The First Last Kiss Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Ali Harris
I’ll want to slip back under the covers, kiss away my disloyalty, make love to him, get lost in the comfort of him, of us, of the only good thing I’ve ever known.
I quickly scribble a note for Ryan so he knows that I’ve been home and – more importantly – that he knows that I’m coming back.
Ry, I couldn’t sleep so I’ve left for work early. I’ll be home later.
I love you.
I raise the biro from the envelope I’ve been scribbling on. Then I lower it again to add:
I’m sorry.
Molly x
I pick up my bag and I look back at our homely flat. It’s like looking at a scrapbook of my life. There’s the Hadleigh Castle print that my dad bought and framed for me to remind me of home when I first went to uni. I’ve placed it on the desk in the corner of our lounge and the print of John Lennon and Yoko hangs above it. The Philippe Starck Louis Ghost chair we got as a present to each other when we bought this place sits under the desk. Over the fireplace is the canvas print of the pebbles that I photographed when Ry and I first moved in together at Jackie and Dave’s three years ago. The sofa is the white Ikea one Jackie and Dave put in the annexe for us. It’s not so white any more so it has a dark-blue throw over it. I turn back to the door and smile sadly. On the back of it is an empty gold picture frame we solemnly put up the night the last episode of Friends aired. It was just a short few months ago but it feels like years ago now. None of it feels like it belongs to me any more. I open the door and on my exit, I trip over the Union Jack doormat (another of Jackie’s touches) and stumble into the communal hallway, the door slamming shut, without any encouragement from me. It’s as if it’s spitting me out onto the street with disgust.
My phone rings in my bag and I glance into it, dreading that Ryan’s woken up, seen my note and wants me to come back. I look at the screen before answering, the relief desperately evident in my voice.
‘Molly?’ says a friendly but concerned voice.
‘Oh, Casey . . . ’ I reply as a fresh flood of tears pour down my face.
‘Hey, shhh, babe, Moll, it’s OK! Whatever it is, it’s going to be OK,’ she says soothingly.
‘It won’t, Casey, it won’t.’ I sob, looking back at our front door as I descend the staircase.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ she asks.
‘Can I come over?’ I beg, suddenly needing to get away from London, from the scene of the crime. I can’t go to work. Not today. I don’t care how it looks. I need to be with her, see the beach, breathe in the sea air, get some space to think and work out what I’m going to do and she’s the only person who can help me, the only person who knows Ryan and I well enough.
We’re walking along the mile-long stretch of Southend Pier, a journey we’ve taken a million times. Casey is clutching my arm, just like she used to when we were teenagers. Back then it made me feel strong, needed, but now I’m feeling comforted by her presence, like she can take me back to a time when Ryan and I were still happy.
I burst into tears when she picked me up from the train station a little after 8 a.m. She was still in her pyjamas but even these were typically Casey, cute little flannel shorts which she’d teamed with leg warmers, a big pink Gap hoodie that contrasted perfectly with her olive Greek–Italian skin and granite-black hair. We drove back to her place, she made me a cup of tea and I sat on her bright-pink sofa and cried as I told her everything. Then she threw on some warmer clothes and told me we were going for a walk to blow the cobwebs away.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking about this, babes, and I really don’t think it’s as bad as you think,’ Casey says after a rare moment of silence that was only induced by the wind literally taking our breath away.
‘You think?’ I look at her doubtfully. ‘Really? Do you think Ryan will forgive me?’ It is a moment of fleeting hopefulness that is
I quickly scribble a note for Ryan so he knows that I’ve been home and – more importantly – that he knows that I’m coming back.
Ry, I couldn’t sleep so I’ve left for work early. I’ll be home later.
I love you.
I raise the biro from the envelope I’ve been scribbling on. Then I lower it again to add:
I’m sorry.
Molly x
I pick up my bag and I look back at our homely flat. It’s like looking at a scrapbook of my life. There’s the Hadleigh Castle print that my dad bought and framed for me to remind me of home when I first went to uni. I’ve placed it on the desk in the corner of our lounge and the print of John Lennon and Yoko hangs above it. The Philippe Starck Louis Ghost chair we got as a present to each other when we bought this place sits under the desk. Over the fireplace is the canvas print of the pebbles that I photographed when Ry and I first moved in together at Jackie and Dave’s three years ago. The sofa is the white Ikea one Jackie and Dave put in the annexe for us. It’s not so white any more so it has a dark-blue throw over it. I turn back to the door and smile sadly. On the back of it is an empty gold picture frame we solemnly put up the night the last episode of Friends aired. It was just a short few months ago but it feels like years ago now. None of it feels like it belongs to me any more. I open the door and on my exit, I trip over the Union Jack doormat (another of Jackie’s touches) and stumble into the communal hallway, the door slamming shut, without any encouragement from me. It’s as if it’s spitting me out onto the street with disgust.
My phone rings in my bag and I glance into it, dreading that Ryan’s woken up, seen my note and wants me to come back. I look at the screen before answering, the relief desperately evident in my voice.
‘Molly?’ says a friendly but concerned voice.
‘Oh, Casey . . . ’ I reply as a fresh flood of tears pour down my face.
‘Hey, shhh, babe, Moll, it’s OK! Whatever it is, it’s going to be OK,’ she says soothingly.
‘It won’t, Casey, it won’t.’ I sob, looking back at our front door as I descend the staircase.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ she asks.
‘Can I come over?’ I beg, suddenly needing to get away from London, from the scene of the crime. I can’t go to work. Not today. I don’t care how it looks. I need to be with her, see the beach, breathe in the sea air, get some space to think and work out what I’m going to do and she’s the only person who can help me, the only person who knows Ryan and I well enough.
We’re walking along the mile-long stretch of Southend Pier, a journey we’ve taken a million times. Casey is clutching my arm, just like she used to when we were teenagers. Back then it made me feel strong, needed, but now I’m feeling comforted by her presence, like she can take me back to a time when Ryan and I were still happy.
I burst into tears when she picked me up from the train station a little after 8 a.m. She was still in her pyjamas but even these were typically Casey, cute little flannel shorts which she’d teamed with leg warmers, a big pink Gap hoodie that contrasted perfectly with her olive Greek–Italian skin and granite-black hair. We drove back to her place, she made me a cup of tea and I sat on her bright-pink sofa and cried as I told her everything. Then she threw on some warmer clothes and told me we were going for a walk to blow the cobwebs away.
‘You know, I’ve been thinking about this, babes, and I really don’t think it’s as bad as you think,’ Casey says after a rare moment of silence that was only induced by the wind literally taking our breath away.
‘You think?’ I look at her doubtfully. ‘Really? Do you think Ryan will forgive me?’ It is a moment of fleeting hopefulness that is