Page 93 of All the Forbidden Things

Ilaid Layla in her cotwith her noise-reducing headphones covering her ears while I’d worked on something new all afternoon. I’d been hoping to share it with Billie after she got back from her hair appointment, but she hadn’t text for me to come over like she’d said she would. I’d heard the gate alarm sound, so I knew Micky had dropped her off, but her flat was in darkness when I looked out the back door.

She’s been off with me the last day or so, and I have no clue why. I fucking hate how much I’m missing her when she’s only across my driveway.

I decide I need a drink, so after a quick check on Layla, I go in search of a bottle.

Many years ago, I sat at a bar somewhere in Spain, maybe one of the islands, not the mainland, and, unsure of what I fancied drinking, asked the barman to make a suggestion. He poured me something calledCuarenta y Tres, or Forty-Three in English, and I’ve been a fan ever since.

I fill a pint glass with ice, grab the bottle and a whisky tumbler from the cupboard, and turn to head back up the stairs, almost dropping the lot when I come face to face with Deana.

“Hey!” She aims the exact same smile as Whitney’s in my direction. “Wow, second person tonight I’ve caught creeping with bottles of liquor, is this an English thing?”

“I’m sorry?” I question in confusion.

“Billie was here earlier. She took some wine from your bar fridge, said she’d replace it tomorrow . . . needed it for the hot date she was going on tonight.”

My heart punches against my sternum so hard, I should be worried something might break—probably my heart.

“Billie had a date?”

“That’s what she said, and I gotta say, she looked ah-mazing! Her hair was fantastic.”

“Did she say who her date was with?” I’m not sure if I feel violent or like I want to puke.

“Nah. Just said she was heading over to the house of her hot date and didn’t wanna arrive empty-handed.”

I can’t think of anything to say in response. I’m numb.

What the fuck, Billie?

Two hours later, the songI’ve been working on all day is sounding good, and I’m on my fourth glass of Forty-Three. We hadn’t decided on a title for the new album yet, but with this song I’d just come up with it, “Autumn Sun” would be the title track.

I’d recorded my last run-through on my phone. So, after gently removing Layla’s headphones, I hold them to my ears and play it back so I can listen without waking her.

It’s good. Really good. I’m happy . . . with the song at least.

I shower, clean my teeth, pull on clean boxers, and climb into bed. Despite the alcohol, I can’t sleep. My jaw aches from being clenched for so long, my chest feels like it has a lead weight sitting on it, and my throat feels tight.

I wonder if the reason Billie has been so distant the last couple of days is that she knew she had this date lined up. It all makes sense now, getting her hair done this evening and asking for tomorrow off. She obviously wasn’t planning on coming home tonight and lied about messaging me once she got back.

I’m more than a little disappointed . . . I’m fucking gutted.

“Fuck,” I sit up and say into the darkness.

I climb out of bed, reach for the bottle of liqueur, and take a swig as I pace. I feel like a crazy person, like I’m coming out of my skin. I fucking hate the idea of her spending the night with another man.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I whisper-shout as I continue to pace.

Why did she flirt with me the way she did the other morning? I’d resigned myself to the fact that Billie and I were gonna happen. I’d even gone over in my head how I’d tell Cal and imagined how he’d probably punch my head in but would come around to the idea once he sees how serious I am about her.

Serious? She’s twenty-fucking-two. I’m a thirty-eight-year-old, soon-to-be-divorced, single dad. I’m a joke.

A fucking joke.

I lie back on my bed and do the most irresponsible thing I’ve done since becoming a father. I pass out cold.

Whitney

Ilove it when aplan starts to come together.