Page 6 of Actually Yours

With a burst of energy that would have seemed impossible to find a mere thirty seconds ago, I wrench the note off my door,crumple it in my hand, throw it down on the floor and using my foot—the bleeding one—I stomp on it.

“How dare he!?”

My angry words bounce off the walls in the silent corridor and when no answers are forthcoming, I use my phone to order an Uber (thank you, 4G) and run—nosprint—back down the three flights of stairs, to wait for it. It may be one o’clock in the morning, and this may be an overreaction, but this is not happening. Not today.

The car I ordered has barely screeched to a halt when I vault inside, telling the driver to step on it. He shoots me a startled glance in his rear-view mirror before doing as I ask and taking off at high speed. The force of this pins me back against the back of my seat and it’s only after I’ve found my balance again that I’m able to look at the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. It’s from my ex-boyfriend Robby. The ex-boyfriend who dumped me unceremoniously six months ago and then disappeared without a trace. And the note has the nerve to say:

“I miss you and I want you back.”

I. Don’t. Think. So!

Oh Robby, you’re in for a world of pain. And I’m so in the right mood to inflict it on you.

CHAPTER 2

Amelia

“ROBBY!” I scream, banging my fist on the hard wooden door loud enough to wake the dead. But not Robby, apparently. After my Uber driver—turned would-be therapist who listened to me rant for the entirety of our fifteen-minute journey together—dropped me at the front door of the note-writing-douche-bag, I’ve been standing here for what feels like hours (probably less than two minutes) waiting for my ex-boyfriend, Robby the Ridiculous, to open the door. With absolutely zero luck. It’s like he’s not even home.

“I know you’re in there!” I continue to scream at the un-answering timber door in front of me. “I’m not leaving, so you’ll just have to open up and face me.”

My heart races and a trail of sweat trickles down my back even though the middle-of-the-night air around me is verging on icy cold. I’m in such a state that my anger is keeping me warm, even as my toes are getting frostbite.I really should have stopped to put on sneakers before charging out into the dead of night, I think as I ponder my sore, sorry bare feet.

“Robby!” I give the door one more, most likely futile, thump, before stepping back to assess the situation. My loser-ex-boyfriend had left an impassioned note on my door after six months of silence and then doesn’t even have the courtesy to be home when I want—noneed—to respond!

“Amelia?”

The deep baritone of a man’s—his—voice startles me and I stumble backwards, away from the house I’d just been desperate to get into.

“Is that you?”

I scan the man standing in front of me, taking in his dishevelled appearance (pyjama pants only, and a large expanse of bare, bronzed chest), messy jet-black hair, square jawline covered in what looks like designer stubble but is unlikely to be anything but natural, and tired emerald green eyes.Oh boy, those eyes.

“Where is he?” I go on the offence, demanding answers while willing myself to not take off running. “I know he’s in there!”

The half-naked man in front of me gives me what can only be described as a look of pure bewilderment, before reaching up and putting on his glasses.God save me from this man in glasses.

“Robby? You’re here for Robby?”

I push past him, my shoulder bumping his biceps as I flounce into the house, determined to complete my mission. My mission to find Robby and then kick him in the butt for being a gigantic jerk.

“Who else would I be here for?”

I turn to see him staring at me, pale like he’d seen a ghost.

“But, he’s not here.”

The air deflates from my lungs and I only just hold myself back from slumping to the ground.He’s not here.

I rally. “Don’t you cover for him, Jake Johnson. I know he lives here.”

My breathing speeds up and the anger that only a moment ago had been downgraded to simmering is now back to boiling again. If I don’t get to unleash it on somebody soon, I’m going to explode.

“He does live here,” Jake, Robby’s older brother and roommate, tells me, his voice slow and deliberate. Like he’s explaining the laws of physics to a six-year-old. “But he isn’t herenow.”

For reasons I will examine later, I decide not to believe him. “Robby?” I take off down the hallway away from the open plan living room and kitchen area, towards where I know his bedroom is. “Get your sorry butt out here!”

“Seriously, Amelia.” Jake’s voice is right behind me, following so close I can feel the heat from his body on my back. And for some strange reason, I want to stop and sink into it. “He just left. He’s taken his new girlfriend and gone on tour with the band.”

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