30 Days (Lost Love Trilogy #1) - Belle Brooks Page 0,9

good day. This curse won’t let it be, it never does.

“What to wear?” I chant, sliding hangers, stopping when a navy-blue dress comes into sight. Hoping it still fits me, I pull it over my head. The zip is hard to slide but soon fastens in place.

“Mum,” I call, walking out of the bedroom. She doesn’t answer. “Mum …”

I clomp up the stairs, leading to the upper level of our house. Opening the door to her bedroom with little regard for her privacy, I see she’s sound asleep. This doesn’t stop me from waking her.

“Wake up,” I yell.

Her eyes spring open then squeeze shut. “What’s the matter, petal?”

Your breath stinks. “Yikes, you need a mint.”

“If you’re just going to be cruel, leave me alone.”

“Sorry. That was mean. I’m mean, I know. I’ve turned into a horrible person.” I take a long breath. “But I’ll do be better. I’ll try to be better. Can I use your make up?” I place my hand, gently, on the blankets covering her arm. “You don’t want me looking like a troll for my job interview, do you?” I announce. Hoping she might believe more than I do that I can refloat the sinking ship that’s become my life.

Her lips move until they form a half smile. “Yes, the interview,” she croaks, pulling her body into a sitting position, her back supported by the dark wooden bedframe. “I’m glad you’re going.”

“You knew?” I’m shocked.

“Yes, of course.”

“So you let them do what they did? The stupid intervention?”

She combs her fingers through her hair. “You invented the silly thing with your friends all those years ago. I knew you’d abide by the rules.”

Putting my hand over my chest, I mouth the word, “Pain.”

“You’ll survive. Makeup is in the top drawer in the en suite.”

I huff before entering. “It’s spotless in here,” I shout.

“Yes, because I care, unlike you.”

“Whatever,” I say in song.

Her laughter reaches my ears. “Don’t forget to moisturise first, you brat.”

Forget that. Rummaging through the drawer, I find some liquid foundation, our skin types remarkably similar in colour.

Mum staggers into the bathroom. I can see her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.

“I have to pee,” she declares, sitting down on the toilet.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Once done, she washes her hands at the opposite basin.

I still fumble through her things.

“Let me do your make up for you,” she gripes. “Go and get a chair from downstairs. You’re too tall.”

I can’t help but smile because I’m pleased. My mum is a good person. Me, on the other hand, her opposite.

Minutes late, I return with a chair. Mum presses my shoulders, lowering me down. Smooth liquid glides onto my skin from her steady hands. “Close your eyes. I need to put on some shadow. Do you want neutral or colour?”

“Neutral.” A comfortable silence falls between us. “I had one of those panic things again,” I mumble before looking into her tired eyes.

“I see.”

“I don’t like talking about Mike.”

“I can see why you don’t, but you should. Maybe you need to talk to a professional?”

“Nope. You’ll do.”

She smiles sympathetically. “I’m a nurse, Abigail, not a psychologist.”

I don’t answer, so she allows the conversation to end there.

“And we are done,” she exclaims. “Now, go put your hair up. You’ll do great. I need to go back to bed, honey. I’ve been pretty tired lately.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Her eyes bulge, as if she’s shocked by my reply.

“I still notice things, Mum. I’m not dead.”

She rubs my shoulder.

I really have been completely self-absorbed. “Sleep tight.”

“Good luck, Abigail.”

I’m going to need it.

FOUR

Unsuspecting

“Good morning, Bertha.” I tap gently on her hood.

Bertha is the nickname my dad gave to the VW on the day he bought her for me. She’s a bit slow to start, and I’m praying there’s enough fuel to make the twenty-minute drive into Maroochydore. The needle on the gauge indicates less than a tenth of a tank.

Traffic is smooth as I make my way into the seaside town, and before long, I’m taking the final bend towards my destination with a little fuel still onboard.

“Three hundred and forty-six … three hundred and forty-eight … three hundred and fifty,” I mutter before spying the three-storey building constructed from hundreds of panels of glass. A gigantic red and gold sign reads Sims, General, and Klein Lawyers.

Finding somewhere to park proves extremely difficult, especially since I’m so unlucky. I end up driving around the block about six times before a spot becomes available. When I finally secure one, the dash clock reads 10:40 a.m.

Made