Storming out of the kitchen, I look toward Mum’s bedroom door. But with a pained sigh, I turn in the opposite direction, shove my feet into my Uggs and reluctantly turn to look in the mirror in the hall.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, dragging the scrunchie out of my hair and redoing my messy bun—not that it makes a lot of fucking difference.
I’m a mess. The dark circles under my eyes are a stark contrast to my pale complexion, my lips are dry and cracked, and I’m starting to break out on my chin thanks to the amount of takeout and general shit I’ve consumed this week.
Dragging on my coat, I pull my lip balm from my bag and attempt to fix at least one of my issues.
The bitter January air hits me in the face the second I step outside the front door and I suck in a sharp breath, which I instantly regret when it makes my lungs hurt.
Tugging my fluff-trimmed hood over my head, I snuggle into its warmth and push forward.
It might only be a few minutes’ walk, but I can barely feel my face by the time I get to our closest shop, my breaths coming out as white clouds around me.
“Oh my God,” I hiss when the heat inside the shop hits me. I rub my hands together and head for the freezer section.
I grab my poison, feeling excited for the first time all day, and I keep my head down as I turn toward the checkout to pay. Only, I don’t get very far, because I slam straight into a solid body.
“Shit,” I hiss, my tub of ice cream taking the brunt of our collision. “I’m so so—” My apology is cut off as his scent hits me.
My heart slams against my ribs and my palms begin to sweat despite the fact that I’m holding a tub of freezing cold ice cream.
It’s not. It can’t be. No, I tell myself as something other than grief consumes me for the first time in a week.
I’ve heard nothing from the guy from that night. Not one single text after I replied to his the next morning. I was left with nothing but some hazy memories, a sore body, and his jumper that smells exactly like…
No. Fate isn’t that much of a bitch. Is it?
“S-sorry,” I say, trying to duck around him without looking up.
Even if by some miracle it is him, I look like the back end of a dustbin lorry. Running away is the best option here.
It’s the only option here.
I step around him, my tub tucked into my chest protectively as I focus on paying and getting the hell home.
That doesn’t happen, though.
Instead, the world around me comes to a grinding halt as his large hand reaches out, pressing against my stomach, and a deep, “Jodie?” fills my ears.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I hesitate, desperately wanting to run, but also having this weird desire to turn back into his body in the hope he just holds me.
Stepping closer, he reaches out and tugs the hood of my coat down, stopping me from hiding from him.
My stomach knots as he moves in front of me and ducks down.
I want to hide, turn away—anything—but I quickly find myself lost in his blue eyes, and suddenly it’s a week ago and I’m handing myself over to everything he can offer me.
“Toby,” I breathe, his name falling from my lips without instruction from my brain.
His brows pinch in concern as his eyes drink me in.
Shame burns through me, and the desire to tuck my head into my coat like a freaking turtle almost becomes too much to ignore.
I hate that I’ve turned into this pathetic, broken girl.