Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
“Ah. Yes, I can see how pleasantness could be an issue.”
And then I snap it.
“I can’t deal with your bullshit now, Andy. What am I supposed to do?”
A pfft ricochets off the counter. “How on earth have I become the go between for this bizarre throuple you lot have found yourselves in? Honestly…”
“Well, if you’re gonnae be a dick about it.”
“No, kid. I’m sorry. I just worry about you. You know that.”
“There’s a lot of it going around. Everybody worrying about everybody.”
“What do you want, Laurie? Right now, what do you want to do?”
“I wannae get absolutely hammered until I pass out in a pool of my own vomit.”
A brief silence… “And then?”
And then… “I love him,” I admit aloud. To Andy. To myself. “I want to be with him.”
“Then I think you’ve answered your question. Quit talking to me, kid, and get the hell on with it.”
Nodding, a new lease of life surges through my veins. “Cheers, Andy. Love ya, pal,” I say quickly, smacking the red button before he can reply.
I pick up the phone, stare at it, breathe deeply, quickly.
End this. This stalemate. The ambiguity. This fucking turmoil.
Me:
Can we talk? Just once. If you say it’s over afterwards, you have my word I’ll accept it, for good. Please, William. We need this.
Now I wait. I wait some more. Whenever the screen darkens, threatening to lock, I tap on the message again. I stay this way for thirty minutes, and not once do those three wiggling dots appear. Still, determination, purpose, blooms in my chest. I hit call. The longer it rings in my ear, the more it starts to sound like a funeral march, and I feel myself hurtling towards those damn rocks.
He doesn’t pick up.
The decorative vase pays the price.
“Fuck you, William!” I scream until my lungs burn, hurling the vase at the wall. It smashes on impact, the glass raining to the ground in a thousand pieces, sticks clattering as they land in all different directions. “Come back…” The words get lost in a strangled sob. “Just fucking come back to me.”
It appears, by the empty bottle on my pillow, I ended up reverting to plan A after my fight with the vase last night, minus the falling asleep in a pool of vomit part, thankfully. Not that I don’t deserve such an ending after the amount of Scotch I put away. Somehow, I clearly made it upstairs, though I don’t remember how. I do remember dialling William a couple more times. I also remember wishing the automated voice that announced his voicemail was a real person so I could fucking stab them.
Although I want to stay here forever, my bladder forces me out of bed, and once I start moving, my senses kick in. My mouth feels like carpet. My body reeks. “Fuck.” I’m turning my own stomach.
After brushing my teeth, I opt for a bath over a shower. Uses less energy. I sit there for an hour or more, until the water cools enough to feel uncomfortable. I don’t bother dressing afterwards. Can’t be arsed. Towelling dry took enough effort.
Downstairs, the heated tiles feel good beneath my feet as I make my way down the hall. The heat rises, warming my naked body as I turn into the living room.
“Christ, kid, put it away.”
“What the fuck?” A literal yelp squeezes past my throat. “When did you get here? Ever hear of knocking?”
I briefly scan my surroundings but can’t see anything to cover myself with. Sod it. It’s my house.
Andy moves the hand that’s shielding his eyes, looking in every direction but mine. “I did. Last night…before you let me in.”
I did? “Oh.”
“How else d’you think you got upstairs?”
I don’t tell him that I’d already posed that question to myself.
“Well, what did you want? Last night’s a bit, uh, fuzzy. Am I missing something?”
“I came because I know you, and after you put the phone down I suspected you might end up having a long chat with a nice bottle of Lagavulin. Now get some bloody clothes on, will you.”
I hate that he’s right, which is why I grunt like a stroppy teenager before turning back to the stairs. He does, indeed, know me. He cares, too, which is why I let him get away with using that same look my mother used to give me when I came home smelling of cigarette smoke after school. A true glower. One look, and you know your toe is touching the very edge of a line you don’t want to cross if you hope to live to see the sun set.
When I return, covered appropriately in jeans and a T-shirt, there’s a cup of coffee waiting for me at the kitchen island where the vase used to be. Remembering, my eyes dart across the room but find no evidence of its destruction.