Page 12 of The F*ck-It List

Still nothing.

“She has weird, colourful friends.”

Ruth doesn’t even blink.

“She says ‘awesome.’”

I’m flagging.

“She bought my damn shop!” My voice rises and I feel all the frustration I’ve been feeling for months—fuck it,years—rise to the surface. I know I’m being unfair to Bea. I know thisisn’t her fault. I’m just so fucking tired of losing. Of not being enough, nothavingenough to get what I want.

“August,” Ruth says, her voice firmer now whilst staying kind. It’s the voice I’d expect of my mother. “You must move on. We all knew what you wanted, and we all wanted it for you, but it didn’t work out. These things happen and you have to change the plan and adapt, August. Compromise.”

I grumble a little, but she clicks her fingers at me, and I instantly sag like a child being told off.

“The world isn’t against you August, and neither is this poor girl, please don’t dwell. You’ll find a way to get your shop, I know you will.”

I lean my forearms on the counter across from Ruth and pout a little. Her amusement twitches at her painted lips and I huff.

“How old is she?” Ruth asks out of nowhere.

I shrug because I certainly hadn’t asked. “My age I guess, maybe a little younger.”

“Hmm.” She sips her drink. “Is she pretty?”

For some reason my face heats and my thoughts turn to the little bead of sweat that disappeared between her tits, the scrap of pink fabric I became more intimately involved with than I should ever have had to, and the bright smile that lit up the whole goddam village. I push myself off the counter to a stand and clear my throat. Before I can actually answer her, Ruth makes a small sound of interest.

“I see,” she says.

I make a show of my displeasure. “Oh, don’t start with that.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“Ruth,” I warn.

“Ooh, while you’re here, could you bleed the radiators upstairs?” She blinks up at me innocently.

I huff out a breath. “I’ve got it.”

I had two other jobs after Ruth’s, neither of them quite as intrusive as she was, but both of them wanted to know about the newbie. I gave them as little as I could but still people are all excited about the prospect of a new coffee shop. I don’t know why, it’s all overpriced shit you can do at home.

Port Doone is an old village, meaning most of the houses were built before the automobile was a thing, great for aesthetics, piss poor for parking. For the last job, I had to park up the hill past the church and walk to Greg and Melinda’s place to see if I could fix their leaky shower without them having to call a plumber out from the next big town. I could.

Walking back to my truck, I pass the church walls and hear a voice from the other side. A familiar voice. A voice that shouldnotbe where it is at two o’clock in the afternoon. I stop walking, toolbox in hand, and tip my head back to the sky, letting out a silent sigh as I request strength from the heavens because I could really do without this. But it’s got to be done.

On quiet feet, I head over to the small gate leading into the churchyard and push it open. It creaks slightly but the laughter coming from beyond the trees surrounding the grounds tells me they haven’t heard me. When I round the corner, I see my nephew, Connor, sat on a bench, his friend Oliver next to him. They’re both on their phones and with the furious way they’re tapping away, I’m guessing they’re playing some dipshit game. Neither of them notices me, so I stand and watch them for a moment while they laugh and try to knock each other’s phones from their hands. Connor spots me first, his head snapping up and his smile dropping immediately.

“Oh shit.”

Oliver jerks his head up to see what’s got his friend stopping their fun. He sheepishly slips his phone into his trouser pocket and clasps his hands between his knees, hiking his shoulders up to his ears and refusing to meet my eye. Connor slumps and rolls his eyes, pissed he’s been busted.

“Why aren’t you in school?” I ask, trying to keep my tone calm.

Connor shrugs with all the disinterest of a sullen teenager. “Free period.”

I make sure my face tells him I know it’s not true before my voice does. “You don’t get free periods until next year. Nice try.”

He rolls his eyes again, making it look like his brown irises disappear beneath the flop of light brown hair covering his brows. “It’s just Chemistry we’re missing,” he argues. “I don’t think anyone expects us to be scientists when we leave school.”