With strength I didn’t know I possessed, my hand darted out to stop him walking away. Using the fact that I’d caught him off guard to my advantage, I took two fistfuls of his coat and hauled him back towards me. Standing on my tip toes, I captured his lips with mine. His rough beard scraped over my chin, sending shivers down my spine at the thought of that beard scraping somewhere else.
It only took a few stunned seconds for him to take control of the kiss. His tongue pried open my lips, letting out a soft moan when I put up no resistance. A warm hand trailed down my arm, holding the curve of my waist. His other cupped my cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin of my chin before his hand lowered. And the kiss that had been supposed to be a way to one up him, show him I wasn’t the only one affected by this attraction between us, turned into something else. Thick fingers wrapped around my throat, tilting my head back to give him more access. He squeezedthe hand at my neck ever so gently. I nearly came right on the spot. Oddly, it was that instantaneous desire that had my back stiffening.
As quickly as I started the kiss, my hands that were buried deep in his coat unfurled and I put my palms flat on his chest. Pushing.
His lips slowed against mine, pressing delicate kisses to the outside of my mouth until he pulled back, releasing my throat. If it hadn’t been for the car behind me and the mammoth man before me, I’d have melted into a puddle of desire right there on the concrete. That arousal was laced with a sharp edge of panic that stemmed from something deep within.
George read whatever it was on my face and lifted his lips in a half smile.
He placed a kiss on my forehead, sliding his hand into my own and leading me to the front door of my building. Waiting until I had the door open before relinquishing his hold.
‘Goodnight, Rosie.’ His voice dipped low. An edge of something foreign clinging to those words.
I stepped into the foyer of my building, holding the door open. Any other time, I would be inviting him upstairs, getting high off the anticipation of what was to come.
But even if I asked. George wouldn’t accept. I didn’t have the luxury of alcohol to blame for the disappointment that took root inside.
‘Goodnight, George.’
The door shut, and I climbed the stairs to my flat alone. Fighting the rising panic that threatened to take hold.
16
The followingweek coasted by as usual.
Mum started sending me pictures of tarot cards, asking me to pick random ones; no matter how often I told her that’s not how readings worked, she insisted. Whenever I picked, she foresaw something dark and dangerous around the corner. Along with the often nonsensical texts from Mum, I’d get images of cartoon characters along with a question mark. For someone I would give several organs to if she needed, Fallon was pressing on my last nerve. I told her as much over the phone one evening, and she’d called me out, stating my grumpiness stemmed from a lack of dick.
If only it were that simple.
I knew why I was so short-tempered recently, and it wasn’t my lack of sex. I almost wished it was. That made sense to me.Sexmade sense to me.
What was utterly nonsensical was that I couldn’t stop staring at my phone all week. Jumping when I got a message and feeling that pop of disappointment in my chest when I didn’t see his name.Thatmade zero sense.
It’s like I was eight years old again and getting a crush onthe cute kid next door. The boy with brown floppy hair who would walk to school with his dad, hand in hand. They’d stroll down the street to the bus stop where he’d get on whilst his dad stood on the curb, waving until the bus disappeared around the corner. I remember it used to feel like a hedgehog was burrowing deep inside my chest as I watched them. Scratching my insides. Mum saw me staring after them once and nudged my shoulder with a wry smile—in the way parents do that makes you want to die of embarrassment—and asked me if I had a crush on him. It was my first crush, and even though the only words we ever exchanged were soft hellos and head nods occasionally at school, my stomach would inexplicably tighten.
As an adult, I recognised that feeling. The feeling of loss and pain twining together in my chest and squeezing all my organs until I couldn’t breathe properly. It wasn’t a crush. Sure, Finn was cute. In my eight-year-old brain, who didn’t understand what liking someone meant, I confused a crush for what it really was: jealousy.
I got why Mum thought I had a crush on Finn because most mornings, I’d sit by the living room window in my school uniform, watching as Finn walked to the bus station. My eyes locked on the way he held his dad’s hand. Sometimes, he’d jump in the puddles he saw on the street, smiling up at his dad, showing every single one of his teeth. The first time he did it, taking one giant leap into the murky puddle, the water splashed over his dad’s jeans. I winced, knowing what was about to happen, and hid behind the curtain, not wanting to see but unable to look away. That was the first time I felt my heart crack. I waited for the anger, the yelling, the veins throbbing in his neck as spit flew out his mouth. All his dad did was throw his head back, laughing, pick up his little boy and tickle him until Finn’s eyes squeezed shut in fits of giggles. I couldn’tunderstand it. Why wasn’t his dad yelling at him for jumping in the puddle and getting him wet? Why was he laughing?
That’s when I knew for sure that life wasn’t fair. When I collected my school bag, pressing a kiss to Mum’s bony cheek as she sat at the kitchen table, catatonic but doing her best to hide it from me and tucked my head to my chest, making myself as small as possible as I slunk passed my dad—no eye contact. No goodbye. Like I didn’t even exist. Him not noticing me was far preferable to the alternative. When I made noise or got in his way, a sickening silence would settle over the house—the calm before the storm. Seconds later, he would erupt. The words spilling out of his mouth were revolting. The volume to which he screamed still made my ears ring when I recalled it.
That same twisting in my stomach kept me on edge as I went through the week, not having heard anything from George. Nothing.
Logically, I knew I could have called or sent him a text orsomething.But that felt too much like begging. And the thought of grovelling for anything from a man made me want to dry heave.
By the time Sunday came around, my grumpiness had turned to full-on cantankerousness. I crawled out of bed, refusing to check my phone. Roxy, who was curled into a ball on the pillow next to me, popped her head up. I pulled on an oversized jumper and fluffy socks since the weather had turned, and glared at the device on my bedside table. Roxy’s ears pricked, head tilted to the side as if saying,you could call him too, you know?
I huffed. ‘No. He clearly doesn’t want to get a hold of me.’
She let out a soft whine.
‘What? You thinkhe’swaiting for me to call him?’ George was taking the act of being my relationship tutor moreseriously than I expected. So maybe he was waiting for me to contact him. To make the first move.
My head spun. I let out a growl. ‘I can’t deal with this before coffee.’
As soon as I turned, heading for the kitchen, Roxy slowly got up, stretched and hopped off the bed after me.
Halfway through my second cup of black coffee in bed, as I read my favourite book, my phone buzzed.
