Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
She snorts. “What’s up with you?”
“Wh . . . what’s up with me?” I sit up straight in my seat, meaning business. “That woman you told me to cling to? Well, I did. And she tossed me away like a piece of rubbish. Then she stamped on me. Hard. Over and over, and now I don’t know my arse from my fucking elbow. Happy?”
“Well,” she sniffs. “You sound considerably more sober than when you picked up. Stop being so bullheaded and sort this out. Nothing is unfixable, Tyler. Nothing. Swallow your stupid man-pride and do what your stupid heart is telling you.”
“My heart’s dead,” I whisper, resting my elbow on the door and letting my head sink into my palm.
“So is your father,” she fires scathingly. I flinch, hearing her drawing breath to continue her rant of damning words. “You’re a long-time dead, my boy. You have to make your time count while you still have a heartbeat, Tyler. Your heart isn’t dead. It’s feeling. It’s something that yours hasn’t done for a long, long time. That woman deserves a medal simply for proving you’re not made of damn stone. So you’re a little wounded. So she lied to you. Get over it, you idiot. You infuriate me. You think I’m naïve to your Romeo ways?” She snorts, and it sounds like a repulsed snort. “Well, I’m not. Go on. Go back to loveless, mindless, pointless sex. I’m sure that’ll make your father proud. And all because your pride’s been dented? You’re a flaming hypocrite, Tyler. I’m sure you’ve broken many hearts in your time bedding women. It’s okay for you to fuck about with people’s feeling, and intentionally, I might add. You slept around because you enjoyed it. Lainey did it because she hated herself, and you helped her see the real her again. You took away her pain. Only she can take away yours. I bet my life you’ve never wanted to right your wrongs each time you’ve injured a woman.” Another snort. “Don’t call me until you’ve pulled your stubborn head out your arse.” She hangs up, and I wilt in my seat, feeling thoroughly scolded. If I thought I couldn’t feel any worse, I was so wrong. Trust Mum to fix that. And trust her to also break down the lovely numbing effects of the alcohol. I feel stone-cold sober, yet despite my sudden lucidity, I know I’m far from fit to drive. I turn off the engine of my car and get out, glancing around the dark street and mentally calculating in my drunken mind how long it’ll take me to walk home. An hour, max. I sigh, my bottom lip pouting sulkily as I stuff my hands in my pockets and begin to limp my way down the street.
It’s easy to fall in love. It’s so much harder to fall out of it.
I don’t want to hear Sal’s words.
Your heart isn’t dead. It’s feeling.
Or Mum’s words.
I’ve felt so empty for so long. Then I met you. I love you, Tyler. You’re real.
And definitely not Lainey’s words.
“OH, YOU MOTHERFUCKER,” I GROAN, rolling over in my bed. I feel like my brain is rattling around in my head. It takes approximately five seconds for me to remember why it feels like it’s shrunk to a marble that’s on the loose in my skull. And then I feel a million times worse. I flop to my back and stare at the ceiling. Or what I know is my ceiling. Right now, it’s just a blurred wish-wash of white. So I close my lids again, my eyeballs hurting from the strain of being open. But with the respite from that pain comes pain in another form. Lainey.
I force my eyes open and feel around the bed for my phone, finding it under the pillow beneath my head. Two percent battery and twelve missed calls. I shove it on charge and drag myself to the side of the bed. I need hydration. “Ouch.” I flinch as my feet meet the carpet softly, a shockwave shooting up my leg and exploding in my brain.
Looking down at my foot, I grimace at the bruise. Then I take in my sore hand. “Bastard,” I mutter, carefully pushing myself up to my feet and standing for a few moments, ensuring my stability. I sway, not just a little, but a lot. I still feel pissed. And when I start staggering to my kitchen, catching my shoulder on every doorframe I pass, I conclude that I am. I shouldn’t have had more scotch when I got home last night, but Mum’s words . . .
Ouch.
A carton of coconut water sings at me when I open the fridge, and I snatch it down and glug the lot back, leaning against the side. My brain is aching, but I force it into functioning and try to rewind back through my night. I remember Sal turning up at the bar. Then I quickly remember his words, a turnabout from all the times he’s told me to keep my distance from Lainey. And apparently, Lainey isn’t telling Moya of their indiscretion. Mum called. Dad’s on his way down from God’s green garden to kick my arse. I look up to the ceiling, seeing his face in my mind. His expression is of hopelessness. For me. “Help me out, Dad,” I plead pointlessly. “What am I going to do?” The thought of returning to my former hedonistic lifestyle is about appealing as a cheap glass of Scotch right now. I nearly vomit, getting a waft of stale alcohol.