me, while Emma fiddled with her jacket on the coffee table. She looked small today, her hair drawn back from behind her ears, her smile a red lightbulb. Sarah had insisted on this—tea, as though it were some Victorian ritual to seal the bargain—and now here we were, trapped in her little game. The ring box was a cold presence in my pocket, a time bomb I couldn't defuse.

Emma glanced up at me, her mild gaze darting away instantly. "It's nice here," she said, her voice little more than a whisper over the noise of her spoon rattling against the edge of the cup. "Cozy."

"Yeah," I grunted, looking at the untasted tea. It was warm now, a faintly yellow pool in the china Sarah had unearthed from some closet. Cozy wasn't the word— stifling, maybe. The walls were too claustrophobic, the air thick with her expectations, and I could still hear Timothy last night, pounding on the other side of the door: "I need you!" I would have opened to him, made some comment about being tired, and he'd gone after ten minutes, muttering in frustration as if he knew I was lying. And now yesterday's note from Sarah—"Emma's coming over tomorrow.".

Be ready.—was a noose tightening around my neck.

Sarah sat on the armchair, rigid blue shirt, dark hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. She drank tea, her eyes flicking from me to us like a hawk searching for prey. "Moses," she said, putting down the cup with a deliberate clink, "why don't you show Emma the ring? She should see."

My stomach dropped, a cold shock making my palms sweat. Emma's smile faltered, her fists clenched in her lap, and I had to battle not to run—out the front door, down the sidewalk, anywhere but here. "Now?" I said, my voice cracking just enough that I heard it.

"Yes, now." Sarah's voice was steel, permitting no further stalling. "It's important that she know what she's facing."

I pulled the box from my pocket, stumbling fingers over velvet, and popped it open. The silver ring glinted in the stark light of the living room, unforgiving and cold, a chain pretending to be a vow. Emma's eyes crept forward, her breath catching on something, and I extended it to her like it could bite me. "It's, uh, for you," I said to it, words dust on my tongue.

She accepted it hesitantly, her shaking white hand wrapping around it. "It's gorgeous," she said, holding it up to the light. Her tone was soft, but something was wrong—fear, maybe, or doubt. She worked it onto her finger, where it fit perfectly, and stared at it, wide-eyed. "Wow. It's… real now, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I said, because that was all there was to say. Real. Like a sentence uttered with no appeal. She gazed at me, searching, and I turned away, the force of her stare too much. Did she feel it too—the trap snapping shut? Or was she better at pretending?

Sarah smiled, tight and satisfied, like a cat that's caught the mouse. "Good. That's settled, then. We'll arrange a date soon—Emma's family will be delighted." She sat back, sipping tea again, and I wanted to scream, like throw the teapot against the wall, anything to shatter this choking fantasy.

Emma took off the ring, handing it back to me with a quiet nod. "It's nice, Moses. Really." Her voice was rough, but her eyes remained on me, as though waiting for something I couldn't give. I jammed the box into my pocket, the velvet rubbing against my leg like a reminder.

After she left—coat folded over her arm, a polite wave at the door—Sarah turned to me, her voice dropping low. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said, stepping closer. “Don’t let Timothy ruin it.”

"He's not spoiling anything," I snapped, more harshly than I meant to. The words spilled out, driven by the memory of his laughter, his hand coming down over mine in the dorm last year at a pizza party—beer pong shattering in the halls, him shouting "Mo's my secret weapon!" as we got resoundingly beaten. I'd laughed then, the world loose and warm, but now it was a ghost that haunted me.

Sarah's eyes grew cold, her lips tightening. "Then do it. Keep him at arm's length, Moses, or I'll ensure he stays there." She turned on her heel, heels snapping against the hardwood, and left me sitting alone with the teacups, their steam long gone. I leaned back into the couch, the silence rushing in around me, and rubbed my face, trying to rub the hurt away.

My phone vibrated later, breaking the silence of my room. I'd fled there in a hurry after Sarah'd gone, the walls a poor barrier to her words. Timothy's name flashed on the screen, and my chest tightened. "Hey, Mo! You awake? I'm starving for pizza. My treat." His voice irritated me when I answered, all cheerful and ordinary, as if nothing was different.

I had to say yes—God, I had to tumble into that vanilla, the way we'd fall onto his dorm room floor between dirty boxes, arguing pineapple on pizza as some terrible action movie blared in the background. But Sarah's defensiveness slammed shut, the steel trap closed. "Can't," I said, my throat shutting. "Have plans."

"Plans?" He laughed, incredulous, the sound pulling me in. "Since when? One slice, come on. You owe me from last night." "Next time," I lied, and the taste was bitter in my mouth. I hung up before he could protest, before his voice could smother me, and the silence rushed back in, more choking than before. The ring box sat on my desk where I'd left it last night, a black stain in the jumble of notebooks and pens.

I stared at it, the recollection of the silver ring gleaming in my mind—Emma's reluctance, Sarah's smug nod, Timothy's smile wavering as I'd turned him away at the doorway. He didn't deserve that. Neither did I. But Sarah had me in her grasp, her claws well and truly embedded, and everything I did made it all the worse. I fell onto the bed, the bed creaking under me, and combed a hand through my hair, tugging on the roots as if there was any chance that I could just pull the mess straight out of my head. The dorm party flashed again—Timothy throwing a ping-pong ball into a cup, yelling like we'd won the lottery, his arm around my shoulders. "You and me, Mo, unstoppable." Unstoppable.

What a joke. My phone vibrated again, and I sat up straight. Another text from Timothy: "Don't ghost me, man. What's up with you?" I stared at it, words blurring together in a jumble as my heart churned, letter by letter each an appeal that I couldn't answer.

I yearned to type it all—Sarah is forcing me to do this, I don't want to lose you, I have loved you forever—but my fingers stalled, unable.

The screen blacked out, his words burning on it, and I placed the phone face-down, gasping shallow breaths. Footsteps sounded outside in the hall, slow, purposeful, and my heart tightened. The door opened—no knock, no warning—and Sarah was standing there, her shadow cutting sharp against the light in the hallway. My phone was in her hand, the face still illuminated from Timothy's text message, and her eyes burning into mine, hard as steel. "We need to talk," she said, entering the room, the door closing behind her with a firm click, one that was uncomfortably like the closing of a cage door.