Page 13 of Count On Me

I groan loudly and walk over to my bed, letting my gaze drop to the nightstand. Reaching down to grab the frame, a smile finally finds my lips as I admire the picture inside. Edie, looking picture perfect, the day I arrived in London.

I keep it next to my bed as my own form of personal torture. I want to fall asleep next to her, wake up next to her, and this is the only way I can.

I grab my phone and dial her number, just to hear her voice. I’ll think of a reason when she answers, like I always do. I know I call her way too often, like she's my emotional support friend or something, but I can’t help it. My leg bounces up and down as the ringing continues. My eyebrows meet in the middle of my forehead as her voicemail picks up, telling me to leave amessage. I don’t. I hang up. Frustrated and annoyed that she didn't answer again.

I don’t want to go out to a club tonight. If I’d spoken to her, I could’ve pretended she needed me and gone to her place instead. I’m tired of pretending to chase women. And I’m over ending up in some stranger’s bed, each time leaving me feeling dirty and ashamed. I’ve never wanted them, but I couldn’t have Edie.

Strange how that habit started when Edie grew distant with me a little while ago. I hated not being able to talk to her, text her, just count on her. I tried to chase the empty feeling away with booze and pussy. She never gave me a reason for going AWOL on me, just told me she was busy. My gut tells me it’s because she saw me in the tabloids with one of the wannabe WAGs that surround us in the clubs, but I never worked up the courage to talk to her about it. Just like I never spoke to her about our near kiss two years ago.

I still think about it constantly though. I still wish I’d kissed her. To know I’ve tasted her lips just once… would be torture. It would never be enough. I’d want to feast on her lips for the rest of my life. I already do, and I don’t even know how they taste.

I call her once more, throwing my phone onto the mattress and watching as it bounces onto the floor when it goes to voicemail again. I hate not speaking to her. Especially if I’m going out. God knows what the press will print tomorrow. Even if it’s not the truth, those vultures will still print it. Like they’ve done with every girl I’ve ever been pictured with. Apparently I’ve fucked the majority of London, when in reality, my hand is the most action I’ve had in a while now.

I head into the bathroom to get ready for a night with empty, shallow people, when all I want to do is curl up with my bestie and smell her coconut hair.

11

EDIE

“Heath Hampstead Playboy Strikes Again—but off the pitch instead of on.” I glare at the bold red headline flashing in front of me like a red rag to a bull. I never should have switched notifications on for every time Jaxson made the news.

To click on the headline or not to click, that is the real question… I mumble, “Fuck it,” out loud to my empty apartment and click on the red flashing banner. I chew on the inside of my cheek as I wait for my phone to load, and slump onto the sofa as a gorgeous, blonde, wannabe WAG smiles smugly back at me, Jaxson’s arm draped over her shoulders. His eyes are glazed over, a smile pasted on his face that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and bright pink lipstick covers his cheek and neck like he’d been mauled by a bear. Why does he do this to himself? He looks anything but happy to be there with this bimbo, drunk again for his coach to see, yet he still puts himself into these situations.

I zoom in on the picture, scrutinising it. The slump in his shoulders, the gritted teeth through his smile. His beautiful luminescent eyes are dull and listless. His dimples are nowhere in sight. He’s miserable.

Bringing my photos folder up, I find the last selfie we took together, just two days ago, and compare them. His smile is genuine and his eyes are alight with happiness. Why can’t he see that he’s happier with me? Instead of punishing himself with drinks and bitches.

If I’d answered yesterday, he would have been at my place, on the sofa watching a movie with me instead of in the state he was in, with some tramp who doesn’t give a shit about him and just wants to use him for his celebrity status. He makes me so bloody angry. He spends most of his time with me, and he’s happy when he’s here. Or when we’re goofing about at his place. I know he wants what I want. And we’re basically in a bloody relationship with the amount of time we spend together. But something’s holding him back, and I don’t know what that is. What he’s so scared of.

Angie’s words ring through my ears, “You need to make him think you’re gone. Let him miss you.” I click off the screen with the headline on it and bring up my text threads with Angie, who’s still listed as Tom in my phone.

Me

Operation fake boyfriend is a go, Tom.

Tom

Whoop whoop! I get to be a man…

Tom

WYD?

Tom

Send nudes.

Me

Eye-roll emoji

Tom

What made you change your mind?

Me

Today’s headline.

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