Page 5 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Five

HOLLY

My stomach sinks as I walk through the house. I don’t even recognize it. The once beach, cozy chic style home is completely gutted. The removalist’s truck is stacked full with my belongings.

It’s like a carcass of memories. My photos have been taken off the wall, leaving only holes behind, and little divots remain in the carpet from the sofa I’d spent hours on, watching movies with Adam or reading.

Seeing how quickly life can flip upside down like this hurts me in a whole other way than I knew possible.

So much so that I’d almost forgotten what caused it in the first place.

All of the emotions that wreaked havoc in my mind were not only hard to swallow, they were entirely unfamiliar .

I mean, sure, I’ve moved before. But not like this.

My room is mostly empty, apart from the bed frame in parts on the floor and an unsealed box. My face flushes, remembering that my hidden collection of adult toys had to have been taken out from my hiding spot in the wardrobe to be packed. But hey… what’s a girl to do?

Faking my orgasms while hiding my collection of fake dicks and clit satisfiers wasn’t a choice I made lightly, but Adam hated my toys, and forbade me to own them in the first place.

And since he threw my last collection in the rubbish, I never told him I got new ones.

He had said it was the equivalent of cheating.

Ironic, isn’t it?

After mourning my house for a few moments, the two men—who have smug looks on their faces, by the way—collect what’s left in my room. Once again I’m alone with my thoughts, some clothes in my bag, a few bucks, smutty rom-coms, and a one-way ticket to hell.

So let me get this straight… Your leech of a boyfriend cheats on you with some hot sheila, and you get blind drunk to take away the pain.

So incredibly drunk that you decide moving across the globe is a good idea but then you forget everything and have no recollection of anything until a week later when removalists knock on your door to take your stuff and you only had a few hours to become an FBI agent and figure out the pieces of the puzzle before you catch a flight to no man’s land.

And on top of all of that you now have no job or have anyone to tell that you’re leaving the country in the first place.

…Yeah.

That .

“We’re finished here now, Miss Cate,” the older removalist, Tom, says as he locks up the truck. “Sign here, please.”

I sign the piece of paper without saying a word. Yet again, for the umpteenth time today, a burning tear falls beyond my lash line. But this time I didn’t fight it. I don’t have it in me to.

He frowns at the flight ticket in my hand that I had printed at the coffee shop before I left. “Sorry, I’m just doing my job. Leaving so soon?” he asks, and a nod is all I can respond with. “Want me to take the keys to your real estate agent for you?”

“You would do that?”

“It’s not a problem,” he assures me with a kind smile.

“Thanks. It’s on Rogerson Road.” I hand Tom my key, and as I do I hear tires rolling over the stones of my driveway. It’s my taxi. “Well, this is me,” I add, taking one final look at the life I’m leaving behind.

“Can it get any bloody worse? No… really, can it?” I scoff under my breath opening the door to my budget hotel room in Sydney’s CBD that dipped into what’s left of my money before my next—and final paycheck.

“Mighty smiter, I don’t think I’ve screwed myself up enough, please, come and do some more damage! ”

Eight hours of waiting for “lost” luggage and a missed flight to LA wasn’t on my to do list, but here I am, suffering the consequences of the fate of my own luck.

I should be on a plane right now, flying somewhere over Vanuatu, but instead I’ll be spending the rest of the night with tears in my eyes.

Why is it always me that these things happen to?

Why do I have such bad luck… with men and life?

Why am I always the second choice?

Asking those questions is the same as screaming into a void.

No one’s listening. No one’s answering. But be as it may, crying isn’t going to help.

And as clumsy as I am, at least I was not the one at fault for my luggage being lost, the airline was.

Turns out my trip from Gold Coast never even took my bag out of the plane, so I had to wait for it to come back to Sydney twice for it to be retrieved.

Now I’ve been re-scheduled for tomorrow’s flight, leaving at 5 P.M.

I pull out my phone and email Susan, telling her about the delay and drama, since she’s the only person in my life that I can talk to. What episode of the drama show that is my life am I up to now? Keeping up with the Whodashians? No. Keeping up with the idiot dumb blonde from Australia? …Yes.

I sigh, throwing my stuff by the bed and open my laptop up.

I suppose on the other hand, given the circumstances, I can use this time to look for a job over there.

Jobs in Banff I type into Google and the usual pops up: places looking for waitresses, bar attendants, office staff, retail people and some farm jobs.

Slim pickings, and all needing prior experience—which I don’t have.

I only have my bachelors degree in English and Journalism.

I left Uni to go straight to the magazine office, and had been there since, trying to work my way up.

Well, I guess I can apply for these jobs anyway… if I had a current resume.

Great.

Another thing to do in the time that I don’t have. Straining against the willpower of my own eyelids, exhaustion settles in, so finding a job is going to have to wait until later. My eyes drop heavy, and I’m asleep before I can close my laptop.

After spending an entire day waiting around the airport, I’m finally in line to check in at the kiosk for my flight to LA that leaves in three hours…

but what I see above me has me cursing out loud.

Rage setting fire to my blood. “Oh come on! Someone’s gotta be takin’ the piss?

” I curse, seeing the dreaded word delayed in big bold writing on the plasma screen above me.

Not just for my flight, but the others too.

Now, I’m not one to make a scene… but, at this point, what else do I do? I’m past the end of my tether. I’m done. So done!

“Until when?!” I hear an old lady shout at the woman behind the desk, certain that spit was flying through the air at her.

“I’m sorry, the heatwave has caused a few planes to run technical errors today. We will hear from the captain soon and inform passengers when the flight can depart,” the worker replies to the old woman.

With frustration at an all time high, I huff “I need a drink” under my breath, taking my bags and finding a route to the nearest airport bar. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what I said: I’m never drinking again , but this doesn’t count.

It’s just shy of 3 A.M. and finally an announcement calls over the airport speakers.

“All passengers traveling from Sydney to Los Angeles on flight Q078, your flight is ready to board at Gate 8.” I’ve wasted my sparse cash on three red wines just to calm down after ten panicked, stressed and painful hours of waiting.

Ten!

Though, calm isn’t at all how I’ve been feeling— I’m hot, boiling, and very flustered no thanks to this manuscript and damn wine.

I made the most of it by charging all of my devices at the docks.

And I don’t know how, but I managed to work on my client’s manuscript, which I’ll post to her once I get to LA.

To my surprise, I didn’t cry or wallow over the sweet, little love story.

Maybe not, but tears still ran from… elsewhere.

It was by far the hottest story I’ve had the pleasure of working with.

Saying that it made me feel a little flustered and warm between the legs would be the understatement of the year.

The red wine didn’t help either. Involuntarily, my thighs pinch together.

Nope. Let’s not lose ourselves in horny land. Now is not the time.

Damn you red wine! It always does that—makes me flushed, and horny.

The good feeling fades very quickly, nerves and panic taking charge because I’m actually about to do this.

I’m about to board a humongous airplane, spend the next fourteen or so hours flying over the ocean with no land in sight and actually leave my country.

I’ve even had a couple days for that reality to sink it, but it hasn’t.

With a sweaty, shaky hand I grab my tote, and hand my ticket to the attendant by the desk. “Welcome aboard, have a s—” The lady pauses, grabbing a small plastic pack of tissues from one of the cupboards and hands it to me with a genuine, empathetic smile. “Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you.” I shakily take the tissues from her, feeling another round of tears dripping down my cheek, and board the massive double decked plane to Los Angeles, praying to whatever Gods exist that it stays up in the air for the next fourteen hours.

The captain announces that it’s nearly ten o’clock on a Tuesday night, and somewhere around fifty five degrees Fahrenheit—whatever that converts to I don’t know, but it sounds cold—as we hit the tarmac at LAX.

How strange, it doesn’t feel like 10 P.M. Traveling backwards in time is weird and now my brain doesn’t know day from night.

Since I don’t have the funds for international data roaming, I leave my phone on airplane mode and follow the signs until I reach an area to sit down with WiFi availability. When I do, I find whatever accommodation nearby that I can afford with a free shuttle bus to get me there.

My next flight isn’t until Friday, so I can spend the next few days walking around LA and see what the celebs get up to down that famous street they always show in movies and stuff. At least walking is free.

“Ow!” I squawk, rubbing my now tender arm from some guy bowling past me. I’m just trying to get outside of this darn airport and everyone is running around like maniacs.

What’s with that?

When I reach the doors, it occurs to me the sheer size of this place. Los Angeles’ airport is at least three times the size of Sydney’s, and ten of Gold Coast’s. The air outside is much brisker than what the captain said, but if I want to get to this hotel I have to face the chill like a woman.

The shuttle ride was short, as was the time I spent at the kiosk for my room key.

The hotel is run down, but still standing.

There is mold on the walls, random dark patches on the furniture in the lobby, as well as run marks in the carpet.

There is a smell coming from somewhere, but I don’t know what, and I’m fighting—with an incredible amount of willpower—my gut to not vomit.

But with all of that being said, I at least have a bed to sleep in, and food to eat in the morning.

By the time I reach my room, my eyes are burning, and my body is aching.

Sitting for 24 hours isn’t a thing I’d recommend.

I try to run a shower to soothe my bones as I’ve not had once since I left the hotel in Sydney, but the water may as well be cold, so I give up and curl under the blankets.

I drift into a disturbed sleep, accompanied by no other than more tears and gloom.