Page 3 of We Live Here Now

2

Freddie

Jesus, I can’t believe I’m in this mess.

It’s getting dark outside, marginally preferable to the endless suffocating gray of the awful winter moors, and even though the heating’s on I’m cold again. There’s always a draft in this bloody house and it does nothing to improve my mood.

The warmth of the Aga stove seeps through my jeans as I lean against it, boiling water for pasta. My phone’s on silent in my pocket, just in case , and I can hear Emily’s stick tapping as she explores the house, her walk a slow echo of her usual confident—overconfident—stride. The sound makes me feel worse.

I am not a good person. How could I have done this to her? How can I still be doing it to her? After what she’s been through. Everything she’s been through. The guilt—the constant fear of discovery—is a cancer inside me. How have I got myself so trapped?

I turn on the radio, needing distraction, some cheesy nineties local radio station, and whistle along, feigning normality, as I add pasta to the boiling water and dig around in the cupboard for a sauce.

I can sort it. I have to. It’s all going to be fine. It is.

As long as Emily never finds out.