Page 5 of You are the Reason

You can’t just sit around home all day waiting for the call,I think to myself. I have already taken this entire week off work. Everyone thought it was because I wanted to let loose for my birthday and I didn’t have the heart to break it to them. I’m not the social butterfly they assume I am. I go to work, I catch up with Jesse, Tanner brings me coffee two or three mornings a week and that’s about as exciting as my life gets.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I look over myself. I got up early this morning, showered, washed and blow-dried my hair, and even did my makeup. After the emotional rollercoaster I had felt yesterday, I needed to feel back in control of things; my appearance being the easiest place to start. My deep auburn brown hair is now sitting below my breasts, well overdue for a trim and my curves are on full display; my favourite high-waisted jeans, hugging all the right places.

Deciding that I look and feel too good to just wait around, I grab a coat, my handbag and head out. Outside the sun is shining, but you can see from the cars parked along Cardigan Avenue that the frost has only just melted off their windscreens. Dew is dripping from the trees on the sidewalk and everyone still has their extra layer on. It is Melbourne weather after all, you have to layer all year round.

I wrap my arms around myself to keep the cool breeze from sweeping up under my outer layers. It’s only a two-block walk from my apartment to a cosy little cafe that makes the BEST raspberry white chocolate muffins. This time of year they always have the fireplace lit and due to the cold, not too many people visit, which makes it my go-to. It’s hard to find even a semi-quiet spot in the hustle and bustle of the city.

The bell on the door chimes as I enter and a welcoming warmth soothes my chilled skin. Raw exposed brick lines the cafe walls, the lighting warm like your bedside lamp and vintage couches arch around the fireplace, this space screams comfort and reminds me of back home.

I cringe at the thought ofhome,a feeling I seem to be always chasing. I envy those who have parents still living in their childhood home. I often wonder what it would feel like to be able to walk back through the front door one more time. To stand in a house with memories, with laughter stained onto the walls. A house where you experienced the joy of Christmas morning. A childhood bedroom, a window which you climbed out of, walls that muffled the sounds of your first broken heart.Home.

Betty glances up over the coffee machine. “Kinsley, my dear,” she exclaims.

“Morning, Mrs Campbell.” I offer her a genuine smile, quickly closing the door on my broken inner child.

“Aren’t you looking delightful today? Take a seat over near the fireplace and keep warm. I’ll get your usual together for you.”

I nod and mouth a silent thank you, making my way to the couches near the fireplace. Betty Campbell had taken over running this cafe from her mother when she was my age, she would be in her fifties now. Thirty-odd years on her feet, with a smile on her face, a smile which never seems forced;how nice would that be?She knows all the regular customers’ names and memorises our orders. That’s probably another reason it feels homely here, the intimate hospitality of a small country town.

Moments later she places a latte and a muffin on the coffee table before me, smiles, then rushes off to serve the couple who have wandered in. Reaching into my handbag I pull out the book I’m currently reading and get comfortable. This right here, is my idea of the perfect day.

An unfamiliar voice pulls me out of my book trance. “Do you mind?” she asks, gesturing to the empty space on the couch beside me.

“Oh, uh — no of course not. Please, go ahead.” I try to keep my facial expressions calm and intact, hiding the fact that small talk makes me cringe. I don’t have any girlfriends, other than those at work and even then, I don’t spend time with them outside of ‘work things’. So naturally, I’m dreading the possibility of ‘girlie talk’.

It’s not that I don’t want to have girlfriends, I just haven’t ever had one; not a real one anyway. What do I talk to her about? The little voice in my head laughs at me,she isn’t an alien Kins.

Growing up with an older brother, I was always surrounded by boys. Then once Kyle passed away, Jesse stepped into the protective older brother and best friend role. We did everything together. Sure, I had other people come and go, but they weren’t the type of friends you had sleepovers with or talked to about your schoolyard crush.

Regardless, I slip a smile onto my face.I can do this.

“What are you reading?” she asks, eyeing my book as I finish off my muffin.

I pass my book over to her. “It’s a contemporary romance by a small indie author who I love. Do you read too?”

She laughs and proceeds to pull an identical book out of her handbag. “I do.” We lock eyes and my smile turns genuine, maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

We fall into a natural conversation and all the tension I was feeling slips away. The girl who is now sitting next to me rather than on the other end of the couch, has short black hair, in one of those wavy bob styles; it’s stunning. I learn a lot about her in the time we are chatting. We did the ‘get to know you’ small talk before talking about books.

Her name is Sophie, she’s twenty-two, has always been a city girl and works at the Library in the same suburb Jesse lives in. I make a mental note of this, maybe I could set them up …

I’m about to ask her if she wants another drink before my phone rings. Looking down at the unknown caller flashing on my screen I internally curse myself. I had forgotten all about the fact I was waiting for a phone call. I jump up and toss a twenty-dollar note on the coffee table.

“I’ve got to take this, I’m so sorry,” I say frantically. “Tell Mrs Campbell to put the change in the tip jar for me would you?”

Before she can even respond I answer the phone and run out the door.This is why you don’t have friends Kinsley, you scare them away.Walking in the direction of home, I answer the phone. “Hello, Kinsley speaking.”

“Miss Fallon, my name is George Watson. It’s come to my attention that you have been in contact with a private investigator as of late.”

I wait for him to continue, but the line falls silent.

“Y-yes, I have,” I say, struggling to understand who this man is.

“It’s in your best interest to stop looking for answers. Call off Investigator Stanley and try to move forward.” His voice is cold and heartless.

A bitter laugh escapes me and I slap my hand over my mouth. “My best interest?” I question him. “To justmove forward?”I’m starting to let my crazy show and that’s not a good sign.

Justmove forwardfrom the death of my parents, my brother? Who is this man? My chest tightens and my heart rate begins to pick up, robotically I’m placing one foot in front of the other, my body trying its best to get me home before my mind takes over.

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