Although maybe if my head had been screwed on properly to start with, I’d have saved myself a lot of heartache and ten years of my life.
I shifted the shopping bag in my other hand and heard something jingle as it slid past the bottle of vodka.
Problem solved.
“I do,” I said as I fished the keys out and forced my front door open, giving the bottom of it a kick to make it move inwards. God, this place was such a piece of shit.
“Plans that don’t just involve lying on your sofa with a bottle of vodka.”
“Hey, there’ll be food too. I got some olives. Call it a deconstructed martini.”
Shane sighed but there was a fondness to it. “I’m going to order you a pizza.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m fine.”
“Tough shit, I’m doing it anyway. What do you want?”
“I don’t care.”
“Spicy and meaty it is,” Shane said as I shoved the door shut behind me and swore under my breath. I didn’t know why I ever bothered locking it. If anyone tried to break in, I was going to hear them. And it wasn’t like I had much for them to steal anyway.
It was times like this I missed my beautiful house in Manchester more than ever.
I should never have let Reed keep it.
“Should be about forty minutes, so at least try and stay vaguely clothed and sober until it arrives. Please,” Shane continued, oblivious to my struggles with the door. He knew about my feelings towards the flat, though, because he’d listened to me moan about it endlessly for the past four months.
He deserved a fucking medal at this point for not throttling me.
I knew he was my best friend—and therefore almost obligated to deal with my shit—but there were limits. Unless he was going for sainthood. Which, judging by Shane’s previous behaviour, he definitely was not. I was grateful, though, because nobody else was willing to put up with me and on today of all days, I appreciated him calling.
It was a nice reminder that despite everything, there was still someone in my life who cared. If I hadn’t felt so numb, I would have cried. I probably would later when the vodka kicked in.
“Deal,” I said as I bent down to slide my shoes off, leaving them in a heap by the door to sort later. Or tomorrow.
“How was work?”
“Fine. Preseason training starts again soon, so we’re working on strategy, announcing fixtures, shit like that.”
“Sounds fun.”
I shrugged. “It’s fine. Nothing exciting.”
“A good distraction at least?”
“No, not really.” I took the shopping bag through to the kitchen, with its cracked beige cupboards that had seen better days, its chipboard counter covered with an ugly-as-sin wood-patterned vinyl, and an oven with all the numbers missing off the dials. I took the jar of olives out of the bag and opened them, shoving two in my mouth before opening a cupboard to grab a short glass.
“What about when the players come back?” Shane asked and I could hear the smirk in his tone.
“Not all of us are as obsessed with men in shorts as you,” I said as I opened the vodka and poured two fingers into the glass. Then added an extra two for good measure. I’d promised Shane I’d be vaguely sober when the pizza arrived, and I would be. Because unlike him, I could hold my liquor.
“You don’t have to be obsessed to look at them.”
“What if I don’t want to look at them?”
“Then you don’t have to,” Shane said softly. “You don’t have to do anything, E.”
I chuckled as I picked up my drink and took a sip, his words nudging at the vulnerable spot where my heart had been. “I love how I have the shortest fucking name, and you still found a way to say less of it.”
