Page 2 of Our Little Cliche
“I’m coming. Hold on,” I shout.
Wearing nothing but my short, pink heart pajama set, I practically fall out of bed as neither of my limbs have the desire to carry my aching, very hungover, mid thirties…single…body. All of the tissues and one of the bottles of wine follow my tumble to the floor, making a distinctclunkandthudin the process.
How embarrassing.
I peep through the glass window by the entrance, seeing two rugged, middle aged men. I notice that both of their shirts have a truck logo embroidered on them.Are they removalists?They must be here to collect Adam’s stuff. Wait, he has no stuff. This is all mine.
Unease stirs in my stomach as I open the door. I brace myself by resting my shoulder against the edge of the frame, and planting my feet sturdy on the hardwood floor, just in case they try anything dodgy. “Can I… help you?”
The older man looks at his clipboard as if confused that he might have the wrong address. “Well, yes. We’re here for your stuff.”
My stuff?
“My stuff?” I ask reluctantly.
“You’re Miss Holly Cate, no?”
My heart throbs in my throat, my breath quickly becoming eradicated. “Yes, I am. But what do you mean you’re here formystuff?”
Adam must be trying to screw me over, calling a removalist to take all my belongings as a sick joke. Why would he do this?Because he’s a stupid, lying, cheating, narcissistic, single-brain-celled ass-wipe, that’s why.
Once again, the guy checks his clipboard and frowns. Why isn’t this fucker talking? “What is your business with Adam? I’ll call the police,” I press, anger taking charge. This ismyhouse.Mygoddamn stuff. I paid for it, and there is no way no how I’m letting a bum of an ex take my shit.
“Please, we need to?—”
“No!” I snap. “I’m not letting you in until you start talking. This is my stuff, not Adam’s.”
He scratches his head with the base of his pen, looking even more confused. The younger guy is just standing there with his hands in his pockets looking anywhere but me.
“Lady, I don’t know whoAdamis, but if you don’t let us do our job we will have to double charge your payment.” He glares at me disapprovingly, holding eye contact for a minute.
Payment?
“What job? And… what payment?”
He rolls his eyes, yanking a sheet of paper out and hands it to me. I blink like a butterfly’s wings are about to take flight when I make sense of what I could read. My stomach drops and I think I stop breathing.
Client: Holly Cate
Pick Up Destination:
97 Clayless Lane, Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia
1 bed 1 bath 1 living
Delivery Destination:
12 Bows River Heights, Banff, Alberta, Canada
1 bed 1 bath 1 living
“CANADA?!”
Chapter Two
HOLLY
The paper tremblesin my hands, as I’m mindlessly repeating the same word over, and over again.Canada. Canada. Canada.After what feels like three business days of silence with my palm covering my mouth I bring it to my forehead and rub it. Assuming that maybe I’m still intoxicated, or dreaming, I trace my finger over the address on the document one last time.
