Page 61 of Muddy Messy Love

Also, now I’m impressed. I’ve just discovered receiving a casual hence is oddly hot.

I giggle—literallygiggle—and squeeze my thighs together.

Me:

How hot exactly?

I stare at the screen, waiting for a response, bouncing one knee, but this time Cole’s taking a while. Shit. Did I go too far with the flirt? Just as I’m ready to dive under my pillow and scream, a photo pops up, and immediately, I blush. It’s a close-up of Cole—theclose-up of Cole—shirtless and smeared in mud, yanking one end of a blue rope as it circles his low-slung shorts. I cringe. I’d hoped he’d forgotten about that, but instead he’s tormenting me with it. Secretly, I’m delighted.

Cole:

This hot. Or so I gather ;-)

Goodnight, Naughty One.

Sweet dreams.

Me:

They will be now ;-)

Image saved.

Thirteen

A crisp breeze waftsthrough my gauzy bedroom curtains, beckoning me outside. The roof is nearly dry from the dinner downpour, so I tuck my phone into the front pocket of my fuzzy hoodie, jam my feet into unlaced Chucks, and hitch myself up and out the anodised window.

When I lie down, I cross my arms into a cosy pillow under my head and leave my phone resting on my stomach so Ed Sheeran can sing to the stars. The night sky is clean. A huddle of clouds circle the moon in a glowing dome of light. I love it up here. Alone. Looking up into the vast unknown. It confirms my insignificance and shrinks my woes to specks of stardust.

As the cold air cleanses my lungs, I smile. I can’t remember ever feeling this peaceful—like chaos went to sleep—but I know who to thank for that.

I close my eyes and picture Cole. His intense, pretty stare. The way he tasted last weekend. My skin tingles at the memory likeI’m bathing in champagne, and I sink into the blissful feeling…until my phone scares me shitless with a deafening ring.

It slips off my waist as I jolt, hitting the tin with a clunk before sliding down a valley. Lurching forward, I slap my hand down to stop it, but my foot loses traction, sliding on shoelaces like a puck on ice. It all happens in a blink, and I scramble through my descent down the roof, sending prayers to the moon, only finding purchase at the very last second by grasping the flimsy gutter. My feet dangle six feet in the air as my phone finishes its trip, plonking into the gutter mush next to my hand. I sigh. I guess that’s something, at least.

Looking down, I assess the drop. Concrete will break my fall, but without Wonder Woman’s strength or ability to fly, what choice do I have? Inhaling, I count to three through gritted teeth, let one hand go, snatch up my phone, then free-fall.

Down.

Down.

Ouch.

The pebbled concrete bites my tail bone, and the soles of my feet sting as I stare up at the battened eaves, panting and holding my ankle. I’m an idiot. Beth warned me, but I knew better. Thankfully, my phone seems to have survived unscathed, so I light up the screen to check who called. Mum. That’d be fucking right. Guilt made me change her ringtone back to the default, which I now regret. Jen’s choice would have made me stiffen, potentially averting my fall. But even if it wouldn’t have, tumbling off the roof to the Wicked Witch’s theme song feels like an opportunity missed.

I kill the music and climb to my feet, then dust off my baggy pyjama pants and limp to the back French doors. My ankle hurts, but it could be worse. All I need is access and ice. As expected, the doors are locked, but a rustic clay urn stands nearby at half my height. I tilt it up with both hands, willinga spare key to appear underneath, but only a ring of dirt and scuttle of silverfish do. I check the rest of the potted succulents on the deck without success.

The sensor light flickers on, making the porch tiles sparkle as I limp to the front door. I check underneath the daisy-print doormat. Zilch. But that would be too obvious. I check under the ficus plants standing sentry at the twin pillars. Nada. I dial Beth, but she doesn’t answer. After scanning the neighbouring houses, I deflate with a sigh. They’re strangers. No way would they have a spare key.

The milky glass squeaks as I slide down the front door and lean back against it with my feet flopped out front. I should have added a unit of lock picking to my rebellious curriculum. That would have been handy right now. Or perhaps I should have tied my laces for a change. I pull the cuffs of my pants up my calves to compare ankles. It’s a mild sprain at most, and I’m lucky—trams, toddlers, and busted ankles don’t mix. But my gratitude soon fades along with the adrenaline, and the frosty night creeps into my bones.

I could call Liam, but phoning him out of the blue because I need something feels scummy. And Jen doesn’t pick locks or stay awake past ten on weeknights, which is deplorable for a uni student. A locksmith could help, but how much do they cost? Fuck, Beth’s been gone less than a week and I’ve already nearly killed myself.

You’re hopeless, Avery Lee. Smart, but stupid in all the ways that count.

My chest clamps, and I wince.

After fifteen minutes of flipping my phone face up and down on the doormat, I take a deep breath, triple check it’s definitely Thursday, then shoot a text to the only person left circling my brain. The one who never leaves. After all, Cole did say if I needed anything, right?

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