Page 2 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Two

HOLLY

The paper trembles in my hands, as I’m mindlessly repeating the same word over, and over again.

Canada. Canada. Canada. After what feels like three business days of silence with my palm covering my mouth I bring it to my forehead and rub it.

Assuming that maybe I’m still intoxicated, or dreaming, I trace my finger over the address on the document one last time.

Please be dreaming.

Please be dreaming.

But, alas, I’m not. The letter in my hand very much indeed says Canada . “This must be a mistake I-I… What-wh…” I can’t get the words out. “Why would Adam do this?” I mutter—to myself mostly.

I can’t have all of my stuff sent to Canada. I’ll have nothing here if they take it all.

“This is you, right?” He holds out his phone, and I lean in, analyzing a stack of emails on his screen.

—————————

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 23/11/24

Time: 1:36 pm

Subject: Move

Helllo,

I need to move countries right npw, to 12 Bows River Heights, Banff, Alberta, Canada please. My cirrent address is 97 Clayless Lane, Gold Coast, Queensland. One bedroom. I dont care how much it costs, juST get it done at your earliest convenances. Money ready to go.

wARMEST REGARDS, HOLLY CATE.

—————————

From: [email protected]

Reply to: [email protected]

Date: 23/11/24

Time: 2:45 pm

Subject: Move

No problems, Miss Cate, happy to help you move. Please see below the invoice from your designated location in Gold Coast to Banff, Canada. I’ve also attached a contract with the terms and conditions on it, please ensure you sign it and send it back with your proof of payment.

If you can pay that as quickly as possible I’ll make sure to book next weekend for you.

Please be aware that your items may take up to five weeks to arrive at the address provided due to the holiday season coming up and possible weather delays over there, as well as an exchange from our company here in Australia to a trusted licensed third party once it arrives in Canada.

Good luck with the move.

Regards,

Tom

—————————

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 23/11/24

Time: 2:55 pm

Subject: Move

I’ll take whatever date., Please see attacked my screenshpot of payment.

Holly

—————————

From: [email protected]

Reply to: [email protected]

Date: 23/11/24

Time: 4:04 pm

Subject: Move

*flagged important* UNREAD

Thanks for your swift payment, Holly. You are all booked in. You do not need to do anything to prepare, as our service includes wrapping and packing, but we do not include unwrapping once it arrives in Canada, only delivery. We will see you on Sunday, the 1st of December between 6 A.M and 7 A.M.

Thank you for choosing Wrap Pack and Move.

Regards,

Tom

—————————

“I— That’s impossible. My boyf—” I smack my lips together with a frustrated grunt, “ ex boyfriend, must have set me up.” This isn’t me in this email.

At least… I don’t think it is. I mean, that is my email address…

which Adam doesn’t have the password to.

I squint at the man’s phone one last time, scrolling back up to the first email.

Disgust holds me by the throat. If that’s me, what on earth is that spelling?

I’m an editor for shit’s sake, that is just shameful.

Actually, a more important question should be how much did I have to drink that day?

The day I found out about the other woman…

I try to flick through my memories to triangulate last weekend. All I remember was seeing Adam’s phone with all the dirty messages to Sarah no later than 10 A.M last Saturday, and I’d kicked him out by 11 A.M.

…And, then I got into the wine.

A lot of wine.

“You can’t take my stuff,” I plead, denial setting like concrete in my mind. “Please.”

“I’m sorry. You agreed to the no cancellation clause on the contract. Everything is already locked in place, Miss Cate.”

“So… you’re saying I—” I choke on the words with a sniffle, unable to think or say much else as he pushes past the door, and me.

What have I done?

With burning tears making their way past my lash line, I scamper to my room to find my phone, needing answers right here, right now.

I need to track what the heck I… well, what drunk I …

has bloody done. My hands tremor as I scroll through my call log, seeing a million calls to Adam last Saturday—all unanswered, of course.

I see a few numbers, one to presumably Tom, the removalist, since it has the same area code as me. But then, I notice a foreign number.

An international number.

My heart falls into the pit of my gut as I type the number into Google. I pace my room waiting for the results, only to see that the number comes up in a directory.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no.”

It’s a number to a real estate agent.

A Canadian number.

Sobbing, I throw my phone and myself face first onto the bed, inaudibly screaming a bunch of nothings into the pillow until I’m dizzy.

Come on, Holly, crying isn’t going to help.

Think. Okay, so, whatever I’ve done involves a real estate agent, a removalist, and…

another country. Had I drunk so much last Saturday I decided to leave my entire life behind?

The older man stands at my doorway, his heavy breathing catching my attention but not quite startling me. Usually, I would be creeped out by the encounter, but at this point I feel so many things all at once that him staring at me like I’m an idiot doesn’t register in my head.

My eyes fill with tears again, and his expression drops into a sympathetic one. “Sorry, Miss. But I can’t allow you in here while we’re packing. Can I get you a cuppa from down the street? I’ll call you when we’re finished. I have your number.”

Unable to decline if I wanted to, he offers me a ten dollar note and gestures for my departure. “T-thanks. I guess.”

Wiping a tear I take the money, tucking it and my phone into the pocket of my pajamas. “I’ll give you a few moments to grab what you need to, you’ve a long route ahead of you. What time’s your flight?”

My gut drops, gravity no longer in my possession. I feel sick. “Flight?” Have I booked that, too?

“To Canada?” Why does he sound like he’s asking a question?

“I’m not… leaving…” Am I?

He’s frozen for a beat, then swallows nervously.

“Look I don’t know what’s happened here, but whatever is going on is clearly causing a lot of distress, and I’m deeply sorry you’re experiencing it.

I can’t help you, it’s not my place to get involved.

I can give you a help number if you like, but you’ll have to figure the rest out. ”

“Oh,” is all I can mutter.

I don’t need a number.

I just need answers.

“I’ll give you a minute to grab what you need so we don’t take them.” He toddles off and is gone before the last word leaves his mouth.

I place my passport, purse, laptop and the manuscript pages in my tote bag while trying to wipe the waterworks away, but it’s no use as they just keep flowing.

In my peach colored, hard shell suitcase my knickers are the first to go in, followed by socks, jeans, a cardigan, and my other pajamas which is a baggy shirt, then goes in a mixture of cotton tees, my floral dresses and?—

Dresses?

Did you lose a brain cell, Holly? It’s almost winter over there right now, not the middle of summer.

I sigh, chucking in the only winter gear I own which is beanie with a pom pom on the top into the bag.

I stow in my Kindle and a few of my go-to rom-com paperbacks in the tote.

Not that I’m going to read them, but the thought of losing my favorite books by Izzy Wentworth— who’s ironically from Canada — in a shipping container has me gutted, so they come with me too.

“Well, that’s about it. Books, Kindle, phone, passport, purse, and clothes. That’s all I need, I guess,” I mutter, still crying, then quickly put on my jeans, shoes and a tee. The walk to my front door is sickening, with my bags in tow, sobbing like a newborn infant with no one to blame but myself.

It’s here and now that I decide I’ll NEVER drink, or have anything to do with stupid men ever again.