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)
“Excuse me,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me. “Excuse me,” I repeat, louder. Still nothing. So I tap her on the shoulder. “That checkout is free.”
She turns toward me, phone still at her ear, a smile in place, and when her face comes into view, my heart feels like it jumps out of my chest and splatters all over the store floor.
No.
Air leaves my lungs on a sound laced with pain as I step back.
No.
Her smile drops, as does her phone from her ear. And we stare at each other, neither of us knowing what to do or say.
I’m paralysed.
I can’t breathe.
The gloves and hat fall from my hands.
“Camryn,” she breathes.
Run.
I turn and hurry out of the store, hearing her calling me as I go. My rushed steps turn into a jog. “Camryn, please!” My jog turns into a run.
And I don’t stop.
Not until I make it back to my apartment.
Kicking my boots off and letting my coat drop to the floor, I rush to my bedroom and crawl under the covers, letting the darkness swallow me whole.
Hiding.
But the problem with being in darkness? There’s nothing else to focus on, leaving only the face of the woman who destroyed my life.
December 11th
The office is sparse of employees, all having used the snow as an excuse not to come in to work. Flakes. I left home half hour earlier than usual this morning, sporting a sophisticated pencil dress and my Merry People wellington boots, my heels in my bag, but I still made it to the office. I look over to the radiator that’s buried under my coat and boots. I was soaked through, my lips blue, but I made it.
Trying to find warmth has been a waste of time, the tips of my fingers still slightly numb come four o’clock. I’ve been lost in the draft accounts for most of the day, silently seething. Not just because of what I’m reading, but because Thomas isn’t here, and the snow is a perfect excuse for him to avoid me. I’m also wondering why I’ve not heard from Dec. I’ve typed out endless messages to him when I’ve taken breaks from the carnage that is the draft accounts for TF Shipping, but I didn’t send any of them. My heart is willing me on, demanding I reach out to him. It's screaming, “Heal me, save me.” My head wants nothing to do with the madness.
Debbie enters after knocking and gives me an apologetic smile, having me immediately worried about what’s happened. “What is it?” I ask.
“It’s my husband.”
“What about your husband?”
“Well, you see, the schools are closed, and my husband’s day was cancelled, but he’s had an emergency crop up and needs to go into work. Do you mind if I shoot off? I’m up to date, and I’ve cleared my in tray.”
“Your husband’s job is more important than yours?”
“He’s a surgeon.”
“Oh.”
“All his ops were cancelled, given the weather, but there’s been an RTA on the M25.”
I flinch, nodding. “Sure, get yourself home.”
“Thanks, Camryn. Just give me a call if you need anything.”
I nod, the door closes, and I blink rapidly, fighting back the flashbacks that come at me without mercy. “Fuck off,” I murmur, dipping and reaching into my bag, dragging out my divorce papers and slamming them on my desk. My pen is a weight in my hand as I flick through to the final page, finding the empty signature line and staring at it.
Unreasonable behaviour.
They’re the only words I see.
Unreasonable. Behaviour.
We’re getting divorced because I was behaving unreasonably.
I toss down the pen and scrub my palms down my face. My phone ringing makes me jump and drop my hands, and his name on the screen throws me into an infuriating conflict of hope and hate. It’s been three days since he kissed me and walked away. He’s left me hanging, waiting for contact, and he chooses now to call me? At gone four o’clock on Monday? Is he checking if I’m going to the bar? Will he tell me not to if he can’t make it? I breathe in, not liking the direction of my thoughts. Why else would he call now? Why wouldn’t he just head to the bar and see me there?
Where was he on Saturday and Sunday? With not even a message—anything after that kiss to tell me . . . I don’t know. Something.
It could be my low mood after such a shitty weekend—seeing her in the store, seeing Mindy at Mum’s care home, the extra pressure my ex is putting on me through my family, and his persistent calls. It could be my disappointment that Dec kissed me like he was breathing life into me again and then left me to survive all weekend alone. It could be the battle my heart and head are having. Get close. Don’t. I don’t know, but I reject his call, dropping my mobile into my bag, then I knock my divorce papers away with an angry sweep of my hand, and yell at thin air.