Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I get a lump in my throat as the inevitable subject comes up.
“If only you could get here for Christmas,” Dad says. He sighs. “Maybe next year, hey? Or maybe we could come to you, for your birthday.”
Fuck no. Not here. I’d hate them to see this shithole.
“I’ll be over to you,” I tell them. “Definitely next year. Promise. As soon as I can.”
I always make excuses why I can’t get over there. Bleating on about Connor’s gig schedule, and how hectic it is for me at work, but this year is more painful. This Christmas, I’ll be on my own. I’d love to wake up on Christmas morning in Mum and Dad’s place. I’d love more than anything to sit around together on their terrace by the pool and pull crackers with them. I’d love to say goodnight to my mum in person, going up to bed with a hot milk in my hand that she’d made for me, like she always used to.
If only I had the money to get there, but I have no money. Fifty-seven pounds in my bank account to last me until the end of the month. Three weeks of nothing but pasta. Amazing. At least I don’t have to share it with my prick of an ex anymore.
I can’t stand the call any longer. I’m welling up. I pretend I hear something at my door, turning around onscreen.
“Is that Connor?” Mum asks, hopeful she’ll see him.
“No. A delivery, I think. I ordered a takeout.”
“Go get it,” Dad says. “We’ll catch you soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I’m holding my breath as we wave our goodbyes and I hit the end call button. Takeout would be a luxury. I’d love a hot spicy pizza with a side of chicken wings. I look at Connor’s fucking rucksack and want to throw it out of the window. Piece of shit.
My credit cards are maxed out from trying to support him. Years of investment for nothing. I’m working as many hours as I can in a job I hate, stacking shelves in a supermarket for minimum wage. I’ve been paying bills we should have both been paying between us, if he’d ever had enough money for them.
It’s my own fault, though. We always make our own choices, and I chose him every step of the way. That’s my own bad to have to live with. Seven years of life wasted on someone who cast me aside like a piece of nothing when something better came along. Carly isn’t just a groupie. She has connections, or says she does. Whatever.
I close my laptop and put it on the bedside table. Moping will only lead to more tears, and I have to function. I go downstairs. So, what’s dinner going to be? Pasta, or pasta, or pasta? Ben has left half of the pans over the worktop again in our grimy shared kitchen, spatulas filthy and unwashed. Jackass. I’m still in my work uniform as I clear up his mess, trying my best not to get any grime on my shirt. I can’t be fucked to wash it again tonight. I can’t really be fucked to do anything.
I’ve always found rage easier than tears, so I take it out on the kitchen mess with a scourer, scrubbing like a savage. FUCK YOU, CONNOR. JUST FUCK YOU.
I hate how I miss him. His cocky smile, his guitar strumming, his laughter when we were rolling around in hysterics at stupid YouTube videos. But now – three weeks in – more than anything, I miss sex.
I miss fucking him all night long. I miss the way he used to be a filthy freak of a sex god as we got twisted up in dirty games. How he’d make me come over and over with every session, like a woman possessed.
Toys will never, ever fill the void, and I’m really not up for a relationship yet. Not even dating. It’s another bullshit angle of the breakup I’ll have to live with for now. I’ll add it to the list.
I eat my pasta on my bed, then fire my laptop back up. I check out flights to Sydney yet again, and then I check out my available credit. I’m over the limit practically everywhere, so not even the dubious credit agencies will give me a shot.
There is no doubt about it. I need more money.
I could work more shifts at the supermarket, but I already do seven days and two evenings on top. I was so caught up in being Connor’s manager when he made it big that I didn’t bother going to uni, so I have no career ladder to climb. So, what’s left? What have I got going in my favour?
There’s only one answer to that. I’ve been toying with it for nearly a week now, since the tears stopped flowing like a river.