Page 48

Willow

I was frozen in the spot, my heart thumping rapidly in my ears. Goosebumps lined every inch of my skin, and a shudder broke through. Tears started to prick at my eyes, I blinked quickly to scare them away, only for them to fall. I slapped them away.

I was so stupid.

I don’t know what you mean. Me and Willow aren’t a thing. We’re just friends.

I was so fucking stupid.

Of course we were just friends. Of course every little gesture of kindness had just been goodwill. Pity. Of course it fucking had.

We’d slept in the same bed for three weeks.

I’d cuddled into him and rested my feet against his calves to warm up.

He’d listened to every heartbroken woe and accepted every single sob.

I told him about my mum, and I never told anyone about my mum.

She was my precious safe space and sharing bits of her always felt like I lost them from me.

Jack fucking Lambert had taken my favourite bits of my mum for nothing more than friends.

Of course we were nothing more. How could a man as exquisite as Jack find any interest as pitiful little Willow?

Cain always reminded me of how poorly he thought of me, but Jack had spent time building me up brick by brick until I was just starting to believe what he was saying.

It was so fucking foolish of me, given he was willing to cast me aside like everyone else would.

I had to get the fuck out of here before I fused to the carpet and was caught eavesdropping on a private conversation.

I heaved off the wall by the kitchen and rushed upstairs, searching for my trainers.

I tore them from my suitcase, stuffed my feet into them, and rushed back downstairs, rushing out the front door out into the icy cold night to avoid awkward encounters.

I instantly regretted not wearing a coat, but there was no going back now. I was mad and committed to it.

We’re just friends.

At some point over the last few weeks, the lines had blurred from colleagues to friends to something else, and merely half an hour ago I was excited to figure out what that was. But in passing by the kitchen on the way to the toilet, it all came crashing down.

With Cain, it was inevitable that we were speeding towards a car crash that would decimate us all, but with Jack, I put faith and trust in him that he’d never break me. Maybe that was my problem. I’d never placed my faith out of choice, it was non-negotiable simply because it was Jack.

Rage coursed through my veins, my fingers itching with the need to expel some energy.

I turned and ran alongside the right of the house, following the gravel path to the back garden, my hot breath puffing out in thick clouds ahead of me.

I found the outhouse just behind a large oak tree with a tyre attached to a long blue rope.

It swayed gently in the wind as I jogged past it.

The outhouse was a large wooden, discoloured shed, and I could see why they were keen to haul it down or convert it into something else.

Planks were falling apart and one of the windows was smashed.

The branches of the nearby oak tree brushed over the roof, even from down here I could see there were holes in the roof.

As Aileen said, there was an empty skip right next to it, ready for the work to begin.

I pulled at the handle of the door, finding it unlocked. With a few pulls, it opened with a loud creak. Inside, it was dark, and it took a moment for my eyes to adapt to the shadows. I’d left my phone in my bedroom, so I didn’t even have the use of the torch.

On the whole, the shed was filled with bricks, old rubble, and blanks of wood. At the back there were a few boxes, but I couldn’t see the contents from here.

Giving myself an outlet to the itchy rage nibbling at my fingertips, I grabbed a plank of wood, carrying it over to the skip.

With both hands, I hauled it back over my shoulder and smashed it against the yellow metal skip, creating a satisfying crack in the silence.

Dropping both parts into the skip, I went back for something else.

This time a brick smashed against the inner wall.

Though it didn’t break, it created a satisfying clunk.

I craved the damage and like a makeshift rage room, this provided it.

I fiddled with the worn plank of wood nearest to me. With a dull, rounded edge to it. A cricket bat. An idea sparked. That was coming home with me. I placed it outside the shed so I couldn’t forget it.

With every brick, panel of wood or rock, my muscles ached but I couldn’t stop. The longer I went on, the clearer the outhouse became, the louder my grunts of effort and frustration became, and the wetter my cheeks became.

I was so sick of feeling like the village idiot. So sick of men taking the piss. So sick of being pathetic little Willow.