Page 5 of Stranger to Love

I shrugged. I didn’t need to know her name; it was all good vibes only. She was sweet. I actually kind of liked her. I shrugged to myself—I wouldn’t say no if she turned up in here again. And that was incredibly infrequent for me. Most women I never saw again, and I liked that. I either did exactly as I did tonight and took them straight to the staff room, or, if the vibes were flowing and the timing was right, I might head to theirs. But I never stayed, and never, ever took them to mine. That was the way I liked it. Always had. Always would.

Chapter 2

Alex

Urgh. Working at the bar had turned me into a complete nocturnal animal.

I dragged myself out of bed, barely awake enough to stumble into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee before getting in the shower. Afterward, I stood in the quiet of my room, my head pounding and stomach churning with nausea as I forced down the coffee. It was 7:00 a.m.—earlier than I had willingly woken up in years. I sat down on the edge of the mattress, searching for the will to live, reminding myself why the hell I had decided a degree was worth this stupidly early wake-up call.

I threw back some paracetamol, washing it down with a gulp of bitter caffeine. I prayed they’d kick in fast so I could actually think straight and pay attention today. I couldn’t afford to fail at this. Literally. If I did, working my arse off for the last two years—saving enough to cut my hours and not slave away every waking moment—would have been entirely pointless.

I heard the creak of the stairs as my Dad headed down to the kitchen. He’d be leaving for work in half an hour. I rubbed my face; I also needed to leave in half an hour. I forced myself to stand. Thankfully, I’d only needed the shower to shock me awake; I’d washed my hair and even shaved my legs yesterday, knowing I’d be hating life this morning.

I dragged my feet over to the old wooden wardrobe, still plastered with stickers from when I thought that was peak childhood décor. I hated this room. It hadn't changed since primary school. Everything was small, old, and scarred: the wardrobe, the drawers, the narrow bed. All of it was dark wood, covered in little knocks and scratches, and burns from where I repeatedly set down my straighteners. There was a permanent scorch mark by the mirror propped against the wall. But the worst offender was the light pink paint, not to mention the border of wallpaper featuring fairies.

I’d contemplated using some of my savings to redecorate, but the guilt stopped me cold. My parents couldn’t afford to do up their own space. What kind of daughter would I be, spending my money on paint, while they were sleeping on a mattress that was older than me?

We weren’t poor to the point of homelessness, but we’d come close more than once. It was hard. My Dad worked relentlessly, but he had barely any qualifications anyone would look at. He left school and never looked back. Now, he was essentially a gofer, doing odd jobs for anyone who asked. Sometimes he ran to tips in his van, always scrounging the rubbish for anything he could sell. Others, he lobbied materials on construction sites. The van truly was the best investment he ever made—it allowed him to pick up all sorts of work, but that was the problem—none of it was a stable income. We never knew how much he’d bring in each month.

Then there was my Mum. She wasn’t... well. She hadn’t been well for a while then, but she did her best, keeping the home going while Dad and I worked, making us dinner from the mostly empty cupboards. She never wasted a thing. She did what she could, but she got tired easily, so she had to pace herself. She wouldn’t be up yet.

I dragged on my underwear, opting for a sports bra because I refused to spend the day with underwire digging into me when I was already dying from exhaustion. I had finished work earlier than normal last night—Mia took pity on me—but I still didn't get home until midnight. I pulled on wide-legged jeans and threw on a bulky hoodie. Who really tries at uni, right?

I stared at myself in the mirror. Maybe I should try a little bit. I was doing a Business Management course, for fuck’s sake.

I willed myself into motion again, yanking off the hoodie and throwing on a fitted vest. I tucked it into my jeans, then layered an open white linen shirt over the top. I sighed and threaded a belt through the loops, the silver buckle adding a deliberate, polished touch. Finally, I dabbed on a bit of makeup—enough to look more human.

Fine. I could maintain this. It wasn't much, but it was enough to look like I hadn't just dragged myself out of bed. I combed my fingers through my long brown hair. Even though it had been up in a ponytail all yesterday, and went to sleep with it wet - it didn't look too bad.

I grabbed my backpack—stuffed to the seams with the textbooks the uni told us to order in advance. Thankfully, I had found a website where ex-students sold off their books, so I got almost them all cheap. Clutching my coffee, I headed down to the kitchen.

My Dad was cradling his own mug, looking far more awake than I felt. He smiled as I downed the last of my lukewarm drink, leaning against the counter across from him in the narrow kitchen. “Well, I never thought I’d see the day you’re up this early,” he teased.

I blinked dramatically. “I’m not sure I am awake.”

He laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Sure. Then I’m back at the club every weekend. Not sure how I’m going to survive this schedule.”

He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “You will, darl, because you’re a hard worker.” He pulled me into a hug that I returned easily. “I’m really proud of you.”

A fierce warmth flooded my chest. He’d always been like this. My Dad was a hardworking man—strong and tough, with broad shoulders and a face that looked ready for a fight. You’d probably shit yourself if you bumped into him in the dark. But to me, he was my softy Dad who never let a day go by without telling me what an awesome person I was. Regardless of never having enough money, I wouldn't decision trade my parents for the world.

“You should go before you miss the bus,” he said, pulling away.

“Yeah,” I nodded, trying to suppress a yawn. "Right." I lightly slapped my own cheek. My Dad laughed. "I've got this."

“Of course you do, darl.” He took my mug to the sink. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I grabbed my bag and headed out, taking the short walk to the bus stop.

I sat on the low wall, pulled out my phone, and scanned my email, opening the link to the uni portal again. Uni was so weird. I had a 9 a.m. class this morning and a 2 p.m. lecture this afternoon, and then that was it. Who designed these timetables? I was looking forward to it, though. Unlike some places I'd heard about, this university did both seminars and lectures. I always learned best when I was actually interacting, not just listening to someone drone on for an hour.

The bus pulled up, thankfully on time. It was a half-hour ride to the university, even though the drive took less than ten minutes. The stops made it take forever. I could have walked, but honestly, who could be bothered? I jumped on, heading straight to the top deck, put in my earphones, and pretended I wasn’t a smooth drive away from passing out.

When we pulled up, I jumped off and stared at the large buildings, even though I’d walked past them my entire life. It was strange, actually walking toward them then. The place was swarming with students, some looking mildly terrified, most looking lost.

Luckily, my Dad had done odd jobs here over the years, setting up Freshers' Fairs. Stalls lined the buildings, advertising apprenticeships, volunteering, and even Amor was there—I thanked any and all gods that The Dam didn’t make us stand at a stall handing out flyers to overly keen, freshly legal teens. Helping my Dad set up heavy tables over the years meant I had a pretty good idea where I was going.