Page 3 of The F*ck-It List

“No, ick,” they say, flapping their hands like their shooing my words away. “Bucket list is all about getting things done before you die, like you’ve got time to do it whenever. You, my adventure challenged friend, need a Fuck-It list. A list of all the things you want to do but you’ve been putting off, you really need to just say Fuck-It and do them.”

I stare blankly at the notepad, taunting me from my chest. “Are you going to make me do all of them?”

“Yes! Now start writing and don’t hold back, puteverythingon there you’ve always thought about doing but have been too scared or too tight to do.”

I pout, slightly offended but unable to argue with its validity. I’m frugal, preferring to save my money for a rainy day. It’s just every time there’s been a downpour, I’ve not wanted to make a dent in the pot. Reluctantly, I pick up the pen and rest the pad on my bent legs. Ittakes a minute or two to think but once I start writing, and after two more—progressively stronger—Cosmos, the items just start flowing.

Then next morning, with a slightly sore head, I wake up alone despite being sure Cas had passed out next to me in bed. I check my phone to find the slurry of messages and missed calls from Richard, and I bite the bullet, calling him.

“Christ, Bea!” He answers on the first ring. “I’ve been worried, are you okay?”

I wince at him checking in on me even though I was the one who ran out on him. “I’m fine,” I tell him. “I just sort of freaked out when you…”

“When I was going to propose?” he finishes for me when I can’t even manage the words.

“Right,” I croak. “Richard, I’m so sorry,” I rush out. “I really am. I think you’re great, you know that, I just don’t think we’re, um, in the same place?” I pose it as a question more than a statement, my nerves getting the better of me.

I hear him puff out a long breath and I imagine him rubbing at his forehead the way he does when he’s stressed. “I see.”

There’s a long moment of silence between us and I pull the covers to my chin to wrap myself in the comfort it offers. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“I get it,” he says quietly. “I can’t say I love it, but I get it.”

“You’re a good guy, Richard,” I say gently, meaning it.

A soft laugh comes from the other end of the line. “Just not good enough, apparently.”

I wince again and resist the urge to apologise for a third time. It’s a hard conversation, but he takes it well. And when I hang up, I don’t feel the ache of grief I probably should, more just an ache of hunger and a thirst for coffee.

Cas sits on my sofa, scrolling through their phone, Heathcliff curled around their neck like a travel pillow. They have a steaming mug in one hand, and I look over to my shiny pride and joy, the coffee machine. It’s untouched and I gasp in horror.

“Did you bringinstantinto my house?” I press my palm to my chest.

“I can’t work that thing,” Cas says far too casually for the situation while waving their cup in the general direction of the kitchen. “I had to get a fix. I’ll down this quick and then you can make me a nice one with Kit 2.0.”

I trudge to the coffee machine, slippers slapping on the laminate floors, and get to the soothing process of making the perfect coffee. Trying to the let the familiarity of the movements comfort me and distract me from where Cas may have stashed a tin of freeze-dried coffee in my cupboards.

“Okay. I been doing some thinking,” Cas chirps.

“I can’t join you until I’ve caffeinated,” I yawn.

Ignoring me, they slap my notepad down on the counter. “I’ve added to your list, by the way.”

While the beans grind, I pick up the paper and frown down to where Cas’s handwriting takes over mine. I blink at the new items. I blink at Cas. “Are all the things you added of a sexual nature?”

“I mean, while we’re broadening your horizons, we might as well work on that side of things too, right?” They shrug a shoulder completely unapologetic.

“Why exactly do you think I need a broader sex life?”

“Because you’ve just spent a year of your life with Dull Dick, now you can make up for lost time.”

“You’re being very unfair to Richard,” I say, turning back to my coffee and tamping it down. “He always made me come.”

Cas’s slow clap starts at my back until I turn to glare at them. “Congratulations,” they say, sarcasm dripping from their tongue. “You found a man willing to do the very minimum and make sure you finish.”

I roll my eyes and turn back, slotting the portafilter into the group head and pressing the button. Dark, aromatic espresso pours from the twin spouts in a syrupy nectar, the apartment taking on a rich roasty aroma. “Trust me, that’s not the bare minimum. Remember Anton?”

“Oh, you mean Two-Pump Tony?” Cas smiles manically. “Yeah, what a blast. Glad you got rid of him quickly.”