Chapter 1
Chapter one
Emily
“I think we should see other people.”
“Absolutely not.” I laugh into my phone speaker, “That’s the worst one.”
“I think I’m going to have to ghost him,” Jessica, my best friend, says on the other end of the line.
We’ve been having this back and forth for a while now, trying to come up with the best way to let her current ‘fuck buddy’ down lightly.
So far, I have Vetoed: ‘It’s not you, it’s me’, ‘You deserve better’, and my personal favourite, ‘I need to focus on my career’.
“You can’t ghost him; you’ve been seeing him for three months.
He is literally in love with you.” I cringe internally thinking about the poor guy.
By the sounds of things, he had taken Jess to a lovely dinner, fucked her brains out, then just before they fell asleep, he whispered those three words in her ear.
Jess was gone before he woke up and now I am somehow involved in breaking this guy’s heart.
Jess groans on the other end of the line, “See this is why I don’t go back for seconds.
” Ahh yes, Jess’s philosophy on men, enjoy them once, maybe twice, but never as much as she has with this guy.
I think this might be her longest relationship.
I honestly thought it was a turning point for her, like she’d finally seen the light and wanted to get off those horrific dating apps.
Like she’d had enough of constantly having to justify herself to strangers on the Internet if she was ‘too loud’ or ‘told too many jokes’.
Although I might just be projecting my own experience of them on to her.
I hate online dating with a passion. Thankfully, I found my fiancé through a mutual friend, eight years ago, and I could say goodbye to all those apps before they really took off.
“Yes, Jess. But you said the dick was too good to throw away and now you’ve let this guy fall for you.”
“I told him what we were from the start!”
“Well, clearly he didn’t listen and now you’re going to have to deal with the consequences.”
“Eugh! I hate the consequences of my own actions,” she grumbles.
“Me too, babe. Now buckle up and let me know how it goes. I have to go, they’re coming out to warm up.”
“Okay, love you. Take pictures of Jack Cartwright’s thighs for me if you get chance.”
“Love you too, pervert.” I giggle and hang up, putting my phone in my pocket as I watch the football players of both teams fan out on to the pitch and begin their stretches.
“Everything okay?” I hear from the seat to my left as my colleague, Gemma, leans in to learn the new gossip.
She knows all about Jess and her escapades from me venting to her about them.
Being in her mid-sixties, she grew up in the era of sex, drugs and rock and roll, she’s had one hell of a life and that means she gives the best advice.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Just Jess making men fall in love with her again,” I reply with a smile, just as my phone starts to go wild again, vibrating in my pocket.
“Can’t blame them, she is gorgeous.”
“That is true,” I agree and pull out my phone. “Sorry, will you excuse me, this must be her again,” I say. With a roll of my eyes I make my way towards the pitch, not wanting any early members of the crowd to hear the very unprofessional conversation I am about to have with my best friend.
I unlock my phone, and I am greeted with sixteen Instagram notifications.
Not Jess then. She would know not to call me now I am on shift but, her breakdowns are exclusively reserved for WhatsApp.
I don’t know if that’s because she signed some form of deal with them or it’s just personal preference. With her it could be either.
I open the app and see the little unopened message symbol on my requested messages.
Weird.
Probably a fake brand trying to offer me a fake deal. Although, what they would want with a private account with a meagre one hundred and twenty-six followers, I don’t know. Hopefully, it’s a foreign prince wants to give me all his money in exchange for my bank details!
Sarah Graham has sent you a message request.
Odd, but I recognise the name as one of my partner’s co-workers.
Why would someone from his work be messaging me on Instagram?
Has something happened to him whilst he’s working overtime today?
My pulse quickens as I internally invent all the things that may have happened to him for someone to feel the need reach out to me whilst I’m on shift.
I quickly accept and open the message.
Ice coats my veins as I read the first line.
Hey girl
My heart stops.
Of course, his workplace wouldn’t message me on Instagram if something had happened to him. I’d get a phone call as his emergency contact.
But surely this isn’t THE ‘hey girl’ message. Not one that actually starts with ‘hey girl’!?
My stomach drops.
I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this
But, I think your boyfriend is Chris
He’s my fiancé actually but, okay.
Well, we’ve been sleeping together.
I’m so sorry, I had no idea he was with someone
Bile rises in my throat as I continue to read.
I only found out today when I went to your house
Wow. At my own house.
It’s the first time I’ve been there. I saw your pictures
Didn’t see the ones from our engagement shoot, though, no?
I’m so sorry.
Being the girls’ girl that I am, I just had to tell you
A ‘girls’ girl’ that screws another girl’s fiancé?
It’s been since the team building weekend away in August
August? It’s now mid-December.
We work together
That’s how I know him
Yes, I already knew that. Keep up, Sarah.
I swear no one in the office even knows about you
I mean, we keep things private. I didn’t realise he’d took it that far though. The picture of us on my lock screen on my phone flashes through my mind, the one I had framed for him to put on his desk at work.
I’m so sorry.
Men are trash.
Please forgive me.
I blink. Searching my brain for a reason for this not to be true. I take a deep breath, which rattles on its way out my mouth. My stomach lurches and I am almost certain my scrambled eggs from this morning are about to make an appearance.
Breathe, Emily. Think.
White-hot fire boils inside of me. What the fuck is wrong with people?
Why did she send that in sixteen individual messages?
Why are people so obsessed with sending every single thought in a different message?
What is wrong with writing a paragraph? ‘Hey, just to let you know, your fiancé is a scumbag who I have been fucking since August. We met at work.’ Done.
One message. Sixteen is ridiculous. Sixteen!
I might be focusing on the wrong thing, here.
I force another raging breath in through my nose and push it out my mouth.
Ok, Emily. What do we know? Facts.
Chris—my Fiancé, not boyfriend—and Sarah—from his work—have been fucking. For months. Chris lied about being single, apparently, and he's currently in my house following a failed attempt at boning his co-worker.
Adrenaline floods my system; my heart starts to pound, trying to escape my ribcage and my breaths come out short and shallow. I’m going to hyperventilate if I don’t get that under control. I’m both hot and cold but I’m also sweating, is that even a thing?
Shit, am I doubly sweaty? I hope not.
I fan my elbows out to try and circulate some air to my increasingly dampening pits as I try to rip my gaze away from the messages.
I want to look at anything else. But my eyes betray me, and I only seem to be able to read them.
Over and over again. Trying to find something, anything in them that shows that they might not be true.
Because this is a joke, right? A sick, vile joke. Someone will pop up soon and yell ‘punked,’ even though that show was scrapped years ago. Maybe it's making a comeback? Or this could be a really cruel marketing technique for my fake brand collab?
But no, what would they be marketing? A paragraph creating processor that condenses all your life shattering news into one easy to read message?
I lock my phone and stare at my reflection on the blank screen.
My already fair skin has a ghostly tint to it now making my freckles stand out even more than normal.
My green eyes are bright, in the way they always are just before tears fall, and somehow, I’m moving rapidly from side to side.
Oh, no. That's my hands. They're shaking.
My eyes start to sting as more water gathers behind them. Oh god, it’s going to happen. I cannot cry right now, it would be so unprofessional. Not to mention embarrassing! I will not cry in public.
I take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I heard once that it helps regulate your nervous system. My nerves are well and truly unregulated right now.
“Everything okay, Emily?” I hear Gemma shout from the bottom seats of the stands where I am supposed to be sat.
Outside the first aid room where I am supposed to be on duty volunteering as crowd first aid.
Not wandering aimlessly pitch side glued to my phone.
I want to scream that no, everything is not okay, but instead I give a small wave and nod in her direction.
It must not have been convincing because she stands, a crease of concern between her brows.
I appear to have drifted behind the goal so she’s far enough away to give me time to try and calm my racing heart.
If I don’t, I’ll cry as soon as she is within touching distance.
She’ll put her hand on my arm and give me one of her sympathetic smiles and it will ruin me.
Eight years.
How could he throw away eight fucking years?