Chapter III
Nika
After several missed calls and a string of text messages, he finally responded.
Finley: I’m out with the guys. Don’t know when I’ll be back.
I read it twice.
He’s probably out on the prowl.
I put the phone down on the couch cushion, face down, and sat with that for a moment. The flat was very quiet. The kind of quiet that had texture to it — the hum of the fridge, a bus passing outside, the muffled television from the flat next door living its own life without me.
I’d cooked. That was the thing. I’d actually come home, changed out of my work clothes, and cooked a proper meal because it was Friday and I’d thought—stupidly, it turned out—that it might be nice.
That we might sit together and eat something that hadn’t come in a paper bag and maybe talk like two people who shared a life.
I stood up and went to the kitchen.
The vegetables were lukewarm. The chicken skin that had been perfectly crispy an hour ago had gone soft and a bit sad. I stood over the tray for a moment looking at it before serving it up.
Then I grabbed my plate, picked up the bottle of wine, and didn’t bother with a glass.
Back on the couch I pulled up Netflix and scrolled. The recommendations stared back at me—things we’d been meaning to watch together, things he’d added to the list, things I’d forgotten I’d saved. I kept scrolling until I hit something I didn’t recognise and hit play without reading what it was.
It didn’t matter what it was.
Somewhere between the second and third fork of food I became aware that my vision had gone blurry.
I blinked.
Oh. Apparently I was crying. Not dramatically—no gasping, no sound. Just the quiet, pathetic kind that happened when you’d been holding something at arm’s length for too long and your body got tired of the effort.
I raised my fork and ate.
The wine was cheap, but I didn’t care. The show played. Outside, London carried on being London—indifferent and loud and completely unbothered by someone like me. Insignificant.
I questioned, not for the first time, what the fuck I was doing with my life.
I didn’t answer myself.
I put my fork down and reached for the bottle.
??
??
??
When I woke up it was dark.
I turned onto my side and the room tilted with me. I lay very still for a moment, waiting for it to settle, instantly regretting the second bottle. Or the third glass. Whichever one had been the bridge too far.
From the kitchen I could hear Finley rummaging. Cupboard doors. The soft mechanical whirr of the microwave, then the ping.
I wondered idly how much radiation it took to kill someone, then dismissed the thought. A kitchen appliance was a boring way to go and I was fairly certain the cheese toasties he made at midnight didn’t count as a weapon.
I blinked at the ceiling until my faculties started returning one by one, slow and reluctant.
Then I remembered.
The phone. The website. The very confident clicking.
Fuck.
I grabbed my phone from under the duvet and opened my emails with one eye closed.
There it was. Bold. Official. Unignorable.
Booking confirmation.
Croatia. Return flight. Twenty-six pounds each way.
No hotel. No accommodation. Nothing else at all.
I checked my texts.
Me: Haha, Dad, my flight was cheaper.
Dad: Good girl. Where are you going?
Me: Crotcha
Dad: Where?
Me: Dunno. Somewhere in Europe. Night dad. Luv u.
Dad: Love you too. Text me when you’re sober.
I stared at the conversation for a long moment.
My poor Dad, he knew I was hammered.
I switched back to the confirmation email and read it properly this time, or as properly as I could manage with wine still softening the edges of everything. Five days. A little over two hours in the air. Departure in—I did the maths slowly—less than two weeks.
I typed Croatia into my browser and lay there in the dark scrolling through images. Coastline so blue it looked edited. Old stone towns spilling down hillsides toward the water. Lavender fields. Forests that looked like they’d been there since before anyone thought to name them.
My grandparents had come from somewhere near there. I’d always meant to look into it properly and never had.
The heaviness that had been sitting in my chest all evening shifted slightly. Not gone. Just—different.
As soon as I started thinking about what Finley would say, I made myself stop.
I was going. That was it. If he wanted to come, he could pay his own way for once. I was done subsidising his life one transfer at a time.
The nerves were there—that familiar sick feeling, low in my stomach, the one that showed up every time I was about to hold a boundary. Or it was the wine. Probably both.
I slipped my phone under my pillow and closed my eyes.
It was the best sleep I’d had in a long time.