Page 1 of Because of Us

MADISON

Alone. For the first time in my life, I’m going to be alone.

Tears stream down my face as I’m forced to say goodbye to the only person I could ever truly rely on. Hidden in this small corner of the library, no one can see my meltdown, but it’s only a matter of time before someone strolls past.

“I thought you weren’t leaving until next month?”

Cassidy makes a popping sound with her mouth. The sound reverberates through the phone line, clicking painfully in my ear.

“So did I.” She sighs. “Blake’s work wants him to start earlier.”

“Can he not go now, and you can go later?”

“I wish I could, but he is driving the car. I can’t let him tackle the drive alone, it’s too far.”

I can’t help but feel hurt. The drive to Sydney isn’tthatfar. I wanted my sister to see me off on my first official day here at Melbourne University. Now she won’t be able to, I’m reminded of why I don’t trust easily.

People have a way of letting me down.

“I have to go.” Cassidy’s voice is tender, but I hear it start to crack. “I’ll be at dad’s lunch tomorrow, at least.”

Hanging up the phone, I let the tears fall.

I forgot we had planned lunch with our father. We don’t do it as often as we probably should, but it’s always so draining when we do. Judgement swirls in his eyes when he asks if I’m seeing someone. It bores into me until my insides turn to stone under the crushing weight of his expectations. Disappointment laces his words every time I tell him that no, I don’t think I’ll see the guy from last weekend again.

He always wants more from me. Expects more from me. He has never understood that I’m not like Cassidy, and I doubt he will start now. I don’t want to settle down. I don’t want to put that much trust in another person. I don’t think I can. My mother’s swift departure to a new man—a new family—when I was barely a teenager sliced a wound too wide, too deep.

Maybe I could feign illness just so I won’t have to put up with his incessant questions. I would, if tomorrow’s lunch wasn’t also the last time I’ll see my sister before she leaves.

She always helps to deflect the questions, turning the attention back on herself and her perfect life. Leaving me to calm the storm in my mind and refocus my thoughts.

One more lunch. That’s all I have left with my sister before she leaves me to deal with our father alone. It’s not his fault, I’m sure it’s only natural for a father to want the best for his daughters. I know he means well, but it’s exhausting.

Throwing my phone back in my bag, I search for a tissue. I hate that I’m so worked up over this. Families move around all the time, it’s not like Cass is leaving forever. Not like our mother did. Not like all the boys I’ve ever loved did.

I can’t help comparing her to them though.

Finding plenty of hair ties, but no tissue, I give up the search through my bag and tug at the sleeves of my cotton dress. The grey fabric goes dark as I reach under my glasses to wipe at my tears.

Bit by bit, I start to compose myself. When my breaths steady, I open the book in my lap. On any other day my nose would be deep inside a fluffy romance novel. Stephen King’s memoir looks about as far from that as possible. But it was listed as recommended reading for the Creative Non-Fiction class I added to my schedule and, me being me, I have to read it.

I bought all the other books on the list. After two years of trying, and failing, to become a successful writer, I finally realised I needed to learn more about the craft. Somehow, my meagre attempts at writing best-selling novels caught the attention of faculty and I was offered a creative writing scholarship. There are no promises that anything they can teach me will guarantee success, but this is my last chance to achieve my dream. If I don’t find success as an author soon, I’ll need to find some other way to support myself. I can’t live off my barista salary forever.

The problem is that more than half of the recommended texts have such outdated advice that I want to tear them up and use them for craft purposes. Maybe fold all the pages to spell out a word. At least then they could look pretty, even if they aren’t useful.On Writingwas added at the last minute, along with the change in professor. With such little notice, I decided to try borrowing it to see if it was worth actually buying this one.

Flicking through the pages, I’m notreallypaying attention. I know I’ll have to read it again later. Some time when I’m not feeling so brain dead. When the words don’t jumble around so much, and the sentences make sense. When I can focus on what I’m reading instead of hyper-fixating on the emotion that is drowning me. For now, though, reading is a mild distraction from the pain in my chest. This is what Cassidy was warning me about, all those years ago, and every year since.

“I love you sissy,” she used to say, “but I can’t be your only friend. You have to trust other people.”

It was easy for her to say. She had her best friend. Her and Callum were joined at the hip … until they weren’t. But even then, she always managed to find her place with the people she works with. And then she met Blake, and everything just clicked for her.

I wish I could have that, but every time I let someone in, they let me down. It started with my mother and then everyone else seemed to follow suit. No one gets me the way Cassidy does. I don’t think anybody ever will.

Pushing myself to stand, I tuck my hair behind my ears and push my shoulders back.

The library is quiet as I meander my way back to the entrance, still trying to focus on the words I’m reading instead of my feelings. Aisles of bookshelves in between empty rows wave me goodbye as I glance up from the book. Everyone has left and a hint of panic hits me. I scurry between the shelves towards the exit, panic fuelling my legs as I worry they might have closed the library. The corner where I had sat to cry was at the furthest end of the space, away from the librarian’s desk and the countless communal desks. They easily could have missed me on a final sweep. Approaching the open space near the entrance I rush my way around the corner at the end of the aisle.

The book, still open under my nose, hits my face. It squishes my glasses into the bridge of my nose. The force of the collision throws me to the ground, and I land firmly on my ass. My dress is bunched around my waist, and the sting from my nose threatens to make my eyes well up all over again.

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