Always You Read online

  Lizzie Morton

  © Lizzie Morton 2020

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Lizzie Morton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior permission in writing of the author, except for the brief use of quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial use permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Acknowledgements

  For Babs – It would never have been read without you.

  One

  This has the potential to be the biggest mistake of my life. Well, one of them.

  It’s been so long since I’ve been home, I’ve forgotten what it’s even like; yet here I am in the middle of Orlando International waiting for my flight back to Brooklyn. I’m surrounded by people milling about, full of excitement for a journey to who knows where, but all I feel is dread. It might have its perks going back. I’ll be back with family, my oldest and closest friends, but then there’s him.

  Even after all this time, I’m not quite sure the pain is worth it.

  When my flight is called for the last time, I take a deep, deep breath and let out a sigh, completely resigned to the potential that everything in my life is about to go wrong.

  ‘Fuck it, here we go.’ I make my way to the gate, muttering under my breath. It’s now or never.

  ***

  Less than three hours. That’s all it takes for me to be thrown back into my old life. Here I am in the childhood room I haven’t slept in for years. It looks like I never left. Tumbling onto my bed, I pray for sleep to come, but instead find myself staring blankly up at the ceiling, my mind racing. It’s surreal being back. Everything looks the same; photos I took as a teenager are still scattered around the walls, my desk is still where it always was, old magazines piled across it. The only new additions to the room are the cameras and kit that I brought back with me.

  Even the window seat is still the same, framed by blue drapes and filled with big squashy pillows – it’s the place where I used to sit and watch the world go by, while trying to make sense of my teenage life. Nothing in this room has changed, apart from me.

  I left six years ago without looking back. Work opportunities were more than enough of an incentive to take me away without a care in the world. How many eighteen-year-olds can say that they were offered a career-making, life-altering job; the chance to work overseas, straight out of high school, without any college or work experience? Not many.

  I just happened to be in the right place, at the right time and captured one amazing photo, which was spotted by the right person. I know how lucky I am to have had that opportunity, and I now have a portfolio of work that photographers twice my age would die for. But that wasn’t the only reason I left.

  There was him. There’s always him. It’s barely been twelve hours since I arrived home, and already my mind is wandering. It’s spinning in circles, thinking about the guy I’ve spent the best part of six years trying to mend a broken heart because of; the one I’ve been trying to forget.

  I’m at risk of all that hard work going to waste, even though I’m not entirely sure if he’s even still in Brooklyn. Our mutual friends know better than to mention him, so I’ve had no information as to his whereabouts. But just being around everything that reminds me of him is enough to turn me back into that heartbroken seventeen-year-old. It’s pathetic really. As much as I love my home, I know I can’t be here for long. It’s not good for me. He’s not good for me.

  My cell lights up on my nightstand and begins vibrating with a call. I look over and see one of my closest friends’ name, Sophie, flashing on the screen. Rather than answering immediately, I contemplate what she could want so late at night. There’s only one scenario that springs to mind, and it involves her and my other close friend Zoe, being wasted and needing my help. Something else that never changes.

  My cell continues to vibrate, urging me to answer, and I ask myself, do I really want to be drawn back into everything I left behind? As I let out what feels like the millionth sigh of the day, I realize there’s no point in not answering. I have nothing better to do, and any hope of sleep is long gone, even if it does mean dealing with Sophie and Zoe’s usual crap.

  I’m hit with the blare of loud music in the background when I answer, and it’s clear my assumption was right, they’re out and most likely drunk. ‘Soph?’

  ‘Abby? Can. You. Hear. Me?’

  ‘I can hear you…what’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Zoe- ‘

  ‘Of course,’ I interrupt, choosing not to try and hide the irritation in my voice.

  ‘Hate to do this to you on your first night back but it’s the usual and I need your help. Zoe’s not in a good way, but she agreed to be designated driver and neither of us have any money…Abby? Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here. What’s the address?’

  It takes another five minutes to make sense of Sophie’s instructions, and finally find that they’re out in Brooklyn at some new alternative music club. It could have been worse, at least I don’t have to drag myself all the way over to Manhattan at this hour to try and find them.

  Slightly delirious from tiredness and not giving a damn what I look like, I grab whatever clothes come to hand, shoving on some footwear, knowing the sight that awaits me is going to be much worse.

  ***

  ‘You have to let me in,’ I plead, for what feels like the thousandth time.

  ‘No.’

  You’d think I would have given up, after half an hour of standing outside the club, begging to get in with still not even a small glimmer of hope. But I’m persistent when I want to be; especially when I know my friends need me.

  ‘Why not?’ I demand. I might not have given up, but I’m getting less tolerant and my attitude is showing.

  ‘We have a strict dress code, ma’am.’ I see red as I look up at the doorman. He’s making my life difficult for the sake of going on a power trip. Typical of a middle aged, balding guy, who’s starting to gain too much timber.

  Glancing back at the line behind me I can see that all the girls are dressed and primped to perfection. Their dresses so short you don’t need to wonder what underwear they’re wearing, their hair so big they should be paying double entry, and their makeup so heavy they will be wearing it for the next week. It’s like in the years I’ve been gone from New York, an unsaid uniform for girls’ nig
ht has become the norm, and what I’m wearing certainly isn’t it.

  ‘Are you saying there’s something wrong with what I’m wearing?’ Looking down, I don’t get what the guy’s issue is.

  ‘Ma’am you’re wearing pajamas, and not even sexy ones… is that a meerkat wearing a baseball cap?’

  ‘No, it’s a sloth wearing a baseball cap, and the slogan is ‘sloth life’. Like ‘thug life’. Get it?’ Maybe he’s right, and judging by what the other girls are wearing, my odds of getting into the club are slim. I’m regretting rushing out the door and not spending more time getting changed. My pajamas and flip flops, even by New York’s eccentric fashion standards are pretty much a no go.

  But time isn’t on my side. Judging by what I heard on the call, I only have a short period of time before Sophie and Zoe deteriorate rapidly, making my job of getting them home more difficult. The more time we waste increase the odds of barfing, which I’m really not in the mood for.

  ‘Seriously. You’re not doing yourself any favors,’ a guy behind me mutters to himself rudely. ‘You’re wearing pajama bottoms to one of the newest clubs in Brooklyn. What do you expect… to get into VIP? Stop wasting our time and get out of the line.’

  Ironically, his rudeness is a massive help. The doorman decides to play the role of Han Solo, coming to my rescue, even though he’s refused my entry for the past thirty minutes.

  ‘Sir, please leave the line. You’re not welcome here.’ He folds his large arms across his chest, and glowers.

  ‘You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me? I’ve been here for three hours almost.’ Within seconds the guy’s demeanor goes from plain rude, to angry and aggressive. He stands tall, squaring up to the doorman with his fists clenched at his sides.

  ‘Sir, I’m not going to ask you again. We don’t speak to ladies in that way. Move it.’ This time Han is more insistent. He squares back up to my offender, puffing out his chest like a giant peacock and towers above him; he’s even making me feel intimidated.

  I look over at the guy, giving him my most passive aggressive, patronizing smile. ‘Pajamas fucking rule, douchebag.’ Cowering slightly and admitting defeat, he steps back, grumbling loudly to his friends as they turn and walk away from the club. Shaking my head with a small chuckle, I return my gaze to the doorman.

  ‘Do I get to go in now?’ Wiggling my eyebrows at him playfully, it’s a last ditched attempt to get in. I’m really clutching at straws now, and if he doesn’t let me in, I don’t know what I‘m going to do.

  ‘No.’

  Damn. This guy is straight to the point, blunt, and there’s no beating around the bush. There is no way I’m stepping foot inside this club tonight. My frustration rises and I begin to panic over what could happen to the girls whilst they’re stuck inside. My patience snaps.

  ‘What the actual fuck? I’m doing you a favor asshole.’ Just in case I hadn’t made my aggravation clear enough, I throw in a foot stomp. Yep, I just stomped my foot at a doorman, stood outside a New York club, whilst wearing my jammies and flip flops. I’m questioning what the hell I’m still doing out here when he replies.

  ‘How so?’ He looks down, amused with one eyebrow slightly raised, taunting me. Deep down I know he’s seeing how far he can push me, but I need to play the game if I’ve any hope of getting to Sophie and Zoe before someone else does.

  ‘Look at it this way…’ I begin carefully. There’s a glimmer of hope, and I need to make what I say next count. ‘How many nights have you had to help clear up vomit? My friends are in there and they have had more than enough to drink, to get themselves to that point. Tonight, could be your lucky night…’ Pulling out the big dogs, I throw in a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. ‘I’ll take those useless drunks off your hands and remove them from your club before they have a chance to barf everywhere. But I can’t do that unless you let me in.’ I look up at him hopeful that I have touched a nerve on some level. My eyes plead with him to give me a break.

  ‘Promise you won’t dance? This club is new and has a reputation to keep up.’

  I snort, trying to suppress a laugh, not wanting to piss him off in any way.

  ‘No dancing, I swear.’ He’s mulling over his options, the fact he’s even considering letting me into the club after all this time is a good sign. The battle’s been won, and it’s just a waiting game I’m more than willing to play.

  ‘You’ve got fifteen minutes max, cause it’s busy in there and I’m being generous. If I see you dancing, I’m hauling your ass out.’

  Smiling with genuine happiness I say, ‘Han, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.’

  ‘Where did Han come from?’

  ‘Well, you were my savior back then with that asshole, and I have a bit of a thing for Star Wars. I sometimes give people I like Star Wars names that I think relate to them. As you saved me, I’ve named you Han, but maybe without the romance.’ I realize my answer sounded more logical in my head.

  He lets out a deep sigh. ‘I don’t need to hear any more, you’re starting to give me a headache. Get inside, get your friends and get out.’

  ‘I hear ya loud and clear. Han, I’m going solo, I’ll see you soon.’ As I walk into the club, a small round of applause comes from those that were in the line behind me, waiting to get in. Looking back over my shoulder, I see a small smile on Hans’ face, and I know I’ve made his night. My walk turns into a scuttle, as the club is busy and my time to find Sophie and Zoe is limited.

  As I move around, trying to find them, I take in the club’s atmosphere. It’s not the usual ‘glam’ or ‘socialite’ crowd that you would expect from a New York club, but that’s because we’re not in Manhattan. Instead it has an indie/rock vibe and the crowd is an odd mix despite the girls I saw in the line outside. It’s the sort Brooklyn has become known for and it’s the exact place I would expect to find my friends.

  Even with the eclectic mix of people, what I’m wearing is out of the norm and I’m gaining attention from the people around me - especially the clusters of girls scoping out their competition for the night. In case I didn’t look grotesque enough, the New York summer heat combined with the amount of bodies squashed together in the club, have sent the temperature through the roof, helping to add a nice sheen of sweat to my already less-than-glamorous look.

  Random bodies are crashing into me, left, right and center and I’m beginning to panic when I can’t find Sophie and Zoe. Endless scenarios run through my mind, where something might have happened whilst I was trying to gain entry to the club. But just when I’m beginning to feel desperate, I hear a cackle above the loud music.

  ‘You could have changed.’ Sophie tumbles over, dragging behind her, a barely there Zoe whilst laughing hysterically.

  Obviously when you’ve had a few drinks everything is much funnier than when you’re stone cold sober. As I’m the latter, I have yet to see what’s so funny about this situation. I assess the mess in front of me and it isn’t pretty.

  ‘Soph. Why does Zoe have Cheetos stuck up her nose?’

  All I get in return is more hysterical laughter, until finally she calms down enough to reply, ‘She was hungry and kept demanding food. When she got to her fifth bag, she started saying something about keeping them safe for later and started shoving them up her nose. You know what she gets like. I couldn’t be bothered to stop her. After that she passed out and I’ve only just managed to drag her over here.’

  She continues babbling, all the time swaying from side to side and her eyes droop slightly when she tries to focus back on the conversation. ‘How much have you drunk since we spoke on the phone? You sounded fine and now you’re as bad as Zoe?’

  She looks up through her eyelashes and giggles, ‘Some guys felt sorry for me having to deal with Zoe, so they bought me a few shots to pass the time while I was waiting for you.’ She shrugs like it’s normal and there isn’t anything dangerous about accepting drinks from strange guys.

  It might have been six years since I’ve be
en home, but my friends haven’t changed one bit, and with that comes the tedious role of looking after them when they get themselves into these states. ‘Seriously, Soph. How many times do we have to go through this? This whole situation is a disaster waiting to happen. What would you do if one night there wasn’t someone to come and get you?’

  ‘Chill out, will you? I’ve only had a few drinks and I’m not even that bad.’ I roll my eyes at her response as she slurs her words. ‘We’ve been waiting like forever; can we just get her out of here now?’

  Zoe is slumped down the wall, no longer able to hold herself up with her own legs. ‘Fuck,’ I mutter, realizing that the only way we’re getting out of here is with Zoe on someone’s back. I look over at Sophie who is spinning in circles with her arms in the air. It looks like I’m the one who has drawn the short straw once again this evening.

  ‘I know you’re not capable of much right now, Sophie, but if we stand a chance of getting out of here, I need you to try and get it together for a few minutes so we can get Zoe on my back. It’s not gonna be long till she starts barfing.’ Her face loses all humor, the threat of vomit making the words register enough in her drunken brain, that she begins to help.

  It takes a few minutes between the two of us, but eventually we manage to get Zoe on her feet and upright. It’s too much to expect that she would be able to somehow coordinate jumping on my back, so instead we loop her arms around my neck, leaning her weight against my back so I can drag her slowly towards the exit. She won’t be happy in the morning, but it’s her own fault for getting so wasted. As we make slow progress, her head begins to loll all over the place and she groans, meaning we have a small window before she barfs everywhere, and I break my promise to Han.

  Folding myself in half at the waist, I squat to try and help lift her small 120lb frame onto my back, so we can move more quickly. Luckily, I’m strong for my size, and even though it’s like trying to carry a large sack of potatoes on my back, I manage to keep moving forward.