Sunshine Kisses

Mulling over what Alex had said the night before, Erik prepared his opener as he boiled water, folded filter paper, and set the beans to grind. How exactly did you broach something like this when you’d been best friends since infancy? When your families spent every celebration together? If she didn’t feel the same, each Christmas, Easter, and birthday in their immediate future was about to become unbearable.

Abby, I adore you and I want to date you.

Hey, Sunshine, I think I’ve been in love with you for as long as I’ve understood the concept.

You’re perfect, and I already know I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

In the end, he went with none of them.

By the time the coffee was ready, Abby was slumped over the kitchen island.

‘Here you go, Sunshine.’ Erik handed her a steaming mug loaded with milk and sugar.

She smiled up at him sleepily. Even exhausted, hungover, and with her blonde curls a rumpled mess, she was so pretty. His shirt was at least three sizes too big for her, hanging off one small shoulder. He was desperate to touch the exposed skin there.

‘You said something last night…’

Her eyes widened in panic. ‘Oh lord,’ she groaned. ‘Erik, I was so drunk. Ignore every word.’

‘Even what you said about Claire?’

Abby froze. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I should get home. I have a test tomorrow and I haven’t even started studying.’

Faster than he’d thought her hungover body would be able to move, Abby was darting to the front door. Erik leapt out of his seat, following her quickly as his heart plummeted.

‘Abby, wait.’

‘I’ll see you at school,’ was all she said right before she grabbed the spare set of keys to her house that hung in their hall and disappeared through the door, still wearing his clothes.

Chapter 8

Little Bit of Truth – You Me At Six

I

f the (printed and laminated) itinerary Abby had been presented with the previous evening was to be believed, she would be afforded very little time to work on her thesis in the coming week. It would have been wise to spend an hour before bed going down a research spiral or attempting to put her thoughts on page. Instead, she lay in the spot Erik had sprawled earlier and opened the draft of her novel.

Abby typed furiously, determined to channel her anger and…frustration over Erik’s behaviour at the bar into something productive. She’d last left off in the midst of a flirty, banter-filled scene between her main characters. Thanks to her sour mood, the tone was quickly shifting. Fun jests grew barbs; gazes filled with fire; light voices turned terse.

Writing had always been therapeutic for her. Weaving her troubles into fiction made them feel smaller. More manageable.

How ironic that Erik had been the one to help her figure that out.

Tell me a story.

It was something they’d been saying for over a decade. Whenever life was too difficult to talk about—whenever one of them would try to open up or ask advice and instead find themselves tongue-tied—the other would ask for a story. There wasn’t much they kept from each other. Wasn’t much they weren’t comfortable sharing. But sometimes the words were hard to come by, and it made it easier to pretend it wasn’t real. An outpouring of emotions in a safe space they had made for each other. And once the seal was broken, the story would often morph halfway, changing from third to first person as they came to terms with the truths they were revealing.

It was a good system.

It was how Abby had realised she wanted to be a writer.

She’d always loved reading. Loved the way books could transport her, transform her. Shape her thoughts and her outlook on life. But it wasn’t until she had begun twisting her own feelings into stories that she had realised how helpful it could be to create. The beauty and comfort she found in books—she could conjure that for other people, all while working through the mess in her own head.

But even with that realisation, writing a whole novel had always felt like a pipedream. One she could barely admit to herself, never mind anyone else. So academia, with its endless papers and journals and explorations of themes and ideas had seemed like a viable substitute. She could write based on the words and worlds of others, with fairly minimal risk of rejection. There was little objectively right or wrong when dissecting literature, only how well you could justify your arguments. As long as she could find supporting evidence, she had the power to make just about anything true. It was a superpower she often wished for in the real world.

Over the years she had daydreamed about the story she might tell, once she was brave enough. And when even her beloved university books had begun to feel like a gilded cage, that document filled with snippets of dialogue and vaguely outlined scenes—the one that was just for fun—had begun to call her name.

Every spare moment of the last six months had been spent working on it. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t anywhere near finished. But it was hers. And she loved it.