“Yeah, all right,” Jonny said. He moved his hand up my back and squeezed my shoulder, offering me a warm smile.
“Thanks,” I said. “For this. For being here.”
“Anytime.”
I knew he meant it too.
Jonny grabbed a fresh pair of gloves and went back to cataloguing, while I peeled mine off and opened my phone to check my emails to see if there were any pissed-off messages from customers.
I’d sent out cancellation notices and refunds while sitting in Bacon’s van eating breakfast, typing with slightly greasy fingers and ranting at Bacon about how shit everything was. God love that bastard for listening to me. He’d even offered me the pub kitchen, which was a hugely sweet gesture because I knew how protective he was over that space.
I’d had to turn him down because I didn’t have anything to bake with, let alone package things in. My brain was fried too, and there was no way I could focus enough to make the amount of cookies I needed. They’d be shit quality too, and there was no way I was letting my brand be associated with anything less than perfection.
It was easier to send refunds along with a quick explanation of the reason, even if it would hurt to watch the money leave my account. I was trying not to think about how poor I was about to become.
Maybe Bacon would give me a job in the pub if I was desperate. I could pull pints easily enough. And I’d have no problem telling any of his regulars to piss off if they got too rowdy.
There was a message notification from Hunter and Bailey lingering at the top of my screen which I still hadn’t opened. I’d read it—or as much as I could without opening the message—and their offer of help sat strangely under my ribs. Like something had nudged its way under my skin and between my bones when I hadn’t been looking.
I couldn’t name what it was, only that it felt like an odd combination of uncomfortable and welcome. Cosy and burning.
The idea of accepting their help wasn’t pleasant, but I didn’t have it in me to reject it either. There was a small tug deep inside me that craved relief, the press of their hands against my skin, the sound of their laughter as they helped me scrub the floors and throw stuff in a skip, the touch of their lips against mine. I kept telling myself I didn’t need them, didn’t need anyone. That letting Hunter and Bailey into my life would bring me nothing but pain. That I’d be nothing but a footnote in their lives.
Butfuck, I wanted them. I wanted to need them so much it hurt, and that was more terrifying than anything I’d ever faced in my life. It felt like I was trying to carve my heart out with a blunt, rusty knife, without even the promise that they’d want it.
I’d never been good at relationships, too closed off and difficult for most people, too independent and reliant on myself. Too likely to wander off for a week without notice. Too stubborn. Too reluctant to admit when I needed something.
My flaws had made me unwilling to try because what was the point of opening myself up to someone who’d throw it all back at me within a month?
Easier to stick to casual sex to fulfil my physical needs and ignore my emotional ones. Men had been doing that for hundreds of years. Might as well keep up the tradition.
“Everything okay?” Jonny asked as he stacked the baking trays up in a neat pile. “Nobody’s pissed at you, are they?”
“No,” I said quickly, shoving my phone back into my pocket like it was burning my skin. “Just a few people saying thanks for letting them know, sending sympathy, that sort of thing.”
“Ah, empathy, no wonder you look like you’re having an allergic reaction,” Jonny teased.
“Fuck off,” I said, rolling my eyes at him and ignoring the way Bacon laughed. “You too, Bacon.”
“What? I didn’t say anything!”
“You laughed.”
“Excuse me for having a sense of humour,” Bacon said.
“One of us has to. The other one got all the looks.”
Bacon grinned. “Wrong again, Eggs. I got both.”
“Fuck off! What does that leave me with?”
“I dunno. I’d say charm, but you’ve fuck all of that too.”
“Thanks,” I said. This was why I loved Bacon and why we’d been such good friends for so long. We could take the piss out of each other until the cows came home, but when shit hit the fan, we’d be first on the scene—whether that was throwing the first punch or bringing a Maccies breakfast.
“You’ve got bad facial hair,” Bacon said with a shit-eating grin, deliberately searching around for something to annoy me and take my mind off the rest of my shit.
“Hey! It’s getting better!” I knew my attempt at a moustache and stubble was shit. After years on testosterone, my body still refused to get with the programme and grow proper facialhair, which was more irritating than it was dysphoric. Greenie lovingly said it looked like I’d stuck a dead hamster to my face. Wanker.
