Page 19 of Tangled Desires

“Thought you might need this,” he says, that little smirk in place.

“Legend,” I mutter, already sparking it up. The first drag? Magic. My shoulders drop a bit. Not much, but it’s enough. Michael drops into the chair next to me, boots propped up on the table.

“What a day, huh?”

“Fucked,” I say simply, chasing it with a swig. “I’m knackered, and my back’s gone.” My foot taps restlessly on the floor.

Michael nods. “Busy’s good, though.”

“It is,” I say, exhaling a cloud of smoke. The way it curls up, slow and steady, is the opposite of what’s happening in my head. “Keeps the noise down.”

“The noise? Or you mean her?” Michael asks, glancing over at me with that knowing look.

I turn his way. “Both. She’s got me all twisted up, man.”

Michael sets his beer on the table, and I pass him the stick. He takes a long drag, head tipping back to blow the smoke up into the fading light. “You gonna do something about it?” My smirk comes easy. He knows me all too well.

“Mate, you didn’t,” he groans.

“I couldn’t help myself.”

He stares at me. “Imogen? You fucked Imogen? There is no way she’s into you.”

“Mate, she was very into me.”

He snorts, flicking ash onto the ground. “Alright, Casanova, now what?”

“Nothing. It was a one-off. Done. Dusted.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I sigh. “She’s… complicated. This whole thing is.”

“Yeah, well, so are you. Doesn’t mean you should just give up.”

Me, complicated? Understatement of the century. I’m like a tangled set of earphones you forgot in your pocket. Past mistakes, unresolved crap, emotions I don’t even have names for—it’s all there, knotted up nice and tight. Silence settles betweenus, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Just the faint crackle of the joint, and the creak of the chairs.

Michael’s the one to break it. “You been sleeping alright?”

“Eh,” I shrug. “Three times this week. Not bad, considering. I’m banking on this knocking me out tonight, but, you know, not holding my breath.”

He lets out this big, dramatic sigh.“Have you thought about what I suggested?”

“What?”

“You know, a therapist, or a counsellor… whatever.”

The words land like a brick to the chest. My jaw tightens. “I’ve told you—there’s no way I’m spilling my guts to some stranger.”

“They’re trained for it.” He leans forward. “Sometimes it helps, talking to someone who doesn’t know you.”

“Doubt it.”

What are they gonna do, hand me a tissue and say,‘Wow, that sounds hard’?Like they’d get it. Like anyone could. Night terrors that slam into me out of nowhere, a deep dread that digs its claws into my stomach, and refuses to let go. Nope. I take another drag, the joint burning down to where it starts warming my fingertips. The buzz creeps in, softening the edges.

My foot’s still bouncing, but slower now, like it’s winding down. Finally.

7

3 weeks later

When the universe decides to screw you over, it really puts its back into it.

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