Page 77 of All the Forbidden Things

“S’all good. Just thought Young was being a dick and making you work.”

“Nah, he’s being really flexible about my hours and paying me twice the going rate.”

“What a hero.”

“Wow! Sarcasm much? What’s your sudden beef with Max?”

“I have no beef with Max. I just . . .” A huff carries down the line. “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

Not exactly sure what that was all about, and I don’t have the time to get into it now, but I will be revisiting this conversation with my brother when I do.

“I’ll talk to him today about next week’s hours and message you what nights I’m free.”

“You okay staying there? I meant what I said yesterday.”

“I know you did, and I’m fine, honestly. This little flat is cool; I like having my own space.”

“Okay, but if you wanna make a night of it when you come for dinner, your bed’s here for ya.”

“I’ll see. If I’m gonna be looking after Layla the next day, I won’t be drinking much. Babies and hangovers don’t mix.”

“You’re preaching to the converted. Hangovers and any kind of responsibility don’t mix, and yet we all do it occasionally.”

“Hmm, well I won’t be, not on a school night anyway. Right, it’s almost nine, I need to get across the road to my dick of a boss who overpays me and lets me take whatever days off I want and start work. I’ll talk to ya later.”

“Wow, sarcasm much?” He throws my words back at me before adding, “See ya, kid.”

I end the call but stare at my screen for a few seconds. I felt a bit of a strange vibe coming from my brother yesterday, and now, him calling and asking if Max wouldn’t let me have time off Friday was all a bit weird.

I slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, head downstairs, and out of my front door. The first thing I notice is that there are two cars I don’t recognise on the drive, and when I go through Max’s back door, I hear voices.

I walk into the kitchen to find Max talking to a tall, blonde woman.

“All I’m saying is a call would’ve been appreciated,” Max bites out.

My heart rate accelerates. I’m not sure why yet, but it instinctively knows to prepare itself.

“She wanted to surprise you,” the woman replies with an American accent.

“Yeah? Well, I’m not a big fan of her surprises, the last couple she dropped were to tell me she was having an affair, that she was moving out, and, oh yeah, let's not forget her biggest fucking bombshell, there was a strong possibility Layla wasn’t mine. So, yeah, not a fan of Whitney and her surprises.”

“I’m sorry, Max, real sorry for what she’s put you through, and I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but so is she.”

“I don’t give a fuck what sheisorisnot. What I do give a fuck about is the fact she’s here in my house, almost a week earlier than I was expecting, with you and a nurse in tow, and she didn’t even have the common courtesy to let me know she was coming.”

Whitney’shere.

His wife. . .is here.

I knew she was coming back to stay for a couple of weeks. I’d just put it out of my mind as much as I could and pretended that Max wasn’t married, that he didn’thavea wife. I’d been living in my little bubble of denial, dreaming and fantasising about all things Max Young and what I thought, hopedbut apparently imagined, was evolving between us.

All of the joy and happiness I woke up feeling this morning evaporates in an instant. My bubble bursts, and so does my heart. Deflated, it sinks helplessly and hopelessly to the pit of my stomach, as all of the paranoia and self-doubt from my teenage years resurface.

Maxhasa wife.

She’s a supermodel.

I’m not.