The Nature of Cruelty by L. H. Cosway Page B

like a lot of female artists,” I tell him.
    “Well, that much is clear. I bet you have a dream to one day go to the Lilith Fair and everything,” he says, all matter-of-fact. It’s actually scary how well he can read me, especially after all our years apart, because yes, I would like to go to the Lilith Fair someday. “Ah, here we are, you’ve got an album of The Frames, which, quite frankly, is just as bad as all the women.”
    “The Frames are amazing. Do you know Sasha and I once met Glen Hansard when he was busking on Grafton Street? He was really lovely.”
    Robert scoffs at this. “The man looks like he needs a good bath and a haircut. Oh, and a hairbrush.”
    “Not everyone cares as much about their appearance as you do. But anyway, if I were to look at your music, what gems would I find?”
    He holds up his hand, bending down a finger each time he lists off a name. “Mumford & Sons, Kings of Leon, Kasabian…”
    “Ugh, I’ll stop you right there. I get it. You like over-hyped indie. Since this is the case, I won’t take your comments on my tastes to heart.”
    He gives me a look of mock outrage. “‘Over-hyped indie’? I think not. Although it’s definitely better than quirky female sexism.”
    “I am not sexist.”
    “You are. You’re a music sexist. That’s the worst kind.” He looks at me in a pleased way that tells me he’s enjoying the argument.
    “Okay, fine. I’m a music sexist. You can go now.” I reach over and grab my iPod out of his hand.
    He stares at me with fire in his eyes. “Are you going to accept my friendship?”
    Man, he really doesn’t give up. “We’ll see.”
    Hopping from the bed, he rubs his palms together. “That’s a yes.”
    “‘We’ll see’ is not a yes, Rob,” I call after him.
    “Yes, it is,” he calls back, walking down the hall to his room. Confident bastard.
    Not two minutes later a brand-new friend request pops up. I wonder if there’s only a certain number of times you can add someone before the site blocks you from trying again. Perhaps I should just block him myself right now. However, if I do that it’ll be like he’s won. He knows the idea of him looking through my page freaks me out, and that’s why he’s pushing so hard for this. Well, maybe I should show him that I’m not bothered by it. Does that mean I’ll have won? Jesus, look at me, I’m playing along with his mind games all over again, even though I said I wouldn’t. He just has this way of luring me in.
    I need to not care about him, about whatever little judge-y thoughts he might have while looking through my photos, so I squeeze my eyes shut and hit “accept,” praying that I’m making the right decision. Immediately a chat window pops up.
    Robert Phillips: Hey, sexy. What are you wearing?
    Lana S: Very funny. You just saw me.
    Robert Phillips: Fair enough. What colour underwear do you have on?
    Lana S: Goodbye, Rob.
    Robert Phillips: Spoilsport!
    I log off before he has the chance to write me anything else and go into Sasha’s room. I find her lying in bed in a vest top and pyjama pants with her mobile phone held to her ear. She mouths the name “Liz” at me, and I nod. Sasha and her mum try to talk as often as they can. As far as I know, Liz tries the same thing with Robert, but he makes it as difficult for her as he possibly can.
    I think he might have some unaddressed hostility towards his mother for breaking up her marriage to Alan. Which is ridiculous, since Liz caught Alan in bed with his secretary, so the divorce is more his fault than hers. Sometimes it’s best not to try to understand the workings of other peoples’ families. I guess you have to be a part of them to fully comprehend them.
    Sasha looks hung-over as she fills Liz in on what’s going with her. Mostly work biz. I sit on the other side of the double bed, and she finishes her conversation with her mum.
    “Hey, kid. You want me to plait your hair for you?” she asks past a yawn.
    I shrug.