Pi’s bought a Stamford Street—a.k.a. value brand—margherita for him, and a Taste the Difference stone baked Hawaiian for me. Why would he get me the fancy one and a shit one for himself? It’s not like he can’t afford to buy two nice pizzas. Also, why did he even bring scran if his plan was always to fuck me and then fuck off?
And great, now I’m overthinking his pizza purchases and . . . oh no, creeping out into the hall to find his phone.
It was a text from Georgia. I see the photo of her next to the WhatsApp logo.
When can I come and get my stuff?
That’s all it says. I breathe out a sigh of relief. Why am I being so fucking weird about this?
The shower clunks again as Pi switches the water off. I attempt to tuck his phone back into his shorts pocket, but I panic and end up accidentally throwing it at the herringbone tiles. The sound echoes around the hallway. Seconds later, my bedroom door creaks open and Pi’s at the top of the stairs in just a towel. Wet hair drips onto his shoulders.
“Uh . . .” I stand upright, hoping that my lock’s bulk hides the phone from his view, but it’s now lying face down four feet away from his shorts.
“Was that George?”
“Yeah.” No point denying it, he knows I’ve been snooping.
Pi sighs, but he doesn’t ask what his ex wants. “Toss my clothes up, would ya?”
I gather his things, ball them together, and launch them up the stairs. Then I head to the kitchen, crack open the big window as wide as it’ll go, stick my sweaty face outside, and attempt to slow my thunderous, traitorous heartbeat.
When Pi’s footsteps pad down the stairs, I extract my face from the May evening. He takes a while before he joins me in the kitchen, and I know he’s replying to that message.
“Wasson?” I say as he walks through the archway.
Pi looks up from his phone. It’s a few seconds before he registers that I’ve spoken. “God, I hate to ask this, but is it alright if Trekkie and I stay over tonight? George wants to pick up all her shit, and I’d rather not be around when she turns up.”
“Of course.” I try not to sound too intensely and insensitively happy about the situation. “What time is she getting there?”
“I’ll tell her any time from eight,” he says, typing on his phone. “That gives me enough time to get the dog and grab some overnight bits.”
The oven timer pings.
“You want pizza first?” I ask.
He shrugs, shakes his head. “I’m not really hungry.”
I eat all of my pizza and half of his while he drives back to his house, and damn, I think all of Pi’s overthinking has rubbed off on me.
Chapter 3
Aiden
Monday 3rd May 2027
Georgia’s already there when I pull up to our house. Correction, my house. She had never officially moved in, and it’s my name on the deeds. I’m the one who pays the mortgage and the council tax and the gas and electricity andwater bills. She doesn’t even contribute towards the Wi-Fi. So yeah, my house.
She’s sitting at the breakfast counter scrolling on her phone, obviously killing time until I arrived. It’s not an unusual spot to find her, but she’s without her standard cup of tea, or bowl of dry Frosties, or bag of Peanut M&M’s, and it just feels . . . awry.
It’s like missing the last step on the staircase, or realising you’ve walked into the wrong screen at the cinema, or waiting for your parents to come watch your year four rugby match, but knowing in your heart of hearts they’ll never show up.
On the dining table and the kitchen floor behind her sit five or six empty boxes. Georgia doesn’t own any furniture, just a few bits and bobs here and there. Toiletries, some food items, her special sloth mug, a few books, a couple of guitars, half a wardrobe full of clothes. It shouldn’t take her too long to pack up, but I don’t want to hang around while she does it.
The minute I walk into the kitchen, Trekkie leaps up from his bed, barking and wagging his tail with the intention of demolishing everything at shin height.
“I said any time after eight,” I yell over my whippet’s cacophonous welcome. I wrap my arms around him, and he flops to the ground at my feet like someone aimed a hairdryer at a snowman.
Georgia’s eyes flit above my head, to the clock mounted on the wall behind me, then they rake over my still damp hair and the wet patches on the shoulders of my T-shirt.
