Page 33 of Versions Of Us

She ignores my question, deflecting the conversation back onto me. “Maybe you’re better off without him in your life.”

“Why would you say that?”

I’m not offended by her question, just concerned about what has happened in her own life for her to so casually suggest that anyone’s life could simply be better off without one of their parents in it.

“It doesn’t matter.” She huffs out a breath and even from where I’m sitting in this tiny room, God only knows how many miles from where she is, her hostility slices through me as she abruptly ends the call.

It’s hard to end a shift after a phone call like that. To step back into your own life after you’ve been given an insight into the turmoil of someone else’s.

But I need to. It’s part of the job. No matter what kind of sensitive information has been disclosed, we pack it up and bind it tight. We bury it inside of us and we carry on.

Sometimes it bleeds into my subconscious, and I find myself upright in bed at all of hours of the night, a cold sweat beading along my clammy forehead.

But this is what we do. And people like Em are the reason we do it.

So, I gather my things as I do at the end of every shift and say goodbye to Jules before heading out the door.

The air is balmy when I step out onto the street, signalling that the end of spring is inevitable. Although the days are becoming longer, the nights seem darker in Cliff Haven now.

Or maybe it’s me.

Maybe I just can’t seem to run from the darkness intent on swallowing me, no matter how hard I try. I never used to be quite so bitter.

But I guess that’s what happens when the one person you believed would stand beside you through life up and leaves you with nothing but a string of distant memories in their wake.

Chapter 13

HENLEY

I’m exhausted.

I’ve been driving non-stop for over three hours, the occasional oncoming headlamps and brake lights in front beginning to blur into a kaleidoscope of bright whites, yellows and reds. The digital clock on the dash blinks.

1:04am.

Fatigue eats at me, in both a mental and physical sense, and I know that if I don’t pull over soon, I’m not going to make it another hour on the road.

I drive a few more kilometres before I see it. A large structure, its roof decorated with vivid neon signage. I’ve never been more grateful for twenty-four-hour truck stops than I am right now.

I pull into the parking lot and head inside. I’m suddenly ravenous at the sight of food, aware that my last meal had been breakfast.

That’s if you could even call day old cereal with curdled milk a meal. Most people wouldn’t.

As expected, this service station doesn’t have anything to offer in the way of actual nutrition, but I’m starving and anything calorie-dense will suffice. I settle for a couple of packets of chips, then swipe a few cans of coke from the fridge for good measure before bringing them to the kiosk at the front.

“That everything?” A large, bearded guy sits behind the register, slowly scanning the cans one by one.

“These too,” I reply, hastily adding a few random chocolate bars from the display in front of the counter.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Long day?”

“You have no idea.”

It’s not the worst day I’ve endured in my life, but a sugar hit just feels necessary if I’m going to survive the journey home.

The guy rings up the items and I tap my debit card to pay. I tense, hoping I’ve got enough money in the account, then breathe a sigh of relief when the sale goes through.

I’m halfway to the car when my phone begins to ring from the back pocket of my jeans. Juggling my purchases in one arm, I pull it out and swipe the answer key.

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