There it was again.
I let her talk, and she talked well—Dad was planning a trip, something about flights he’d found at an obscene discount, and I made the right noises until a number snagged my attention.
“Sorry, Mum—how much did you say the flights were?”
“Twenty-nine pounds each.”
“That’s less than a train ticket,” I said.“That costs more to get to Manchester.”
“You know what these cheap airlines are like. They get you on the extras. Seat allocation, extra baggage. The food and beverages.”
“Still, Mum. Twenty-nine pounds to Spain.”
“Your dad’s an expert,” she chuckled.
I grinned properly for the first time all morning. My dad was so tight I genuinely wasn’t sure how he managed to go to the toilet. Weekly event at best.
But something about the word holiday had lodged itself quietly in my thoughts and wasn’t moving.
A change of scenery. Sun. Somewhere that wasn’t this flat, this ceiling, this grey Friday light.
Maybe that was what we needed—Finley and I. A reset. Somewhere new, without the routine pressing down on everything. It might bring back something. A flicker of whatever used to be there.
Maybe.
It was Friday.
Cheap plonk Friday.
I could suggest it to him tonight.
??????
The inhaler was in my mouth before I’d fully registered reaching for it. I pressed down and sucked the substance deep into my lungs, holding it there while the city moved around me.
Walking was good for my asthma. The pollution was not. London gave with one hand and took with the other.
I stood on the pavement outside Kilcullen Tech and watched the stream of people push past—heads down, coffees up, earphones in. Everyone performing the same ritual of getting somewhere they probably didn’t want to be.
Everything in my life felt like a closed loop.
I shoved the inhaler back into my bag.
Why was I being so morbid?
Because you know you deserve better. What happened to all your dreams?
I hate you, brain.
Go inside and work your brain-dead job. Kill me some more, bitch.
I chuckled. A woman in a blazer gave me a look as she passed.
I didn’t stop smiling.
The revolving door spat me into the lobby—all glass and steel and the kind of aggressively clean air that only existed in buildings where the rent was eye-watering. The soft click of heels on polished floors. The security desk where Marcus was already on the phone and gave me a nod as I passed.
I skipped the stairs. The walk from the Tube had already done its damage and I wasn’t performing wellness for anyone. I took the lift to the sixth floor, stood in the mirrored box of it, and avoided my own eyes.
