“You love me.”
I pause mid-reach, mop in hand and level her with a look. “That is extremely debatable right now.”
She grins anyway.
I ignore her and start cleaning up the mess. Of course, it's me just fucking cleaning this up as Quinn perches back behind the counter, completely unbothered, as she talks about her date tonight. I half-listen and half-fantasise about screaming into the nearest pillow. Or downing a bottle of vodka. Maybe both.
Birthdays used to be fun.
Dad and I would barge into each other's rooms first thing in the morning, wearing the most ridiculous hats whilst carrying the biggest cake we could justify buying. We’d sit on the bed and eat it straight from the box for breakfast until we felt sick.
We always said it was pointless waiting until later in the day for cake.
Now he's in a grave, hours away from me.
“Look… why don't you just go? I’ll close up.”
It comes out snappier than I intend it to. I’m already strung tight, and the last thing I want is to snap at her for breathing tooloudly. I just need quiet. Five minutes where no one was talking or looking at me.
Quinn studies me, the teasing dropping from her face. She knows me well enough not to question it.
“You sure you'll be alright?”
She grabs her stuff as I continue staring at the floor. My throat burns, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I’ll be fine,” I answer her, because it's easier than the truth. “Just go. Have fun on your date and tell me all about it tomorrow.”
Hopefully, tomorrow I won't feel like this.
Not likely.
“Alright, babe. Don't stay too long. Get Elijah to pick you up, yeah?”
I nod.
“And have great sex. Always perks me up when I feel shitty.”
A broken laugh slips out despite everything. Only Quinn.
She presses a quick kiss to my cheek before heading out, the bell above the door jingling as she leaves.
I finally let out a breath I didn't realise I had been holding. The mop slips from my hand and clatters softly against the floor. I press my fingers into my eyes, hard enough to see spots, willing myself not to fall apart in the middle of the coffee shop.
It's no fucking use.
The tears come anyway. Hot. Relentless. I swipe at them, but they just keep falling.
I grab one of the black cushions from the couch and hurl it at the wall. It hits with a dull thud and drops to the floor. It's not enough. So, I throw another. And another. My chest is tightening, like it's caving in and crushing my heart.
Before I can stop, I’m knocking chairs over, and the scrape of the wood against the floor is loud. My hands fist in my hair,tugging hard enough to sting. A broken sound rips out of me—somewhere between a scream and a sob.
I can't think. I can't breathe properly.
It feels like every bit of progress I've dragged my way through since he died has shattered under my feet like the grief has been waiting for this very moment to drag me back under.
I’m drowning in it.
I don't even register the door opening—the bell, the world, all of it fades beneath a low, relentless buzzing in my ears.
