Page 46 of Almost Ours

For the brief moments I share with Ruby, I very rarely think of James.

Usually that's enough to make me feel guilty. It doesn't matter whether I'm laughing with Ewan or watching something on telly. The second I realise I've forgotten for a minute, it hits me. Like I'm somehow getting on with my life when he doesn't get one anymore.

It doesn’t happen when she’s around.

I don't really understand it and I’m trying not to think about it too much.

When I wake up on Saturday morning, sunlight is forcing its way through the gap in my curtains. My room is warm enough that I’m sweating a bit. I roll onto my back and find myself staring at the ceiling. It takes a few seconds to come to.

I reach for my phone, blinking at the screen until the numbers stop swimming. 11:08. Earlier than I'd have guessed considering I didn't fall asleep until after three, but late enough that I can hear cupboards opening and closing down the corridor, followed by a burst of laughter I know is Ewan.

There's a stack of notifications waiting when the screen lights up. Missed calls. Messages, most of them just my name, over and over, as if she thinks repetition will eventually get her somewhere.

BONNIE (00:00): please just talk to me

BONNIE (00:00): you can’t ignore me forever

BONNIE (00:00): there’s so much you don’t know

BONNIE (03:13): Josh, please can we talk?

BONNIE (09:40): I miss you x

I don't bother to read the rest.

Bonnie Smith can fuck all the way off.

With a heavy sigh I swing my legs over my bed and pull on the first top I find on the floor, shove my feet into a pair of trackies and head downstairs, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

My football boots are lined up beneath the radiator drying out from training giving off a funky stink, contending with the smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen.

Brooke's standing by the hob with a frying pan in front of her while Ewan's sat at the breakfast bar, phone propped up beside his mug.

"Morning," Brooke greets me brightly.

"Morning,” I grumble, heading straight for the cupboard. I pull a mug down from the shelf—the blue one Ewan insists is his despite the fact it came in a set of four—and drop a teabag into it.

Ewan looks up from the breakfast bar, a smirk spreading across his face. "Look who decided to grace us with his presence."

"Morning to you too." I grunt, filling up the kettle while he watches me over the rim of his mug.

Behind me, his chair tips back onto two legs, even though I keep telling him it will end badly one day. "Didn’t fancy coming out for a few drinks last night?"

Brooke glances over from the hob. She's in Ewan’s clothes, a deep purple bonnet on her head, making scrambled eggs and bacon, though judging by the mixing bowl, cracked shells and butter wrapper scattered across the worktop, the kitchen's taken a fair beating to get there.

"Yeah," She thoughtfully adds. "I thought you were going to come?"

"Nah, I needed some sleep."

Ewan snorts. "Likely story. What happened? Did you bring a girl back?”

I lean against the counter while the kettle boils, folding my arms across my chest. “No.”

"Are you sure? You weren’t on the pull or anything?" Ewan asks, grey eyes assessing me. He’s the only person who knows about my depression. He also knows I’m nearly never on the pull. Which means he’s trying to pry without seeming like he is. Checking in on me. Making sure I’m okay. I can’t get angry over it because no one else is.

"Nah." I shake my head. “Don’t be daft. I got into bed.”

"But you were awake when I came in at half-three?"