Chapter 2
Chapter two
Emily
Well, this is awkward as fuck.
Why, of all people, did Dan have to be working today?
“Are you sure you don't want me to call Chris? He really should be here with you.” This would be the third time he has asked me about contacting my next of kin. My fiancée. The cheater who lives in my house. Oh, and who also happens to be Dan’s brother.
Dan, being the doctor that is looking after me.
The same Dan that is one of my closest friends. The same man that introduced me to Chris all those years ago; back when I was just a student nurse, Dan a very new doctor and Chris, less of a prick than he is now.
I think this might be the worst day of my life.
Could be rock bottom.
I am sitting on a trolley in an A I don't want him to worry.” I give the excuse Chris gave me about why he wouldn’t be contactable today. Of course, I now know the real reason is that he was hoping to be inside his coworker.
Tosser.
I stare at the back of Dan’s head as he types something on the computer, he’s in his regular blue scrubs with his stethoscope hanging around his neck.
If you asked AI ‘show me a picture of a doctor’ it would show you Dan right now.
Straight off the set of Greys Anatomy, with his over six-foot muscular build and strong jawline, I wouldn’t be shocked if he popped up on the show.
Annoyingly, the genetics for his whole family are incredible and I can’t help but see the similarities between him and Chris now.
Same large thick shoulders, same straight nose, same chestnut hair.
The biggest difference between the two is the smile, where Dan’s comes freely to anyone, Chris is more reserved and particular with who he offers his grins to.
Dan turns his big, full-watted smile on me as he leans in and pats my thigh reassuringly.
It’s weird seeing him like this after years of working in different departments than each other.
I now only see him on days off when he’s usually in some form of matching outfits with one, or both, of his four-year-old twin girls.
My nieces, that I will probably never see again after this whole thing blows up.
A fresh wave of sadness overwhelms me, and my eyes burn with unshed tears.
The extra pressure brings a sharp wave of pain to my nose, and I wince.
“You in pain?” Dan asks.
“Quite a bit actually,” but the physical pain isn't the half of it.
“I’ll prescribe some pain killers. You sure you want to be here on your own?”
“DAN!” I raise my voice slightly and give him the best glare I can manage through the swelling. “Stop trying to mother hen me.”
“Okay, okay!’ He lifts his arms in a chill out motion, “But you could be here a while waiting for your head CT. Even I can’t bump people up the radiology list.”
“I do not need a head CT!” I argue.
“Blunt force trauma to the face, fall backwards and hit your head from height. And yes, five-foot-seven counts as ‘from height’, also a loss of consciousness.” He holds up a finger counting each reason, “And I don't care how brief of a loss of consciousness it was before you argue.” He shuts me up before I can argue that exact point.
“But—” I try
“But.” He mimics my newly nasal voice and sticks out his bottom lip, “But nothing. You know how quickly a bleed on the brain can kill you. Let me rule it out, then you can go home, and I can relax knowing you're not going to be back here in a few hours with an untreated sub cranial haematoma.”
If I thought he was overreacting I would argue more, only I used to nurse in ICU and I have unfortunately seen too many patients die of things just like that.
“Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest in a sign of protest anyway.
“Good,” Dan says as he stands. “I’ll let the housekeeper know how you like your tea, get settled in ‘cause you’re not going anywhere until neuro view those scans.”
Six hours, three cups of tea and a review from a very grumpy neuro consultant later I am discharged with a four-week sick note, a follow up with ENT about my confirmed broken nose and a leaflet about dos and don’ts after a head injury.
Kick your two-timing fiancée out of your house isn’t on either list so I spend the bus ride home making my own.
Do: Cut holes in all of the gym shorts that he wears without boxers, just big enough that his balls will hangout when he lunges but not big enough to notice as he puts them on.
Don’t: Throw out any of his meal prep that's in the freezer - this will come in handy when I can’t be bothered cooking.
Do: Message his mum the screenshots from Sarah.
Don’t: Message my mum the screenshots from Sarah - I’m already suffering, I do not need to bring my mother into the equation.
Do: Order copious amounts of glitter for next day delivery to sprinkle into every bag of his things.
Don’t: Consider letting him talk you out of throwing him out.
The last one comes as I am walking down my drive fishing my keys out of my pocket. I straighten the holly wreath that’s decorating the front door for Christmas, its festivity suddenly seeming very out of place with my current situation. Wow, this is going to be a shit Christmas.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Those breathing exercises would be easier with a working nose. Fine, in through the mouth, out through the mouth it is. My hands are shaking as I unlock the door, and it takes me a few attempts to get the key in the hole. I straighten my spine as I walk through the door, the picture of confidence.
If only I felt that.
I expect to walk in to Chris, on his knees, begging me to forgive him. I expect flowers and apology gifts and a 'how could you have been so stupid?’ conversation. What I don't expect is for the house to be empty.
I walk through the kitchen into the living room searching for him in disbelief. Where could he possibly be?
My keys break the silence with a loud bang as I drop them on the table by the sofa. I almost don't notice the note folded in half.
Emily
I pick it up with shaking hands and unfold it. I don’t think I breathe as I read.
Pretty sure this means we’re done. Text me a good time to pick the rest of my things up, Chris.
He just left.
My mind can’t quite contemplate the fact that he isn’t here.
I am trying to find a feeling.
But nothing. Numb.
He isn’t here and neither, it seems, am I.
I fall to the couch behind me; the note screwed into a small ball between my fingers. The TV is blank and my blurry reflection stares back at me.
I’m not sure how long I stay there.
***
Jack
“I don’t really fancy being on your TikTok live today, Aimee,” I huff.
“Too bad, ‘cause you promised,” my sister shouts from the bedroom she is getting ready in.
My shit day just got shittier and shittier. First, there was the accidental potential murder. Then, I missed a shot in a practically open goal. Then, I was subject to a dirty tackle that fucked my hip up enough to get me subbed off and benched for the majority of the match.
After all that, I had to attend the post-match interviews which, of course, were dog shit.
Everyone wanted to talk to ‘fallen star, Jack Cartwright.’ The consistent theme being whether or not I should even still be playing.
Having to listen to whispers about myself all evening has not done my self-confidence any favours.
‘Surely, a year to gel with the new team was enough…’ ‘Is he even cut out for the game anymore?’ ‘So different from who he was in the premier league.’ No fucking shit.
I hadn’t been through half the shit then that I’ve been through now.
Safe to say I am pissed off, deflated and considering locking myself in a cupboard and just allowing death to find me. I compromised by sprawling face first on my large settee, in the hopes that the plush cushions will swallow me whole and remove me from the world. Unsuccessful so far.
I risk a look at my Google alerts to see another article has been posted comparing twenty-two-year-old Jack to a ‘now past his prime’ twenty-nine-year-old Jack. I spin my body around, so I am face up and grab a cushion, squash it to my face and scream my frustration into it.
“You’re being dramatic.” I’m startled by my sisters face directly over mine as I launch the pillow across the room. Her bleach blonde hair is framing her features and tickling my forehead, I swipe it away irritated.
“Dramatic? They called me old!” I huff, sitting up and crossing both my legs and arms.
“You are old,” my sister says as her eyes travel up and down my body, assessing me. “Wow! Scratch that, you’re not old, you’re a fucking baby. Are you having an actual tantrum right now?”
“I’m eighteen months older than you, and you can talk about tantrums, ooh my new Chanel has dirt on it, waaaah!” I mimic her breakdown from a few years ago almost flawlessly.
She stomps over pointing a finger in my face. “That bag was four thousand pounds, and it is the first thing I bought myself when my business took off! You know that!”
“Why are you having a go at me about it, it was Kamilla that did it!” We both cringe at the mention of our oldest brother’s wife.
The ‘health guru’ that helps people ‘live their lives in their most authentic ways,’ regardless of the fact that she just follows any new fad trend she sees on the Internet.
I’m pretty sure you could get her to eat her own shit if you said it had ‘cleansing properties’.
Safe to say she’s not the most well liked one of my very traditional, working class, northern family.
Aimee plops herself next to me, the soft cushions of the sofa almost engulfing her small frame.
She’s the shortest of the Cartwright clan at 5 foot 2, taking after our mother, whereas myself and my two older brothers follow my dad with the height gene all topping a few inches over 6 foot.
At twenty-seven, she’s the closest sibling in age to me and we used to team up to take on our older brothers; we formed a bond in childhood that has never been broken, and I am still closest to her.
Despite our normal sibling bickering we are always on the same team.
We always had the same group of friends growing up and now, with her being a model and influencer, we still run in the same circles.
Aimee picks up my phone and scrolls through the Google page full of crappy things about me and sighs, “Well, it could be worse.”
“Yeah?” I lift an eyebrow at her, “Wanna enlighten me how?”
“Well, they could have been there for you warming up and pictured you KO-ing that woman.” She laughs.
I groan and fall back, my hands over my face, “Don’t remind me. I feel fucking awful about that!”
“As you should.” Aimee shrugs. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, you should probably check though, she might try and sell a story or something! God that headline would be horrible, ‘meet the woman that Jack Cartwright…’”
“STOOOOOOP! Please!” I groan and cut her off, “I can’t take any more negative press at the moment, no matter how fictional.”
“I’ll stop winding you up when you get ready for my live.” She smirks at me, and I roll my eyes.
“What are we even doing in it?” I ask.
“Literally, just going live and seeing what people ask.”
“People engage with that shit?”
“Ohhh, you have no idea,” she says, a knowing smile on her face. She stands and fluffs her waist length extensions out. I finally get a look at what she’s wearing, and I shoot up.
“What the fuck!?” I ask, “Am I meant to be naked in this too?” She rolls her eyes as I examine her.
Her massive fake boobs—that mum still tuts at—are barely covered in a white bra thing that I’m pretty sure in her lighting set up is going to end up see through.
Then it’s all bare skin down to her low rise shorts that barley cover her arse.
“That’s a fucking weird get up for a brother, sister live ‘chat’,” I air quote around the last word.
“Yes, well. My followers like it,” she says as she sashays her way back into the bedroom, that she has adopted as her own.
“I bet they fucking do,” I call after her.
I don’t like to think about it, but I know she has a huge following from her OnlyFans site.
I found out about it when one of the football lads basically threw their phone in my face with a screenshot of her with some dude’s cock in her mouth.
That was not a fun conversation when I got home.
I all but begged her to stop, telling her I’d give her money if she needed it.
But she set me straight telling me that she enjoys what she does.
I pretty much shut the conversation down there, I don’t care how close you are with your little sister, you don’t ever need to know how or if she enjoys sex.
I’m still terrified that one day I’ll be scrolling my favourite sites and one of her films will be there.
My phone pings again, another Google alert. I don’t even bother to look. Maybe doing a live with Aimee will help get my side of the story out.
Shit. What if one of them on there saw my warmup and asks about Emily? I groan, my head falling back on the couch cushions again. I need to find that woman and apologise.
I have seen her most on Saturdays. So, I just have to wait a week, find her and apologise. Job done.