Page 9 of The F*ck-It List

Cas pulls a face and makes a noise telling me they don’t believe me at all. “And yet, you haven’t re-written your list and removed those items, so…” They wobble their head from side to side.

Yep, that’s true, because I can admit to myself to being ever so slightly curious. But I absolutely won’t be admitting it to Cas. “Becausethatlist is the one we wrote on my birthday that made me decide to change my whole life, it has sentimental value. And when I’ve finished everything on it, I’m going to frame it and hang it on the wall in the café.”

“You want a list with the wordsbutt stuffto hang in your cute little café?” Cas arches a near invisible brow at me.

Fair point. “Okay, scrap that. But I am not entering into a butt stuff kind of relationship withanyonefrom this very small, very close-knit community I just moved into.”

Cas knocks their mug gently against mine. “Amen. You don’t need a friggin’ man anyway, this is your time to shine, Honey Bea.”

“Okay, so I think I’m going to have to move the books over to the café,” I muse, still in my pyjamas as Cas and I try to find room in the living room to sit and have our morning coffee. There are boxes everywhere.

“Are you sure you want to put your precious books out on display in the café?” they say, looking concerned.

I shrug a shoulder as I switch on my espresso machine. “Only the paperbacks. All my hardbacks and special editions will stay here, but if I want to make the café book themed, it’s got to have books.”

“Okay.” They sigh, sounding unconvinced. “But just remember not everyone will love and care for them like you do.”

“I know, but like I said, it’s just the paperbacks. Easily replaceable.”

“Uh huh, this from the girl who actually cried when I bent a couple page corners.”

“Dog earring books should be an actual crime.” I point the tamper at them menacingly.

“You’re right,” they concede with a solemn nod. “Murder, tax evasion, and folding paper, all terrible crimes.”

“Damn right.” I go about making our drinks while Cas moves boxes off the sofa. “So, after we’ve coffeed, I’m going to take a shower and I’ll move the boxes. Could you maybe pop to the mini supermarket down in the village square and grab us some food? Because I only bought enough for yesterday and we are going to want to stay fuelled.”

“Yep,” Cas agrees easily as they’re already washed and dressed in their wide-leg jeans with multiple brightly coloured chains drooped between the belt loops and a cropped, sleeveless jumper with rainbows and clouds all over it. “When I get back, I can start building the shelves you bought for the books in the café if you want?”

“You reckon? I don’t want them getting mucky when I have the workers in.”

“We’ll put the dust sheets over them.” Cas waves a hand to dismiss my concern. “But better I build them than you.”

“True.” The wonky coffee table and the unfortunate, untimely, demise of my self-built wardrobes are testament enough. “Okay, great.”

We drink our coffee in companiable silence while I mentally plan our day, Heathcliff resting on my shoulder, and Cas most likely planning which hookup they’ll be calling when they go back to London. When Cas leaves for the shop, I go back upstairs, strip from my pyjamas, grab a clean pair of underwear and my towel, and head to my small but functional bathroom, which most unfortunately, does not have a bath. When I was looking for my new home, a clawfoot tub wasa dream and I found a couple places that either had one or the space to add one, but they weren’t right in other areas. So, I settled for this perfect cottage with room for a small cubical shower only. Maybe I’ll treat myself to a fancy hotel room with a fancy tub someday.

Cas told me there wasn’t an extractor fan, so I open the window to let steam escape before spending some time adjusting the knobs on the shower to get the perfect temperature. Movement in my periphery startles me and I jump back, watching in horror as the biggest, thickest, hairiest spider crawls from the open window. This thing must have emigrated from Australia because I have never seen anything this big in this country before.

Terrified whimpers escape my lips as I start breathing heavily, my heart making a solid effort to thump right through my breastbone, like this arachnid is holding me at gunpoint. I. Hate. Spiders. Where the hell is Heathcliff when I need him? The anxiety is giving me a prickly heat from the base of my neck, and I feel like I might throw up when the thing starts moving toward me. Grabbing the first moveable object I see, I try to shoo the beast away with my hot-pink lace thong.

“Please, please,pleaseleave me alone,” I cry with actual tears in my eyes.

When a flick of my wrist almost brings my intruder back with the fabric of my underwear, I scream and yeet my panties, along with the spider, right out the window.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit.”

I have a towel around my otherwise naked body while I peer out the window to see the splash of bright pink land on the grey surface of the road outside. I have to go and get them before someone else finds them…but I should get dressed first, right? But it’s like a three second job to just pick them up. It’ll take me longer to put my pyjamas back on. Oh god, why do bad things happen to good people?

three

No. 8: Ask for help

August

Ihave a busy day. Half the village seem to have things needing fixing and when that happens, I’m the one they call. Leaving Darcy with a slow-release treat toy—because I’ll be out most of the day and as much as I grumble, I love the little shit and he deserves his beef biscuits—I lock up the house and head out the front gate. I try not to let my eyes dart to the front door across the road to the cottage where Bea now lives, but they flick that way against my will, only to be distracted by something laying in the road. A rumbling complaint comes from my chest as I stomp over to the foreign object, cursing this city dweller for littering on her first day in the village.

It's not until I’m swooping down to pick the scrap up with the intent of posting it through the letterbox of the cottage that I realise what I’m picking up is in fact a pair of women’s underwear. A thong, to be precise. In shocking pink. What the…? I’m still holding the lace pinched between my thumb and forefinger when the door to the cottage swings open and there stands the village’s new little ray of sunshine looking flustered and wrapped only in a towel with bare feet and one hand clutched at the cloth at her chest.