Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 133127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
I nod as I drag my hands down my face. “Shit, what a fucking nightmare. It’s like a crime show or something.”
Rourke links his arm with mine. “Welcome back, bitch.”
I bubble up a giggle. “I swear, the universe is trying to give me an ulcer.”
Rourke winks. “I’ve got two.”
Brock
I sit at the restaurant and wait for my meal. I couldn’t be bothered to cook tonight. In fact, I can’t be bothered to do anything lately.
I glance up and see a guy and his girlfriend laughing at the bar, and my stomach twists with jealousy.
She’s reading out the menu and laughing while he is standing there holding one of her hands, his other hand on her behind.
They look happy… in love.
I frown as I watch them, and a million memories of Tully wash over me.
I wish I’d never met her, because then I wouldn’t know what I was missing by not having her by my side.
It’s as if the whole world has been tainted, all because now I know how the other half live.
A life that never interested me before happens to be the only one I want now.
To feel settled and calm with love and laughter.
To feel what I had with Tully. But it will never be the same now because the girl will never be Tully.
Our ship has sailed.
Fuck this, I’m going home. I stand just as the waitress arrives at my table with my dinner.
“Oh.” She frowns as she sees me standing to leave. “Your dinner is here.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’m not just feeling it anymore. You eat it.” I turn, making my way of the door and out to my car.
I don’t even know who I am anymore.
Tully
The rain is falling heavily as I sit inside my car. I’m parked outside Brock’s house, peering across the street. It’s dusk now. I need to talk to him, if for no other reason than to apologise for how I treated him.
I frown as I think back to the day when I ended it between us in London. I was so sure I was doing the right thing at the time.
But hindsight is the worst form of torture.
If only, the worst words you can whisper to yourself.
I’ve been back in Australia for a week and I have wanted to call him every day, but I didn’t know what to say.
What can I possibly say now that will make what I did okay and take away the pain from us?
I never thought I would make huge, life changing mistakes at this age. I thought I would have my shit well and truly together by now. Know exactly what I’m doing and with who.
What a joke. I had the love of my life and I threw him away with no regard for anything but Simon. And I don’t regret being there for Simon, I just wish I thought things through a lot more clearly before I followed through with it.
The rain is really coming down when his black Range Rover pulls into the driveway. I close my eyes.
Here we go…
I’ve been sick with nerves all day worrying about how tonight will go.
Brock gets out of the car, soon seeing me sitting in mine. He turns towards me and stares, not looking away, despite the rain.
I stare back and smile softly. Then, without showing any emotion, he turns and walks inside without acknowledging me at all, the door slamming shut behind him.
My eyes fill with tears. There’s my answer.
My chest shakes, rising high as I try to hold back my impending sobs of despair. Brock hates me…. the sound of the rain is loud in my car and the windshield is fogging up as I sit alone in the darkness.
What have I done?
For fifteen minutes, I sit in my car trying to work out a plan of action, trying to work out what the hell I can do to make this better. But, I’ve got nothing… nothing except this overwhelming sense of dread. I need to talk to him. I need to try and explain everything. I need to make him see my point of view.
I get out of my car and run across the road in the rain. It’s pouring down now and I’m saturated. I bang the big brass knocker on his door.
Bang, bang, bang.
I wait.
Please answer, please answer.
Bang, bang, bang.
“Brock!” I call. “I know you’re in there,” I cry, trying to make myself heard over the sound of the loud rain.
I pound on the door with my fist.
“Brock!” I cry. “Open the door. Please,” I beg. “I need to talk to you.”
But the door stays shut, and I hear the lock click from the other side. He’s locked it.
My heart drops.
I screw up my face and I begin to cry uncontrollably. He doesn’t even want to speak to me.
I’m standing here in a storm from hell and he doesn’t even want to talk to me.