Page 1 of Our Little Cliche
Chapter One
HOLLY
Thud,thud, thud.Huh?I stir momentarily before going back into oblivion with a breathy grunt.Thud.The not so distant knock,I think, happens again.
Head pounding and eyelids straining as if they were made of sand paper, I try muttering out, “W-wha?” But no clear audible sound follows my lips.Oof, my head.
“Hello?” a disgruntled, monotone male voice shouts from the other side of my front door, echoing through my apartment.
I blink, but only one eye commits to opening. Usually, I’d appreciate Australia’s Gold Coast sunrise beaming through my bedroom window: kissing my skin and soul with its heavenly warmth… but right now I feel like absolute garbage.
Yeah, garbage that’s been steamed up and left to rot for a whole weekend, two now, actually.
I throw my pillow over my head to shield me from this thumping…self inflicted, headache.“Ugh. Why does the sun have to be so damn bright?!”
Myusualweekends are reserved for drinking wine, reading my smutty books on my fluffy couch by a lit candle, ordering take out, and flicking the bean to my hearts content as mydowntime from a busy week of work. I did all of those things last night as per regular,and the weekend before, but I did them with a little more… drama. And maybe additional bottles of wine.
Why you might ask?
Because I was dumped.
And now my head is reminding me that booze doesn’t make the feeling of being cheated on go away. Ugh, Ihatebreak-ups. I force my body into an upright position, my head feels like it’s going to explode at any given moment… as does my stomach, rather that’s more of an impending explosion.
Blinking away the blur, my phone screen says that it’s 7 A.M—gross. Disbelief strikes me seeing my reflection in the mirror at the corner of my room. Oh, I amdefinitelya steaming pile of garbage. Shit on a stick, whose hair is completely frizzed and unkept. Even the Macca’s crappy fake cheese from my 2 A.M. Uber Eats ‘menty b snack’is stuck in my curls.
Oh, how attractive, Holly. You’ve really outdone yourself now, haven’t you?
My eyes are so bloody puffy I can barely see my eyelashes. Well, that’s one of the side effects of bathing in my own tears all weekend. Actually I’ve been doing so for the past seven days, or is it eight now?
“Damn you Sauvignon Blanc,” I cuss at the empty bottle of wine beside me, nuzzled onhispillow. No, damn boys. That’s who I have to blame for my hangover. Not the wine, of course.
Seeing clearer than before I make sense that I’m once again surrounded by a layer of wet, scrunched up tissues, a pizza box, six take-out containers, a handful of sappy romance books that I’ve torn pages out of, my Satisfyer Pro vibrator, a Kindle reader with its library wiped clean, and a scattered, printed manuscript—that Istillhaven’t sent developmental edit notes for. How could I when my soul hurtsthismuch? How could I focus onstupid, heartfelt cliché romances when I’m merely the second option?
I want to be someone’s first choice.
I want to be someone’s dream.
At this point I feel like I’ll need weeks… months off to mentally recover from this. But I can’t. I mean, Icouldtake time off from the garden magazine firm I work at, but not from working for myself. What about my clients? Their books still need editing. Being your own boss has its perks, sure, but if you have even one sick day you’re deemed as unreliable. Then everyone posts about it online, and before you know it, you’ve lost clients faster than you can blink.
And as much as I want to work on these manuscripts, I’m just not in the right head space to give meaningful feedback. My thoughts are too sour. One sweet, romantic scene and I might end up tearing apart an author for writing it. They might want honest critique, yes, but not from someone who’s freshly dumped, unloved, cheated on, and feeling like a defeated loser who clearly doesn’t know how to pick the men from the boys.
I hold my breath for a second, taking in my thoughts, and in the silence I hear voices. Grouchy voices.Why do I have the sudden suspicion that someone was knocking on my door?
“Hello? Is anyone there?” Crap, I wasn’t imagining it, someonewasknocking. Who the bloody hell could it be? I don’t recognize the voice, but I know it’s not Adam, or any of our…hisfriends. Besides, he’d be too busy lusting over that bimbo to care about me. Did I buy another book from Amazon and forget about it again? Wait, no, it’s a Sunday, the postie doesn’t come on Sundays.
I sigh and drop my head into my palm to rub at the tension.Fuck you, Adam Breyson. He can take his stupid face out of my brain before it implodes with disgust. Stupid Sarah and her model-like, temptress physic, and hair, and probably hertempting bedroom manners too for taking my boyfriend. I may have stalked her Instagram once or twice, or thrice.
Ugh.
I come to the reality that no one has come to visit me or beg for me back, and my eyes begin to water, stinging them in the process.No one gives a crap about me. Not even Adam. Four years down the drain like I was nothing to him. Likewewere nothing. I moved here to Queensland for him, left my life in country Victoria to start a life with him here. I was friends with all of his friends and his mother was like my own.
And for what?
History to repeat itself.
“Come on, lady. Open the door. We’ve got a job to do,” a second male’s voice grumbles with urgency, making my heart flutter. I’m home alone, and I know I shouldn’t answer the door, but it’s broad daylight… nothing bad would happen, surely?
Right?
