Page 139 of Muddy Messy Love

My quilt smells of mothballs and cardboard, my bed is lumpier than I remember, and in the cloak of darkness, my tiny new timber bedroom feels like a cold, cavernous void. And right oncue, when I close my eyes, demons come to dance on the grave of my heart, pelting me with raw red memories and pain.

Me and Cole.Snuggled in puffy jackets and blankets beneath a million stars. Fire crackling. Secrets shared.You won’t crash, Angel. You’ll fly.

Me.In smiley-faced pyjama pants, safe in Cole’s arms, as he carries me inside and up to my room.

Desperate sex.Against walls, in restrooms, on benchtops and clay-dusted floors.

Making love. On beds, warm leather, and soft, woven rugs. Sweaty foreheads kissing over shallow, frantic breaths. Greedy mouths, clenching hands, and synchronised hearts. Feeling each other’s thoughts.

Declarations of love and forever.

I groan in pain.

Breathe, Aves. It’ll pass. Just let it on through. You know the drill.

I do. But holy fuck, will this ever end? I’m suffocating in sadness. For me. Forhim.

The desperate plea in Cole’s eyes, him on his knees, arms wrapped around my hips as he begged.Begged. And I walked away. After everything.

He deserved it, Aves. Slade and Sheila taught you nothing if not to never put up with shit. Lessons unlearnt will only repeat.

Then why do I still feel so bad?

Maybe if Beth hadn’t insisted we watchThe Lincoln Lawyerlast week, then take the opportunity to unsubtly explain the rigid confines of client-attorney privilege, I’d feel more resolute. Whose side is Beth—

A sharp bang severs that thought, and I freeze.

What the hell was that?

It sounded like it came from the shop downstairs. The tiny hairs on my arms stand up, glowing petrified in the moonlight asadrenaline floods my bloodstream. I try to listen, but my heart gallops so loud I can’t hear anything else, and the fact I could be missing the warning sounds of my imminent murder only makes it thump harder.

Five minutes later, I’m still alive so try to talk myself down. Every house has its unique sounds, right? And this building is old. So old…there might be ghosts.

Maybe I should call Ghostbusters. The last thing I need is to become possessed and destroy the building after all the effort and money already spent. At the apartment, my neighbours slept on the other side of the walls. If the worst happened, they’d hear me scream and call the cops or rush in to help. But here, I’m all alone. As alone as one can be. Unless, of course, thereareghosts. Then I’m not alone at all.

I pull my quilt up around my face, shivering. Maybe this was a mistake. Shops get broken into all the time. And fires. Fires happen more often in shops too. How the hell would I get out?

Oh God. Why did I ever think I could do this?

My pillow grows damp from tears. I itch to phone Beth or Jen, but it’s my first night here and that would be epically pathetic. So instead, I take ten deep breaths, channel Liam’s triple-sized balls, and resolve to calm the fuck down. Daylight will bring relief. It always does. And the vision taking shape downstairs will drive me through another day.

I can do this.

So, with wet cheeks and a deep-rooted ache, I fight my way to sleep, grasping a vision of silver-green eyes in the last whispers of wakefulness, and a dazzling smile that promises I’m safe. “I love you,” I murmur.

Twenty-Eight

Beth insisted I framethe colourful newspaper article promoting Mud Mash’s opening and hang it over the counter, even though in it, I’m wearing the cheesiest grin with cheeks so shiny and full I look ready to burst. But I can’t complain. Along with the flyers, social media posts, plumes of gold helium balloons standing out front, and the glittering grand-opening banner draped over the window, the article worked.

People have flowed in all day, milling about the shop, admiring the sculptures and paintings, and chatting to Sadie, Bex, and Leo, my trio of local artist consignees, while they were here. Even now, the studio is full of pint-sized bottoms on mini blue stools with parents watching on as they create snakes and snowmen and smother themselves in terracotta. Jen loves her temporary teaching gig, but not as much as Liam seems to enjoy distributing flyers out front to entice people in. He’s been moonwalking back and forth all day.

“Restock,” he calls out, performing an impressive Michael Jackson spin.

I wink at Beth as I grab another small stack of flyers from behind the counter and deliver them outside to Liam. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, milady,” Liam says with a slight bow and tilt of an imaginary hat. His mouth and manners have been as clean as Gwyneth Paltrow’s diet so far today, thank fuck.

Modern piano music floats in the background as I return inside, smiling once again at a middle-aged couple as they ponder one of Sadie’s paintings. “If you need any help, sing out,” I say, not wanting to hover. The shop’s musty smell is gone, replaced by soft vanilla, fresh paint, and rich, earthy clay. My stomach still flutters every time I walk in. The place is hella hip and a vibrant visual feast I can’t believe is real, let alone mine.

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