Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“What does it matter, Cam? All this is just delaying things. The sale of the house, the settlement, everything. You both need the money, and you’ve got to get out of that poky flat, find yourself a new place, and make a new start.”
To what end? I’ve lost every fucking thing that counts as good in my life. And he wants money so he can keep moving on.
Fuck.
Him.
And he now has my sister-in-law doing his grovelling?
Fuck that hurts.
I hit the button and wait for the sound of the click that’ll free me, then turn to Mindy. I hate how perfectly together she is, her bags always matching her shoes and her lipstick, her blowout as perfect in the evening as it is in the morning, freshly washed and styled. Always perfect. “You think money and a new home makes everything better?”
Her mouth opens and closes like a fish for a few awkward moments. Awkward for her, not me. “Your house is empty,” she says. “You should be there. He left so you didn’t have to.”
“How honourable of him.” The door clicks, and I leave. I could never be there, surrounded by the memories of my previous life. Everything that I lost. Everything that he stole from me. Fuck him. Fuck everything.
If it’s possible, it’s even colder when I make it outside, the white sky so low I’m sure I could reach up and touch the snow waiting to fall. I lower to the top step by a potted tree, needing to take the weight off my feet for a few moments. How I wish I could take the weight off my shoulders too.
I sigh and reach for a branch, pulling a closed bud off but faltering when something glistens at me, catching the low winter sun and making me blink back the sharp flash of light.
A spear of ice.
It’s cascading from a branch, a perfect white feather fossilised inside. Crystal clear. Beautiful. I trail my fingertip down, studying it, strangely rapt.
Trapped.
Like me.
December 10th
Icing cakes my lips, my chews slow, and my arse is numb from my place sitting in the window, feet up, my T-shirt pulled over my bent knees. It’s a perfect white blanket out there, London a blank canvas. Pure, clean, untarnished. It should stay that way until it melts away. But no. Humans will spoil it, traffic and feet ruining the perfection, turning it into a sludgy, dirty mess that’ll become a man-made eyesore rather than remaining a natural beauty. Where were you, Snow, when I wished for you four years ago? “You’re late,” I whisper, taking another mouthful of my breakfast, watching the world go by, the white stuff bringing people out in force, all of them celebrating the arrival, dragging sledges, rolling snowballs. Dogs create trails with their snouts, leap like lambs, collapse into downward dog and yell at the weird-looking, soft, wet powder. Idiots crawl along in cars until the wheels give up and start spinning on the spot, leaving the drivers revving the engines, adding another layer of noise to the yells of excitement and joy. Excitement and joy. Maybe now, yes. People are dashing out into the white winter wonderland to enjoy it. But by the end of the day, they’ll be wishing the snow away, their lives disrupted.
They have no idea.
Their disruption is temporary.
I pop the last piece of my cake into my mouth and chew, licking my fingers, deciding that Mr. Percival’s Christmas cake is the only thing Christmassy I actually like. My phone rings from the kitchen. It’s the fifth time he’s tried to call me since I saw Mindy yesterday. And it’ll be the fifth time I haven’t answered. He thinks a little extra pressure from my family will solve this? Make me less . . . unreasonable? I rest my head back on the wall and go back to watching the world go by.
Persistent.
He was always that.
It’s how we ended up dating in the first place. I had a friend who had a friend who had a friend who had a brother. The brother came alone to a cricket match. It was a hot day, we had a basket full of beers and tinned cocktails, and we got tipsy on sunshine and alcohol. He tried to kiss me; I turned away. He didn’t give up, got my number from the friend of a friend of a friend, called me, texted me, until I finally relented and had dinner with him. I made it clear I wasn’t looking for anything serious—I was on a career trajectory.
He just smiled.
And I went out with him again the next night.
I don’t see any of those friends anymore either. And I wonder where I’d be now if I hadn’t gone to that cricket match all those years ago.
And would I be happy?
I pull my knees in closer, shaking my head clear, but that only leaves space for Dec. He hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. And I still don’t know if I want him to.