Page 43 of That One Moment

I should drink something.

Standing abruptly, I opt for movement, stretching my arms above my head in an attempt to ease the tightness in my body then make my way into my spotless kitchen.

Everything in here is in order, like it always is. Nothing is ever out of place in my home - not a glass on the sideboard, not a piece of mail sitting unread. Nothing. Mess makes me claustrophobic and out of control and I hate feeling out of control. Taking a glass from the kitchen cabinet, I run the tap water and fill it. Then chug it all down before rinsing the glass, drying it and putting it away immediately.

The window over my sink looks onto the street below. It’s dark out now, the street lights brightening the path between my place and the next block of flats. I watch a couple walk hand in hand until they round the corner and disappear from my sight. The couple remind me of the photo of Jamie and his girlfriend again. I wonder for a second if I haunt his thoughts as often as he does mine.

“It doesn’t matter, he’s not a part of your life anymore,” I say out loud to my empty flat. Yesterday was nothing but a blip in the fabric of our lives. We’re not the people we used to be, we’re nothing to each other anymore. In truth, we never really were. It was Cooper that held us together, and without Cooper here….well, Jamie and Caiden do not exist.

Dragging myself back to the sofa, a loud exhale passes my lips as I sink into the cushions. Flicking the TV back on, I vaguely take in two characters in a heated debate before my eyes drift to the bandage wrapped around my left wrist, the white fabric nowa little grubby from wear. I fight back the urge to dig my nail into the healing wound. I know better than to mess with it, but the impulse is there, the need for a release from the tightening that’s starting in my chest bordering on overwhelming.

Instead, I snake my hand into my jeans and run a finger along a raised scar on the inside of my thigh. It’s an old scar, probably one I gave myself not long after I moved here, but it didn’t heal correctly, leaving behind a numb ridge on the otherwise soft skin. I rake a nail over it, back and forth, back and forth, the rhythmic motion doing a piss poor job of calming my now racing pulse.

I should go to bed, get some sleep, read a book - do something that isn’t sitting around thinking about dead twins and step brothers who mean nothing to me. Maybe I should have asked Darius to come back.

My phone beeps again and I laugh, wondering how Darius knew I was thinking about him.

But it’s not him.

Of all the things I did differently after Coop died, there is one thing I should have done but didn’t; I should have cut Oliver out of my life. Cooper hated him, and he’s not good for me, but it’s already been established that I make shit choices and Oliver is one of them. It was purely coincidence that we ran into each other two years ago in a club in London. Even more of a coincidence that he’d moved only two train stops over from me, making late night drop ins easy and convenient.

I rub a hand through my hair - it’s greasy and in need of a wash. While my house is spotless, I didn’t have the energy to take care of myself. My stomach grumbles and cramps as a reminder that I haven’t eaten since breakfast either. Ignoring the ache, I open Oliver’s message. It’s a booty call - that’s all we ever offer each other. Drunken nights and somewhat enjoyable sex.

Oliver:You free tonight?

For you? No. Definitely not.

Me:Yeah, want to come over?

I know it’s the wrong choice as soon as I send the message. I’ve known he is the wrong choice since he nearly got me expelled from school. But I’m anxious and unsettled and Ineedsomething. Calling Jamie is an option - probably a really fucking good option - and that’s why Oliver needs to get his ass here. I don’t deserve the good options.

Oliver:See you in an hour.

Two things happen whenever Oliver comes over. Besides the drinking and fucking that is. Firstly, he’s messy as fuck which means as soon as he leaves, I’m left cleaning up for hours, unable to breathe properly until all traces of him are gone. And secondly, I spend at least a week telling myself it was the last time.

My hamster, Basil, nibbles at my finger when I put my hand in his cage with fresh vegetables, all while Ford wraps himself around my legs, clawing at my socked feet. Shutting Basil's cage, I bend down and stroke the furry creature who, in return purrs softly, showing me his soft, loving side.

“You've already eaten,” I say, tickling his belly as he flops onto his back. Ford tucks up his legs and swipes at my hand, showing me his not so loving side. “You little shit!” I curse, pulling my hand away. He looks at me as if to say ‘what are you going to doabout it?’ I put out more food because he’s too damn cute to say no to.

Then I go about getting myself ready - brushing my teeth, changing into clean sweats and lining up a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses.

An hour and a half after his text, a knock sounds on the door and I pull it open to find Oliver holding a plastic bag and wearing a grin full of wicked promises.

“Alright, handsome?” Oliver pushes past me, pausing to kiss my cheek, then saunters through to the kitchen. He kicks his shoes off as he goes and they land haphazardly in the middle of the walkway. His coat follows, landing on the kitchen counter before he sets down the bag. Glasses clink as he unpacks, lining up the beers he always brings with him.

I follow him, then stand, glued to the spot, watching as he walks around my kitchen as though he owns it. He’s too comfortable here, and it’s my fault for letting that happen. Dressed in black jeans and a white cotton tee, I take a minute to appreciate his muscular build that once upon a time did something for me. With his deep brown eyes, sandy blond hair and cheeky grin, he’s kind of a wet dream. Only these days, he’s notmywet dream. I mean, he is hot, and he knows what my body likes, but mostly, I call on him because things with him are easy. He’s safe.

We don’t talk. He doesn’t ask questions. We have this game we play and he leaves once it’s over. No one expects anything more. And still, every time, I regret it as soon as the sun rises.

Rinse and repeat.

Oliver opens a beer, the cap clattering to the floor, then turns to look at me. I’m still standing watching him and he raises an eyebrow as he sips his drink. His eyes narrow when they see the bandage on my wrist, and I curse myself for not putting on a long sleeved top.

He dips his head in my direction. “Want to talk about it?” He pours vodka into a shot glass and holds it out for me. Slowly, I walk towards the counter and take it from him, throwing it back with a grimace, then hold out the glass for him to refill.

“Not particularly.”

He nods, both of us knowing the offer was empty anyway.

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