‘Look . . . um, that’s why we should go somewhere else instead. I can explain, but—’
I turned to give him a quick head shake.
‘Oh, no, no, no. You’re not getting away with anything – you’re going to grow a pair and straighten shit out right there. No persuading me into drinks and fuck knows what else in some overpriced shithole.’
I glanced around at the places and streets I knew so well, all coated in a film of grime from the pollution. Sirens blazed down towards Liverpool Street, and as I strode on, feet still entirely comfortable in my cowboy boots, I wondered what the hell I was doing here.
‘Before we go in, you need to know that it was a fuck-up on my part, okay? I’m owning that, no excuses.’
We turned a corner, the familiar black door of our studio straight ahead. Even as his words landed, they didn’t wholly compute. I just wanted to be back in my space, my place of creative calm, the simple meditation of my craft having been the salve to so many situations over the years.
Crossing the road as we approached, I realized it was dark inside.
I slowed to a stop, tapping my phone to check the time, suddenly wondering if jet lag had messed with my time perception. But no – it was 2.30 p.m. Way into our opening hours.
‘Where is everyone?’ I asked, glancing back to realize Cal had slipped back, allowing a greater distance to open between us. His eyes were wary, holding up a hand.
‘Wait – let me just explain first . . .’
Ignoring him, I took out my keys, jamming the right one into the lock before he could stop me, and walking into . . . another living nightmare.
It was trashed.
I let go of my case, leaving it in the doorway, and stepped through. My mouth was fully agape as I took in the utter carnage around me. It made our flat look like a fucking show home.
Graffiti was sprayed everywhere – even, I recognized with a start, Cal’s old tag sign from our uni days. It mocked my own hand-drawn cherry blossom on the back wall. Broken glass was scattered across the floor, cans and more rubbish strewn over every surface.
I went further in, heart in my mouth as I turned the corner into the back room,myroom. My custom-made red chair was covered in what looked like vomit. It stank – of piss and stale beer. As I turned, unable to disguise my horror, Cal appeared in the doorway.
For one awful moment, I tried to rationalize it. A break-in? Squatters, even. But as I looked up at one of Cal’s own spray-paint tags right above his head, I knew.
For years we had swum together in a filthy pit of past trauma, each holding the other down until neither of us could see a way out. Until Lottie had left – my one chink of light in the darkness, the one person I knew was always there, holding onto me through everything. That had forced me to move, to let go of Cal’s grip and swim out, climb up.
And there, at the top, had been Jesse – and Lottie, Bailey, Cole, Dee, Luci . . . a whole other world I’d never allowed myself to imagine existed.
Now the contrast was gut-wrenchingly sharp.
Cal had always, and would always, be on a mission to self-destruct. The minute I’d decided to pull myself out of his fucking black-hole orbit was the minute he’d decided to literally piss all over the only good thing we’d actually shared.
‘You fuckingbastard,’ I snarled, watching as he tried to think his way through the possible excuses.
‘It was just one of those things – listen, it was a heavy night, Dion got hold of a whole load of pills and the party got really fucked up . . . I didn’t mean it to go this far. We can get it cleaned up, I swear . . .’
I launched myself at him, restraint lost as I pushed him back into the wall, screaming at him in frustration as his hands closed around my wrists, forcing me back.
‘I fuckinghateyou,’ I yelled, fresh tears welling, stinging as they fell, the skin still raw.
‘I fucking hate myself too,’ he shouted back, struggling as I put all my weight into getting free of him. ‘Just like you hate yourself. Just like we’ve always been. You can’t change any more than I can. Look at you! The same thing every fucking time!’
With a final shove, I brought the hard heel of my boot down on his soft trainer. He let me go with a yelp, swearing as he stumbled.
‘No, it’s not,’ I shouted, moving back from him, closer to the front door. ‘It’s not the same. I don’t think I do hate myself, Cal. I hate what’s happened to me in my past, and I hate that I’ve wallowed in it for so long. But I’mdone.’
I half stumbled, half ran out, swearing as I realized my damn case would prevent me from storming off in the way I so desperately needed to.
Pulling out my phone and navigating to the Uber app, I blindly booked the first one I could see, my hand shaking as I tapped the screen.
Moments later, Cal emerged, eyeing me warily.
