Love Will Wait ✓

chapter one

CHAPTER ONE

AIMEE

I'm running, moving entirely on autopilot. My legs are numb but I don't care—I'm too desperate to further myself from the distant, echoed pleads of my supposed-boyfriend, Steve. His voice is determined, tone angry; pissed off at his girlfriend of eight months for not being ready to satisfy not only him, but herself, sexually.

            Adrenaline is rushing through my veins, making my head spin. My eyes are alert, like a deer caught in headlights because I suppose—in a lot of ways—I am. My heart thumps against my ribcage, threatening to break free if it keeps its momentum up.

            This isn't addictive adrenaline—not the type you chase when you might sneak out of your bedroom window past 12am, your parents none of the wiser—because even before you'd asked their permission and they'd told you no, you knew that there was no way you'd let yourself miss out on the house party everybody from school was going to be attending.

            This adrenaline feels poisonous. Toxic. Like a delayed allergic reaction to something you thought was safe, except it never was.

            It's not until I stop in my tracks, having reached the isolated but lush, grassy fields that the burn throughout my calf muscles catch up with me. My fists, clenched and slick with sweat, bang ferociously on the caravan door; the mobile home vibrating from the pressure. From the need to be wrapped in her arms, hear her soothing voice, and the words of wisdom she articulates so effortlessly.

            My shaky, balled fists freeze midair when the sound of her groggy voice shouts out. "Bloody hell, I'm coming, alright? Calm your tits, Cynthia."

            The door opens sheepishly, no more than an inch or two, and Maeve peers warily through the small gap. She doesn't notice me at first, glancing straight ahead with her signature scowl—classic resting bitch face—only this one has the Maeve Wiley finishing touch: nose ring, admittedly badly box-dyed brunette hair, and a gaze so cold it could kill if you dared to get on the wrong side of her.

            Metaphorically speaking, she is man and I am mouse.

            "Not quite Cynthia," I choke out.

            It feels like forever when, at long last, her eyes meet mine. To be in her company makes the idea of bawling on her doorstep so easy, but she didn't ask for this. So instead, I inhale deeply through my nose and look up at her through a blurry vision.

            Words usually containing between five to ten syllables suddenly seem to have hundreds as I panic, not knowing how to fill the unexpected silence. Sometimes, it's a wonder she even took the time to get to know me. She's everything I'm not — smart, compassionate, well-spoken.

            "It's early," I finally bark, forcing myself to form sentences. "You didn't ask for me to rock up announced so I'm going to leave. No hard feelings." Maeve's mouth opens and closes, words on the tip of her tongue. I glance over my shoulder at the sage fields, adorned with hundreds of caravans identical to hers. After a moment, I look back at her. "This is so inconsiderate of me. I'm sorry. I'll see you at school."

            I'm turning on my heels when, suddenly, I feel the warmth of somebody's fingertips threading through mine and filling the gaps.

            Hers.

            She's pulling me up with her, wordlessly inviting me into her home.

            Maeve closes the door behind us and turns to face me, stood in the small—very small—living area. It feels awkward to be stood here in the middle of my friend's home, unannounced, at four in the morning with smeared mascara staining my cheeks.

            "Why aren't you saying anything?"

            She shakes her head. "I'm in... shock. What the fuck has happened, Aimee?"

            I'm growing more vulnerable with each second that passes, yet I can identify the difference. This level of vulnerability feels safe, unlike thirty minutes ago when I was naked in his bed, afraid of what he might expect to happen.

            "I'm sorry," I trod around the subject carefully. "I shouldn't have come—"

            "Yeah, you've already said that." I don't need to be looking at her to know that she's focused on me, dark eyes like lasers burning into my head. "Aimes," she sighs. "I'm not mad, okay? Not at you—never at you—not the unannounced visit, the time. None of that stuff matters. I just want to know what's happened."

            Maeve edges closer. Without any warning, I'm pulled into her arms. Tight, warm and secure. I rest my head on her shoulder and allow my eyes to flutter shut, basking in the whispered words of reassurance she speaks into my ear. Reminding me that everything will be okay, even if I can't bring myself to believe her.

            "Okay, here's the plan," she says, pulling apart from our hug and taking my hands. "You're going to go into the bathroom and wash your makeup off while I find you some pyjamas. Once you're looking more like yourself, I'm going to make us some hot drinks and we can sit and talk things through. But you need to talk, okay? Because nobody, especially not Aimee Gibbs, is allowed to come over at," she pauses, eyes flickering up to the clock on the wall, "quarter past four in the morning, looking anything other than her glamorous self, without telling me who I need to kick in the balls for hurting her. Got it?"

            "How do you know—?"

            A loose strand of hair escapes her loose, low ponytail and she tucks it behind her ear. "I've had my fair share of heartbreaks. How else do you think I developed my take no shit demeanour?"

            Remnants of old makeup washed away, I allow her to lead me into her bedroom. She rummages around and finds an oversized t-shirt, handing it to me. "I'll leave you to get changed. If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen making tea."

            My world could be shattering—fuck, it is—so why is there something about her that makes me believe that the shattered pieces of my heart could be glued back together someday and made anew?