Page 28 of The F*ck-It List

“Ah, great,” she says with that same dozy smile. Her keys are in her hand, and I wait patiently as she takes several attempts to fit the largest one in the lock. She misses, several times. “Oh, bumfluff,” she huffs, and I almost bark out a surprised laugh at the idiotic curse word.

“Here,” I put my hand around hers on the key, feeling the smoothness of her skin under the roughness of mine and I help guide her to the lock. I only realise I’m practically crowding her to the door, when she leans back and her head rests against my shoulder, her body an inviting warmth at my front and the smell of bubble gum coming from her hair.

“Thank you.” She sighs.

We get her door open and when she steps away, I feel oddly empty without her. Darcy, trots in behind her, stopping short when his lead pulls tight. “No, come on, we’re going home,” I tell him, but he just looks at me over his shoulder in stubborn denial.

Bea slips her shoes off, leaving her in socks, and starts up the stairs. The polished wood beneath her feet slippery, so she stumbles on the second step. I jolt to catch her before she falls and she just giggles.Jesus Christ.

“Up you go,” I command, dropping Darcy’s lead and following her, one hand lightly pressed to her back, ready to push forward should she lean too far back.

Her bedroom is just what I would have imagined, a kaleidoscope of colours and soft fabrics, girly things filling every available surface and artwork on all of the walls of what looked like knights or warriors or something…okay, that wasn’t quite what I’d imagined.

“Okay,” I say awkwardly. “Well, goodnight.”

“Thanks, August,” Bea says sleepily, falling onto her bed fully dressed. “You’re not so bad.”

I exhale quickly in something that could be taken as a laugh and turn to leave.

But then her quiet voice behind me says, “I’ll make the eggs in a minute.”

I take another glimpse of her atop the covers, curled up in a ball and smiling softly with her eyes closed. There’s a glass beside her bed and before I really realise what I’m doing, I’m striding toward it and taking it to the adjoining bathroom, emptying out the old water, swishing it clean a couple of times before filling it and leaving it on the nightstandfor her. With a satisfied nod to myself that I’ve done enough to make sure she’s looked after, I head back down the stairs.

I’d left the door wide open where I’d jumped to save Bea. Luckily for me, my dog is too lazy to make a run for it. But I find him nestled on the small couch, curled up with a black cat standing over him, looking at him like he’s stolen the prime snoozing spot.

“Darcy,” I hiss. “Off.”

Darcy doesn’t even lift his head, shuffling slightly to get more comfortable on the velvet cushions.

Seeming to give up on glaring him down, the cat steps onto Darcy’s back and curls up right there on top of him. I plant my hands on my hips and tip my head back.Fucking dog. After a couple of breaths taken for patience, I look around the room like it might give me the answers of how to extract my dog from this place but instead, my eyes land on the stove and the box of eggs next to it and I know what I have to do.

nine

No. 16: Fight my own fight

Bea

Iwake up with a mouth drier than a mummy’s arsehole and a throbbing in my head that only comes from red wine. The gap in my bedroom curtains lets through a beam of blinding sunlight that hits me directly in the eyes and creates an intense pain behind my eyeballs. Some sort of animalistic whine comes out of me as I roll over to avoid the light, and I get tangled in my shirt I’m still wearing from last night. Slowly and carefully, I push myself up to a seated position, hating the way my head swirls and my stomach rolls.

“Shit,” I moan, pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets in an attempt to stop the room from spinning.

So, I’m still wearing the clothes I went to the pub in last night, but I apparently remembered to take my shoes off. I remember breakingdown to Eli at the bar, wincing at the memory, and I remember August walking me home. Why did he do that? But I don’t remember anything about getting home or getting to bed. I am both hungry and nauseous and have a weird craving for eggs, but first I have to drink something. My glass sits on my bedside table, fuller than I thought it would be. I gulp down half the glass, loving the soothing coolness against my throat, feeling it rush down to my stomach and settling some of the gurgling there.

Mentally patting myself on the back for remembering to refill my glass before I passed out, I peel myself out of bed and decide on a very quick shower before I change into pyjamas and veg out with my current read for the day. It’s an effort to undress myself, every movement sluggish and fumbling.

Eventually, I get under the spray, washing off the grime and sweat of an alcohol induced sleep with water as hot as the ancient plumbing will allow.

After drying off, I pull on the cotton sleep shorts I should have changed into last night along with a loose tank top and an oversized cardigan. My hair still piled high messily on top of my head from my shower, and I slide my feet into the new socks Cas included in my gift basket. They’re knee high, fluffy, and have little grippies on the bottom so I don’t have to fear death on the stairs.

It’s not until I’m halfway down the stairs when I realise Heathcliff hadn’t been in bed with me, which is odd, he rarely doesn’t sleep curled around the top of my head. But occasionally, he will choose to spend the night in his tree, so I’m not too worried about it. I make it to the kitchen and grab a pan from the cupboard, putting it down onthe metal stove top as gently as possible to avoid the hideous metallic scrape that would be sure to pierce my brain.

It's cold downstairs and I wonder if it’s acceptable to light a fire in May. I regret my lack of bra when my couch begins to move. Like a monster emerging from the deep, the plethora of blankets and cushions starts rising with a low rumbling sound permeating the air and my heart leaps into my throat, a scream slipping past it. My instincts have me reaching for the first available weapon, which happens to be the utensil pot, and I whip a spatula out, holding it in front of me like a sword.

Suddenly, there’s a dog barking at me and Heathcliff jumps up on the kitchen counter only to rub his back over my brandished spatula, like I’m holding it out for his pleasure. When the last of the blankets fall away, I’m left staring at my grumpy neighbour.

“What the hell, man?” I shriek.

Darcy gives another bark, although it seems more happy than aggressive, and he comes to sit by my feet. Heathcliff jumps down from the counter to circle the shaggy grey dog like he’s his newest obsession.