“You really ought to talk to someone about things.”
“I’m too busy stewing in my own misery, but I’ll think about it.”
Not.
And Brin’s:
“You all right?”
“Sort of.”
“Want to come out for a pint this weekend?”
“I’d rather ingest my own feet, but thanks.”
For the first week, Raif and I played a game of volley-five-million-between-banks. From my account to his. From his back to mine again. But he won the last round two days ago when my bank told me the account details were no longer valid.
He’d closed his bloody account.
Arsehole.
I have daydreams of withdrawing it all and burning buckets of bills in Polly’s back garden. I won’t, obviously. I’m not stupid.
But this will be my last heartache if I have anything to do with it. It’s just not worth the distress. The constant playback loop. And when I do manage to sleep, the lurid dreams that I wake from sweating, my heart trying to escape from my chest. It’s always Raif and Celine, always in bed. Laughing. Loving. Tearing me apart.
“You’re sure?” Tod persists.
“Positive.” I don’t have the energy. My skin is dull and dry, and my hair is like straw. How these are symptoms of a breakup, I don’t know. “Go.” I make a shooing gesture with my hand. “Be gone. Chill out. Have fun. Who knows. I might be up for eggs Benny in the morning.”
“That would be so good.” A pause follows, his expression turning soft with emotion. “I’m sorry you’re sad, but I’m so glad you’re home.”
I’m glad that he hugs me, not because I want a hug, but because I get to hide my sadness.
Home. If only it still felt like it.
“Ned, wake up!”
“I’m up!” I say, jerking upright like the reanimation of Frankenstein, wondering if I’ve slept through my alarm. But I’m still on the sofa and the TV is still playing silently, throwing ghostly shadows across Tod’s face.
I roll my lips and grimace. My mouth feels like the bottom of a budgie cage. My book is still open, pressed to my lap. I catch the spine on my thumb and wonder why it’s covered in orange dust.
Ah, the Doritos.Which would explain the taste.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I mutter, making to move my legs. Why couldn’t he have just covered me with a blanket? He knows I’m not sleeping well—that I don’t often begin the night in my bed.
“No, not yet. I have something to tell you.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s gone two.”
“Can’t it wait?” I ask grumpily, rubbing the heel of my palm against my eye.
“No, because I have news. The most amazing news!”
“Okay,” I say with all the enthusiasm I have in me. In other words, none. “Go for it.” I flop back against the upholstery.
“So I was out with Leo—”
