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)
Becca has been my entire world since I was in school. She was my everything and everyone when I had no one. Now I’m here, alone, and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.
I’m a child again. Starting anew. Hopeful. Curious. A little afraid. Seeing my reflection in the dressing table mirror, my past stares back at me. I used to look at myself, just like this, only I’d imagine my future. I’d see all the things I was going to do once I got away from my philandering father with the twitchy fists and the mother who acted blind to the lot of it. I’d tell myself I would be something great, something better than they were. The first time the motherfucker hit me square in the jaw, I eyed my reflection, just like I’m doing now, and imagined travelling the world one day, putting so much distance between me and my parents that they’d need a map and a sherpa to have any hope of finding me again.
Then Becca and I were thrown together for lunchtime maths study, and I learned what love was supposed to look like. From Becca, from her family. I got to experience that feeling of closeness and I clung onto it, to her. I vowed to never let her go. I don’t regret it. Truly.
Do I? Is it still love…or are we just used to each other? A habit.
Fuck, no. Christ. Nausea bubbles in my stomach. The fleeting thought feels like a betrayal. I stand up, shake my head, wonder what the hell has got into me. Clearly, I don’t cope well with change. My life has been constant for years. Same home, same job, same friends. Becca’s friends. Routine obviously suits me. Once I’m back to that, back to a regular pattern with this new job, all these thoughts will pass. I’m a fucking grown up, for God’s sake. I sound like a timid and pathetic child. My own kids, actual children, don’t whine as much as my own mind is doing right now.
“Fuck, I’m annoying myself,” I say to nobody.
Instinctively, I reach for my phone, find my thumb scrolling to Becca’s name. I stop myself. Nope. I love her, but I don’t need her. I’ll call her later. Maybe I’ll order room service. Grab a beer. Watch some porn, wank without worrying about one of the kids coming home early.
Be a fucking adult.
“Ugh…” The pillow over my head does little to suppress the siren in my goddamn ear. “What. Who is it? Hello…” I mumble into the mattress, half asleep, seconds before registering the fact my phone is ringing. “Shit.” Tossing the pillow on the floor, I roll over and feel around the bed until I find the phone. “Hello?” I answer, silently cursing the crack in my voice that gives away the nap I’ve just had.
“William!”
Bloody hell. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I note the time. The voice of Andrew Cobbe is far too cheery to wake up to, even if it is seven PM.
“I’m down in the lobby! Thought you could use a familiar face while you’re new to the area. Come join us for dinner if you haven’t eaten already.”
“Um…” I rub at my eyes. Shit. Wake up. Talk like a human. “Sure, sure. Gimme ten minutes.”
“Great! You’ll find Laurie and I in the bar.”
“Wait—” He’s hung up. Laurie. He can’t mean Laurence. As in Laurence Cole. He’s surely not about to introduce me to a famous actor without any notice after a day of travelling, when I’ve got sleep crusts in my eyes and cum remnants on the tip of my dick from my pre-nap wank. I wasn’t expecting to cross paths with anyone other than backstage crew until next week. I’m only here to familiarise myself with the place. Meet my team. Plan the job. Double check the rigging before I leave.
What do I even say to a man like Laurence Cole? A guy with that much…life and experience behind him. While he tells tales of his worldly adventures and brushes with the stars, do I start comparing the energy efficiencies of LEDs versus CFLs?
The topic of conversation may be out of my hands, but I can at least make myself presentable. Before heading downstairs, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and spray myself down with the cologne Becca got me for Christmas last year. I’m wearing black pants and a grey polo. Nothing fancy. Definitely nothing worthy of the rich and famous, but I only own whatever’s on the rack in Asda or what Becca buys me from her catalogues.
At the lift, anxiety hits. Sweaty palms, warm neck, thumping heart. I imagine this is how Lucy would feel if she ever met that singer she loves - Hugo Hayes. Weird thing is, I’m not “so in love it pure hurts, Dad” with the actor waiting at the bar. I don’t have posters of him in my bedroom. I’ve seen some of his stuff, but I’m not a ‘fan’. Don’t think I’ve ever been a fan of anyone, really. Maybe Patrick Swayze in the early nineties. Had a bit of an obsession with Dirty Dancing. My mum picked me up a poster from the market, which I loved, until my dad ripped it from my wall because it would make me a “fucking bender”.