Page 95 of Swim To Me

“He’s been messaging all morning.”

Without reading a single message Grey has sent; I power down my mobile and turn it facedown so I can’t be tempted to even pick the thing up.

I take a tentative sip of my coffee, allowing it to help the food lodge in my oesophagus, only raising my eyes to meet Aurelia’s inquisitive stare when I feel ready.

“I don’t want to read them.”

“Ever?”

My dry lips flatten into a straight line. “I don’t know yet.”

Aurelia doesn’t press any further, instead guiding me to lie down on her sofa after I’ve eaten my fill of food, tucking a blanket around me, and making a space for herself in the chair.

“We’re having a duvet day,” she announces, clicking on the TV with the touch of a button. “No phones, no heavy thoughts, no talking of upsetting topics – just us and the telly.”

We order another takeaway for dinner; sharing sauce smothered chicken, chips and rice out of their tin foil containers, washed down with a glass of white wine, while an Australian reality show plays in the background.

I’m so hooked on the drama enfolding in front of me, reminding me that nobody’s life is ever perfect, that I don’t dwell on the unread messages on my phone, or the unopened emails sitting in my inbox. It’s Sunday, I’m heartbroken and I’m allowed to enjoy myself without worrying about all the other tasks that need to be taken care of. They can wait.

I slightly regret my decision when I fold myself into my office chair at work on Monday morning, entering my password into the computer system to be greeted with an overflow ofcorrespondence. Tugging at my too tight skirt, the one I’d stolen from Aurelia’s wardrobe this morning after having slept over another night simply because I couldn’t face going home to a space permeated in Grey’s existence, I allow my brain to slip into my familiar work overdrive, fingers flying over the keyboard in response.

As the clock ticks by, I’m hardly bothered by my co-workers, the door to my private office remaining closed unless I’m needed urgently. I reward myself with a snack after getting through my stack of emails, licking the crumbs from my fingers before I lose myself in the world of a brand-new manuscript.

I’m almost a third of the way through the book, when I realise, I’ve got a bit of an issue.

I read all sorts of novels in my line of work, although usually I stick to the romance and romance fantasy genre. It’s never bothered me before; I’m not easily triggered. In fact, like pretty much all romance readers, I’m prone to a happy squeal of delight when the main characters kiss for the first time or admit their feelings for one another, and I don’t shy away from reading explicit sex scenes which leave me feeling rather hot under my collar.

Those specific scenes – the ones that stick in your mind, the ones you want to scream about from the rooftop or convince a friend to devour the novel simply so you can talk about your favourite parts – those are all things that attracted me to the job in the first place. The knowledge of finding a secret gem, a book I know is going to explode onto the market, sends tingles along my skin. It’s special to read something nobody else has read before and be able to see its potential a mile away, to practically smell its success and be able to tell the author of that novel that they’re life is about to completely change for the better.

I’ve never ever had a problem before.

Except for now.

Reading about the two main characters having just declared their love for each other, their lips hovering inches away, just about to kiss… it reminds me of—

Swallowing harshly, my eyes stinging, I push the manuscript away and rise to my full height.

Maybe I just need a breather, a glass of water, and then with a fresh set of eyes I’ll be able to carry on.

My heels click against the floor as I stride to the staff room, quickly pouring myself a glass of lemon infused water and ducking back out before anybody can spot my red rimmed eyes.

I get through another fifteen pages of the manuscript before a teardrop splats on the bottom of the page, distorting the paper, leaving it thin and easy to tear.

It’s not too dissimilar to the way I feel inside.

In the privacy of my office, nobody can see the tears cascading down my face, ruining my carefully applied makeup. I sniffle into a tissue, trying desperately to keep my sobs as quiet as possible.

My phone chooses that exact moment to chime again with another incoming text, but I don’t dare look. It could be Aurelia checking in on me, she said she would, but I can’t risk it. Nor can I bear to see the blaring red dot above my text message icon showcasing how many unanswered messages I have. I know exactly who the sender will be.

I’m torn up inside, and it’s only making me angrier that it’s affecting my work life too – the one place I’ve usually always been able to find a reprieve from any other matter.

I blame that on the reason Aurelia finds me curled up in her bed, still in my office attire at six in the evening, unable to face going home, feed my hungry stomach, or get changed. Each of those tasks seem impossible.

For the second evening, I cry in my little sister’s arms, squeezing my eyes tight to shut out the world. My heart fuckinghurts, the broken shards of what was once whole, cutting me, digging into the layers of my soul painfully with each breath.

But worse than that, is two particular thoughts, spinning, intertwined, like a cycle through my brain.

I miss him. I miss him. I miss him.

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