No red dots or flashing banners dragging me back into the online world. Nobody is demanding my attention, whether I want to give it or not. The only people who can reach me are those who have my personal number, and those are few and far between.
Fuck.
It’s glorious.
Lying back, I focus on box breathing and bathing in the quiet.
It feels like stepping outside after being in prison, or how I imagine it anyway. It’s wild that in one of the busiest cities in the world, I can find peace without the outside world having instant access to me via my bloody phone.
And in that quiet space, I think of Maggie. No matter how hard I try to avoid her from infiltrating my brain.
The truth is, I fell for her in Scotland, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get her out of my head. Not that I want to. What I want is to storm into her apartment and beg her to give me a chance.
But what if she’d played me the whole time? What if she’d found it amusing to make me believe there was agenuine intimacy within the chaos? There was no doubt that she was brought up with a completely different set of morals than is generally standard; had I been nothing more than a means to an end?
No.
Not with Maggie.
There is a sincerity to her that can’t be faked.
She never asked me to tell the world, and I can’t hold it against her if it doesn’t change our outcome.
Maggie may be the catalyst for pushing me over the edge, but I was teetering there anyway. Reluctant to let go of the financial tether and afraid of what happens when I let go. I have to believe that there’s more after this chapter.
The question is whether she’ll want to stand next to me now that I’ve burned my world down.
I sit there until night falls, having nowhere else to be, and little else to do. Outside, people carry on with their lives, the city never ceasing. In that, I find a kernel of peace. While my immediate problems feel huge, give it time, and they’ll shrink to just a blip in my story.
I reach for my phone and scroll to my message with Maggie.
My thumb hovers over the digital keyboard. What do you say when you’ve already left the ball in the other person’s court?
I type.
And delete.
Type again.
Delete again.
‘Shit,’I say, hitting the tap and sticking my finger under the lukewarm water.
The burn isn’t bad, but it stings like a motherfucker. How can baking cookies be so bloody stressful?
I’m on batch number six, because I need them to be perfect. The smell of burnt sugar and butter fills the air, and I’m thankful that the fire alarm hasn’t started screaming.
They’re for her.
Which is probably utterly ridiculous, but it’s a last-ditch attempt to close the chasm that the hall between our flats feels like.
My phone is on speaker on the counter. Gran’s voice crackles out. ‘You’ve gone quiet. What have you done now?’
‘They aren’t perfect.’
A pause.
‘Did you burn them again?’
