Page 33 of Tears of Ink

Next, I open my Messenger Inbox. There’s a message from Eli Jones. My heart pounds a little, but I try to shut it down.

Eli Jones: I’m not engaged.

I hesitate. Why’s he even telling me? What does it even matter? But then I remember I was the one who’d asked the question in some weird uncontrollable blurt of words.

Faith Hitchin: Don’t care.

Eli Jones: That’s good.

That’s good? What does that mean?

Faith Hitchin: Why are you Eli Jones on Facebook?

There is a pause and I wonder where he’s gone. Our conversations are random.

Eli Jones: Have you seen my other profile?

What’s he talking about? I click out of Messenger and search for Elijah Fairclough on Facebook. There he is—with five thousand friends. I have to double check I’ve read the figure properly.

Faith Hitchin: I see.

Eli Jones: Have you decided about Bowsley?

I stare out the window at the dark sky and darker trees.

Faith Hitchin: Yes. Can we talk tomorrow?

Eli Jones: Ominous.

Faith Hitchin: Don’t be a baby.

Eli Jones: What time tomorrow?

Faith Hitchin: ten am?

Better to get it over and done with. I put my phone in my hobo bag as the train glides into London Victoria. I’m home—for now. But my home is changing, moving, like it always does. I’m tired and I want to sleep, so I swallow the expense and take a taxi home, not even bothering to wash or change before I crash onto my bed.

I can only wait to see what tomorrow brings and where I’ll be going next.

C H A P T E R E L E V E N

At nine am, I’m twitching. I can’t seem to calm myself down. Elijah will be here, with those blue eyes—here in my apartment.

I hate the way I’m reacting to the prospect of seeing him. I can’t stop sweating and have been walking around with tissues wedged under my armpits—this damn heat is going to be the end of me.

Why did he tell me he wasn’t engaged? It’s no skin off my nose either way. I’m pulling down the swathes of blue material I’ve hung in my apartment, too, when someone raps a knock against the front door of the apartment.

“Go away, Gerard,” I holler. “I’m not interested in your shit.”

There’s another knock and I groan. “Faith? It’s Elijah?”

What the hell? This isn’t ten o’clock.

“Hold on.” In horror I sweep a glance around. It looks like pigs live here.

“Faith.” Another knock. “Faith.” Another knock.

Okay, so that’s damn annoying.