Page 4 of Our Little Cliche
Time:2:55 pm
Subject:Move
I’ll take whatever date., Please see attacked my screenshpot of payment.
Holly
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From:[email protected]
Reply to:[email protected]
Date:23/11/24
Time:4:04 pm
Subject:Move
*flagged important* UNREAD
Thanks for your swift payment, Holly. You are all booked in. You do not need to do anything to prepare, as our service includes wrapping and packing, but we do not include unwrapping once it arrives in Canada, only delivery. We will see you on Sunday, the 1st of December between 6 A.M and 7 A.M.
Thank you for choosing Wrap Pack and Move.
Regards,
Tom
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“I— That’s impossible. My boyf—” I smack my lips together with a frustrated grunt, “exboyfriend, must have set me up.”This isn’t me in this email.
At least… I don’t think it is. I mean, thatismy email address…which Adam doesn’t have the password to.I squint at the man’s phone one last time, scrolling back up to the first email. Disgust holds me by the throat. If that’s me, what on earth is that spelling? I’m an editor for shit’s sake, that is just shameful. Actually, a more important question should be how much did I have to drink that day?
The day I found out about the other woman…
I try to flick through my memories to triangulate last weekend. All I remember was seeing Adam’s phone with all the dirty messages to Sarah no later than 10 A.M last Saturday, and I’d kicked him out by 11 A.M.
…And, then I got into the wine.
A lot of wine.
“You can’t take my stuff,” I plead, denial setting like concrete in my mind. “Please.”
“I’m sorry. You agreed to the no cancellation clause on the contract. Everything is already locked in place, Miss Cate.”
“So… you’re saying I—” I choke on the words with a sniffle, unable to think or say much else as he pushes past the door, and me.
What have I done?
With burning tears making their way past my lash line, I scamper to my room to find my phone, needing answers right here, right now. I need to track what the heck I… well, whatdrunk I… has bloody done. My hands tremor as I scroll through my call log, seeing a million calls to Adam last Saturday—all unanswered, of course. I see a few numbers, one to presumably Tom, the removalist, since it has the same area code as me. But then, I notice a foreign number.
An international number.
My heart falls into the pit of my gut as I type the number into Google. I pace my room waiting for the results, only to see that the number comes up in a directory.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no.”
