Page 16 of The F*ck-It List

“I absolutely know you’ll be fine, you’re a kickass boss-bitch with a stunning rack and a master’s degree, you’ll bemorethan fine.”

I snort. “The rack does come in handy.”

“I just know if something like that happens again and you’re unable to sneak off to a quiet corner, you need someone who knows what it is and to sit with you.”

I nod, knowing they’re probably right but hating the idea of it happening again around people I hardly know. “I was kind of hoping getting out of the city would mean I wouldn’t be having attacks anymore.”

“That’s not how mental health works, babe. There’s no magic switch that just makes the bad stuff go away. But if you have good people in your corner, they can help bring the good stuff to the front.”

“I love you,” I say, my eyes stinging.

“Love you too, Bea. And you’re going to rock this shit, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I sigh, leaning my head back on the headboard and closing my eyes. “I know.”

five

No. 21: Own a vibrator

Bea

It’s a teary goodbye at the curb as Cas’s taxi waits to take them to the closest town, more than half an hour away, so they can catch the three-hour train back to London. It all seems so far now they’ve actually gone. Wiping my eyes as I head into the cottage, I stop short when I see a huge gift basket sat on my kitchen counter. I bark out a surprised little laugh, remembering Cas running back inside to ‘grab their jumper’ as I waited by the cab. They must have pulled this from wherever they were hiding it and left it for me. The giant basket is brimming with goods and wrapped in cellophane, tied up with a pink and yellow bow.

When I get closer, I choke on my own saliva when I see what’s in my surprise. At first glance there’s at least two dildos, a selection of buttplugs in varying sizes, and a small bullet vibrator. The silicone fruit confuses me slightly until I Google the brand on the packaging and I learn Cas has also blessed me with a clit sucker. Oh, mother mercy. My cheeks heat even though there’s no one here to witness my embarrassment. I’m not a prude. I can talk about sex, I enjoy sex…when it’s good, but standing face to face with so much sex wrapped in pretty packaging is a little much for ten o’clock in the morning.

I untie the bow and pull the cellophane away to inspect my goodies and rifle through the basket that seems to have the same magical properties as Mary Poppins’s handbag. There’s so much here and everything has a little post-it on with a note from Cas.

Start with the smallest size.

Use lube.

Setting three is my favourite.

To cross off number 23.

There are other things as well: a box of the hair dye I used to turn my natural blonde to powder pink, my favourite chocolate truffles, a new mug in bright pink and yellow checks, and a plushie. The plushie is of the most adorable penis I’ve ever seen, short and stout in a pinkish skin-tone colour and a smiling face with closed eyes and little love heart shaped cheek blushes. It’s my favourite thing ever and I pluck him from the basket to hug him close.

This is your emotional support peen for when you start having stupid thoughts like ‘I need a man’ and I can’t be there to slap it out of you. You got this, Honey Bea.

Love you.

C x

The peen, whoI have immediately named Pedro—the peen every woman deserves—is soft and snuggly and I squeeze him tight as I sniff away the last of my sadness. Cas is right, they’re only a phone call away and if I call them, I know they’ll be here in a few hours if it’s what I need. We had a minor setback yesterday, an inconvenience more than anything, but it’s not the end of the world. We’re going to rock this shit. Me and Pedro.

I decided I’d walk around the village a little today, scoping out the other businesses and popping in to say hi to the owners I haven’t met yet. I managed to secure a deal with Bradley, the butcher, to supply the café with the same sausages he’d given Cas and I because they were absolutely delicious. And Nick, the baker, is going to supply sourdough and croissants—because I absolutely won’t be making them myself.

It was good to get out and clear my head with a little fresh air and friendly faces. Now I’m back in the café, arranging the new kitchen equipment and stocking the fridge with the first few ingredients bought even though I’m not due to open for another week or so. To clear the last of the creeping doubt from my mind, I decide to bake because I can’t possibly be sad when I bake. But first, coffee.

A little bubble of excitement puts a skip in my step as I head to my shiny new coffee machine, the coffee machine that’s going to caffeinate this sleepy little village. The coffee machine that’s the foundation of my dream. The coffee machine that’s smoking! What the…? It’s not steam billowing from the back of the chrome, it’s grey smoke. I stare at it for long moments unsure what to do when a small spark has a terrified yelp pushing out of me and I scramble to flick the switch at the wall.

The café door swings open and my frayed nerves make me jump and yelp again. August strides in with what I’m recognising as his default stern glare, dragging with him a tall and reluctant teenage boy. With a little shove from the older man, the boy stumbles to a halt in front of me and we both stare at each other. He’s young, a little shellshocked and clearly not happy to be here.

“Uh, hi,” I say cautiously, eyes darting between the two men.

“This is my nephew, Connor,” August grumbles like he’s very unhappy about the fact. “He has something to say to you.”

The boy’s eyes go wide, only partially covered by a mass of unruly chestnut hair several shades lighter than his uncle’s. Slowly, he turns his head to look back at August, and some silent conversation happens I can only see half of, but it seems to involve August getting angrier by the second.