Page 1 of Falling for Grace

PART 1

Cycles and routines can be the very prison that you didn’t even know you were stuck in.

Chapter 1

I’m nervous. Why am I nervous?

Okay, I know why I’m nervous: it’s the one time in the year that I see him. Which means it has been exactly 364 days since the last time (not that I have been keeping count or anything, because that would be creepy). But, yup, 364 days since I last saw him, since I walked out on him, leaving him sleeping in his bed.

Brandon Holder.

I feel like I could shit and vomit simultaneously, although that would be gross and somewhat unattractive, and I am totally trying to be attractive.

Actually, that is a lie.

I am trying to be hot, with a “not trying too hard” vibe. So, of course, I have spent the last four hours getting ready. I have shaved, exfoliated, buffed with one of those weird loofah things that I randomly found in the airing cupboard and moisturised every part of my body.

Even my feet.

I turn around and look at the bombsite that is my bed. Half of my wardrobe has been thrown across the surface as I pulled out every outfit that fit into the “looking hot, but not trying” category.

Do you know the really annoying thing about this whole bed shitstorm?

Can you guess what outfit I have decided on?

The first one I pulled out of my wardrobe.

But it has taken me 10 changes and five texts to my best friend, Danny, for final confirmation. In the end he told me to sod off and get a move on; otherwise his dad would have aged another year by the time I sorted my life out. Which is probably accurate, and Ted isn’t exactly a spring chicken.

So here I stand in front of my mirror, looking at my reflection. My “looking hot but not trying” attempt, in my opinion, has worked well.

Well done me.

I am wearing skinny white jeans, a brown belt and brown pumps, teamed with a white vest top under a partially open denim shirt (so you can see my cleavage in a subtle “Oh look, my boobs are here, and they are looking seductively at you”kind of way). My make-up is “natural,” which means it has taken me well over an hour to apply. I am wearing a neutral eye shadow colour, which I’ve even blended—yes, blended, just like Danny taught me—and my grey eyes are framed by mascara-coated lashes that look even longer than usual. Danny tells me regularly that people pay to have eyelashes like mine. I have attempted contouring and it hasn’t ended up looking like a paint-by-numbers picture. My caramel hair has been allowed to dry naturally into beach waves.

As well as being my best friend, confidant and brother from another mother, Danny is my style guru. If it were up to me, I’d be wearing PJ bottoms and a baggy hoody everywhere.

But it isn't up to me. It’s up to Danny.

I am his walking, talking, annoying life-size Barbie doll.

My usually disheveled look has been tamed, and I want to give myself a high five. Instead, I reach for the glass of rosé sitting precariously on top of my chest of drawers and take a big gulp.

My phone starts to vibrate.

I can hear it.

I just can’t see it. The noise seems to be coming from the pile of clothes on the bed. I groan.

Typical.

Of course it’s in that shit storm. Pulling at tops and shirts I follow the vibrations, scooping the phone up to see Danny’s name and stupid face flashing brightly on the screen. Smiling, I instantly answer it.

“Seriously, woman! I came out the closet quicker than you have gotten ready, and that took me six years. Can you get your ass over here? Mum is making me help with the appetisers. Doesn’t she know Grace… I can’t fucking cook.”

I laugh and grab my purse off the bed. “I’m coming. I’m coming. Red or white?”

“Jesus, woman, no one is expecting you to bring anything. Just get your cute little tight butt over here, would you?”

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