Page 3 of Not Falling for the Forward
White-hot fire boils inside of me. What the fuck is wrong with people? Why did she send that in sixteen individual messages? Why are people so obsessed with sending every single thought in a different message? What is wrong with writing a paragraph? ‘Hey, just to let you know, your fiancé is a scumbag who I have been fucking since August. We met at work.’ Done. One message. Sixteen is ridiculous.Sixteen!
I might be focusing on the wrong thing, here.
I force another raging breath in through my nose and push it out my mouth.
Ok, Emily. What do we know? Facts.
Chris—my Fiancé, not boyfriend—and Sarah—from his work—have been fucking. For months. Chris lied about being single, apparently, and he's currently in my house following a failed attempt at boning his co-worker.
Adrenaline floods my system; my heart starts to pound, trying to escape my ribcage and my breaths come out short and shallow. I’m going to hyperventilate if I don’t get that under control. I’m both hot and cold but I’m also sweating, is that even a thing?
Shit, am I doubly sweaty? I hope not.
I fan my elbows out to try and circulate some air to my increasingly dampening pits as I try to rip my gaze away from the messages. I want to look at anything else. But my eyes betray me, and I only seem tobe able to read them. Over and over again. Trying to find something, anything in them that shows that they might not be true.
Because this is a joke, right? A sick, vile joke. Someone will pop up soon and yell ‘punked,’ even though that show was scrapped years ago. Maybe it's making a comeback? Or this could be a really cruel marketing technique for my fake brand collab?
But no, what would they be marketing? A paragraph creating processor that condenses all your life shattering news into one easy to read message?
I lock my phone and stare at my reflection on the blank screen. My already fair skin has a ghostly tint to it now making my freckles stand out even more than normal. My green eyes are bright, in the way they always are just before tears fall, and somehow, I’m moving rapidly from side to side. Oh, no. That's my hands. They're shaking.
My eyes start to sting as more water gathers behind them. Oh god, it’s going to happen. I cannot cry right now, it would be so unprofessional. Not to mention embarrassing! I will not cry in public.
I take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I heard once that it helps regulate your nervous system. My nerves are well and truly unregulated right now.
“Everything okay, Emily?” I hear Gemma shout from the bottom seats of the stands where I am supposed to be sat. Outside the first aid room where I am supposed to be on duty volunteering as crowd first aid. Not wandering aimlessly pitch side glued to my phone.I want to scream that no, everything is not okay, but instead I give a small wave and nod in her direction. It must not have been convincing because she stands, a crease of concern between her brows. I appear to have drifted behind the goal so she’s far enough away to give me time to try and calm my racing heart. If I don’t, I’ll cry as soon as she is withintouching distance. She’ll put her hand on my arm and give me one of her sympathetic smiles and it will ruin me.
Eight years.
How could he throw away eight fucking years?
A burst of rage induced bravery has me unlocking my phone and re-reading the messages, even though I can barely see them through the red glaze over my eyes. I take a screenshot and send it to Chris. I need to know if it’s true. Almost as soon as the ticks appear to say my message is delivered, they turn blue, indicating he has read it. Three dots to say he is typing his reply appear at bottom of the message app.
I can’t wait to see what the prick has to say for himself.
I stomp up and down in a small circle next to the goal, wittering under my breath about ‘cheating bastards’. I am fully focused on my phone, completely homed in on those little dots waiting for them to turn into a message.
I don’t register the, “Heads up!” shout from one of the players warming up on the pitch.
I hear Gemma scream my name and I look up just in time for my gaze to meet the ball that’s flying directly for my face.
Everything goes black.
***
Jack
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. I’ve just killed a woman.
I run up to the lady that is now sprawled on the floor behind the goal that I just missed. She’s flat out, stone cold.
“I’m so sorry!” I plead to the older, larger, woman that’s kneeling over her.
She ignores me and shakes the unconscious brunette on the shoulder. “Emily, darling, can you open your eyes for me?” The younger woman, Emily, groans and one of her now bruising eyes slowly opens as she gazes, unfocused at the older woman.
“Is she going to be okay?” I ask panicked, leaning over the older lady’s shoulder to get a good look at the rest of Emily. There is blood coming from her nose but, thankfully it doesn’t look like there is any coming from anywhere else.
God, she went down like a sack of potatoes!
