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“No shit, babe,” I gritted out through clenched teeth.
I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me. I was never normally like this. I was always happy and jolly and running this freak show like the well-oiled circus it was. And yes, you can positively laugh now. I had spent the last decade catering to Mark Quinton’s every whim, and that had made me happy.
I don’t think it made me happy anymore, and that little realisation had made me more irritable and bitchier than I’d ever been. I snapped at his every word. I ignored his calls. I turned up late for work, albeit with good reason. I refused to cover for his shifts and had left the monthly accountancy spreadsheet well alone. It was still sitting on this desk, and I refused to pick up his slack. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
I had been enthralled with Mark Quinton for most of my adult life, and I had no idea why suddenly I wasn’t, but as he sat there staring at me, all I wanted to do was scream.
“As I told you in that long winded, detailed text sent to your phone earlier, my ceiling caved in this morning. My belongings—my life, Mark, is covered in sewage, and I no longer have a home. No roof over my head. Kind of major. So don’t give me thosethe fuck, Mabslines. It was a couple of hours, and we had a duty manager here anyway. Nothing they shouldn’t have been able to handle.”
“We were fully booked,” he hissed. I almost laughed.
“You haven’t taken in a word I just said, have you?”
“There is always drama with you, Mabs. You know, you could have just come over. You are always welcome to stay at ours.”
“Ours? Yeah. Thanks, mate. Like I would want to come stay on your sofa and spend every night listening to you fuck my ex-husband. I’d rather stick needles in my eyeballs, thank you very much.”
I was being a bitch.
Mark sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. “You are such a child.”
“And you always have to take a stab…” I couldn’t continue. This was ludicrous. As always. “And you never listen to what I’m actually saying.”
“Sorry. I know I’m hard work.”
I couldn’t tell you how many times we’d had this conversation.
“I can’t do this anymore, Mark. I’m wrung out and exhausted. I have nothing left here. Nothing to give, nothing to gain. Tell me. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“I know,” he said quietly, and for a moment, my heart bled for him again. Because he did this every time. Looked at me with so muchkindness that I just wanted to hug him. All part of his usual charade of guilt tripping me into adoring his spoilt, childish arse again.
I snapped out of it faster than I expected, impressing myself with sitting up straight.
“I can’t deal with you today, I have enough going on at home,” I stuttered out.
“Bullshit, Mabs. Have you suddenly forgotten that I know you better than I know myself? You’re pissed off with me, and I have no idea what I’ve done. You’ve been moping around here like the world is against you for weeks now, and when I try to take you out to cheer you up, you bloody ignore me and give me some pathetic excuse about staying in and washing your hair or something. Whatever I say to you, you snap at me. Nobody can get through to you, and it’s starting to piss me off.”
No shit, Sherlock. I couldn’t even get through to myself. I had no idea what had become of me and all my grand ideas, because I was hitting forty-three in a month’s time, and Mark was right about one thing. I wanted to set the world on fire and watch it burn because my life had turned out nothing like the grandiose plans of my youth, all of which had conveniently included Mark, and now I wanted nothing more than for him to get out of my sight. Which was tricky since we shared this small back office and still had to work together.
“I need you to work tonight. That new Roz girl just called in sick. Since you were four hours late this morning—four hours!—covering the dinner service should be no issue for you.”
He was such an arsehole.
“Mark, my bedroom is currently missing a ceiling! I have better things to do than cover for your new employees, just so you can smooch around the front desk and stare at your husband-to-be.”
I was being mean, but mean was what I felt. Mark glared at me with anger burning in his eyes and said nothing.
I backpedalled in disgust at my own rudeness.
“Sorry, babe. I can’t deal right now. Too much going on. I have to find a new place to live and figure out what to do with my life. I’m too old for all this.”
I sank into the office chair with a sigh.
“I don’t blame you,” he said, surprisingly calm, but that was what friendship did to you. We could fire off at each other, one minute shooting bullets of anger without a second thought, only to sit back and laugh at ourselves the next minute. “If I had to put up with me like you do, I would be checking myself into rehab on a weekly basis. You know I love you. Always.”
“That’s the problem.” I gave a small, nervous giggle. We didn’t like talking about it and danced a constant, careful minuet around the elephant in the room. This was nothing new. He knew. I knew. There would never be a happy ending.
“You should take some time off. We could find someone to cover for you.”
