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When I made it downstairs the next morning at around eleven a.m., Cole had gone into the office to pick up some samples of promotional material that his boss wanted him to work on—or so the note propped up against the coffee machine said. It also said that my lunch was in the fridge, which yeah, it kind of pissed me off that he was treating me like an invalid, but it also made me feel things that I wasn’t used to feeling in relation to my stepbrother. Nice things.
Fucking hell. I needed to smoke some weed to take the edge off my thoughts. Probably wasn’t a good idea with the painkillers, though, was it?
Fuck it. I’d have a small one, just to take the edge off.
I rolled a quick and messy joint, then headed out into the garden with my guitar and a notebook and pen. The sun was shining, but I sat in the shade of the oak tree at the bottom of my garden. First off, I smoked the joint, propped up against the tree, music playing from my phone speaker. When the turmoil in my head was finally quiet, I began, strumming my guitar and stopping to jot down lyrics whenever they came into my head. I wasn’t trying to write a song, but I found the process helped my brain to settle down. I had notebooks full of lyrics, unfinished songs, and music compositions. Maybe one day I’d find a good songwriter who I could collaborate with, make some music of our own.
I huffed out a quiet laugh. That wasn’t likely to happen. I couldn’t even pass my A levels, which was why I was about to begin a foundation year course at LSU in order to be able to even get onto a degree course the following year. How could I expect anyone else to want to work with me? Not that songwriting was work per se—unless you were getting paid for it—but a collaborative relationship required commitment, and my track record was shit.
Cole’s record was almost as bad as mine. He’d barely scraped through his A levels, but a degree wasn’t on his radar, so he had no reason to care about his results. As it was, he’d been able to charm his way into not one but two jobs, while I was still living off the allowance my dad was providing me with on the proviso that I took my upcoming course seriously and managed to pass all my modules.
I glanced down at my notebook, my eyes widening as I realised what I’d written.
Pretty brown eyes and a charming smile.
Fuck’s sake. I drew a line through the words, then another two for good measure. Closing my notebook with a snap, I climbed to my feet. No more songwriting. Time for lunch, because that weed had made me really fucking hungry.
When I inspected the fridge, I found that Cole had made me a ham and mustard sandwich, and he’d also left me a small pot of strawberries. My face felt weird for a minute before I realised why. I was smiling. A small smile, but it was there.
As I was plating up my food, adding a bag of crisps from the cupboard, my phone buzzed with a text. It was Rav, one of my mates that I’d crashed with over the summer.
Rav:
Philips came through with the good shit. Fuckin buzzin. Wanna come over tonight to sample the goods?
I paused. Normally I’d be all over that. But I wasn’t in the mood for it right now.
Me:
Not tonight but thanks for the offer
Rav:
Tom’s bringing Michelle & her fit AF friends. Pills & pussy! You can’t say no to that
Tempting, and I knew how the night would go down, because half of my summer had passed in a haze of pills and pussy and the occasional dick. But…something had changed, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
Me:
Thanks but I can’t. Had a car accident & prob shouldn’t take pills with the shit they prescribed me. Don’t want to end up having my stomach pumped
It probably wasn’t true because the pain relief was mostly extra-strong ibuprofen, but I was no doctor. Who the fuck knew how it would react? It was a good enough excuse as far as I was concerned, and it was the reason I needed to stay in.
Rav:
Shit. You OK?
Me:
Yeah all good. Nothing major
That was a half-truth, but Rav…actually, none of my friends were particularly close to me. Our relationships were mostly superficial, and therefore I wasn’t interested in going into details. Rav was a good guy, although my dad would disagree because he was a “layabout with no prospects.” But yeah, not close. He wasn’t someone who’d hug me when I was feeling scared, not like—
I groaned loudly, thumping my head against the cabinet in front of me. My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down at the screen to see Rav had written, Next time. Not bothering to reply, I carried my food upstairs.
As soon as I was set up on my bed, I picked up my phone again and typed out a message, hitting Send before I could talk myself out of it.
Me:
