Page 6 of Not Falling for the Forward
Do: Message his mum the screenshots from Sarah.
Don’t: Messagemymum the screenshots from Sarah - I’m already suffering, I do not need to bring my mother into the equation.
Do: Order copious amounts of glitter for next day delivery to sprinkle into every bag of his things.
Don’t: Consider letting him talk you out of throwing him out.
The last one comes as I am walking down my drive fishing my keys out of my pocket.I straighten the holly wreath that’s decorating the front door for Christmas, its festivity suddenly seeming very out of place with my current situation.Wow, this is going to be a shit Christmas.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Those breathing exercises would be easier with a working nose. Fine, in through the mouth, out through the mouth it is.My hands are shaking as I unlock the door, and it takes me a few attempts to get the key in the hole.I straighten my spine as I walk through the door, the picture of confidence.
If only I felt that.
I expect to walk in to Chris, on his knees, begging me to forgive him. I expect flowers and apology gifts and a 'how could you have been so stupid?’ conversation.What I don't expect is for the house to be empty.
I walk through the kitchen into the living room searching for him in disbelief.Where could he possibly be?
My keys break the silence with a loud bang as I drop them on the table by the sofa.I almost don't notice the note folded in half.
Emily
I pick it up with shaking hands and unfold it. I don’t think I breathe as I read.
Pretty sure this means we’re done. Text me a good time to pick the rest of my things up, Chris.
He just left.
My mind can’t quite contemplate the fact that he isn’t here.
I am trying to find a feeling.
But nothing. Numb.
He isn’t here and neither, it seems, am I.
I fall to the couch behind me; the note screwed into a small ball between my fingers. The TV is blank and my blurry reflection stares back at me.
I’m not sure how long I stay there.
***
Jack
“I don’t really fancy being on yourTikToklive today, Aimee,” I huff.
“Too bad, ‘cause you promised,” my sister shouts from the bedroom she is getting ready in.
My shit day just got shittier and shittier. First, there was the accidental potential murder. Then, I missed a shot in a practically open goal.Then, I was subject to a dirty tackle that fucked my hip up enough to get me subbed off and benched for the majority of the match.
After all that, I had to attend the post-match interviews which, of course, were dog shit. Everyone wanted to talk to ‘fallen star, Jack Cartwright.’ The consistent theme being whether or not I should even still be playing. Having to listen to whispers about myself all evening has not done my self-confidence any favours. ‘Surely, a year to gel with the new team was enough…’ ‘Is he even cut out for the game anymore?’ ‘So different from who he was in the premier league.’No fucking shit. I hadn’t been through half the shit then that I’ve been through now.
Safe to say I am pissed off, deflated and considering locking myself in a cupboard and just allowing death to find me. I compromised by sprawling face first on my large settee, in the hopes that the plush cushions will swallow me whole and remove me from the world. Unsuccessful so far.
I risk a look at my Google alerts to see another article has been posted comparing twenty-two-year-old Jack to a ‘now past his prime’ twenty-nine-year-old Jack. I spin my body around, so I am face up and grab a cushion, squash it to my face and scream my frustration into it.
“You’re being dramatic.” I’m startled by my sisters face directly over mine as I launch the pillow across the room. Her bleach blonde hair is framing her features and tickling my forehead, I swipe it away irritated.
