Stories We Ruined Together Pt. 01

* Author note *

___________________

Hello, I hope you enjoy reading the first part of this story, which I will be writing in a serialised form. It's a slow-burn, hopefully it's ideal for readers who enjoy character development, complex relationships, a mix of sex and story, and the avoidance of cliché and tropes. For a more direct story, written by me a few years ago, have a look on my profile. Feedback of all kinds, whether positive or criticism, is a big deal because it makes writing here worth it, so please do let me know your thoughts in the comments if you can, I really appreciate that.

All the best,

Lara

________________________________________________

Another long look up at the dark, closed window and then I'll walk away. That's good actually, there's a line in there somewhere -- dark and closed like... like my heart, or my soul, something like that. I'll write that down. Inspiration strikes me in a moment of despair, again. Or is that just rubbish, in the same way that my last book was so completely rubbish? Well, I'll write it down when I get back in and we'll see. Everything makes more sense when it's written down.

Alright, time to go now. Bye bye Ed. See you never, probably. I'm done now, I'm never going to open up again. Done done done. Hope you're happy. I'll find someone else to write with, someone who isn't so disgustingly sentimental. Honestly sometimes your storylines made me want to puke. When you write, everything is just so... nice. It's all so perfect. Your characters face only the bare minimum of conflict, and it's always of the neatest, cleanest kind. No one ever does anything truly shameful, nothing truly awful ever happens. And you always had to give everyone a happy ending. Everyone except me.

***

That bit about dark and closed hearts doesn't work, it turns out. I typed it out quickly and I deleted it quicker. I have no new ideas, I have no inspiration -- at all, so I'm just going to write the complete history of me and Ed. I'm going to write all about how we met, how we fell for each other, how we almost created a work of respectable literature, and then how we hurt each other, how I very nearly killed him by accident, how we briefly got back together, and how we eventually split up for good. I hope that by the time I'm done, it's all going to make at least a little bit more sense. And that I might feel a tiny little bit better. This story will have some weird parts, some sex, some upsetting events, so my apologies in advance for that. There's things I regret, things that are embarrassing, things that are painful, that I'd prefer to leave out, but that's life, isn't it?

I lived alone. I do now, actually, but back then I lived alone in the pre-cohabitation sense, in the style of "exciting temporary young-adult independence" phase, the fun freedom before some kind of significant sharing. Not completely alone -- Romeo kept me company, with his cold feline stare and constant demands for food. My flat was one of seven formed from a big old Victorian house, converted for maximum profit by some savvy entrepreneur. It had big windows and high ceilings -- awful for heating bills but very nice aesthetically. You don't need to know the name of the town -- it's sort of grizzled and decayingly industrial, but surrounded by lovely green hills, so it could be almost anywhere in the North of England. Don't worry about it.

One day, one fine dull cloudy weekend, I set out to do my food shopping. At half-past ten, because that's how I avoid people. I did my rounds, secured my pasta, my tins of beans, the key vegetables, all the good stuff. And when I steered my trolley to the checkout till, there was Ed, and he was grinning in a way that I later came to know so, so well. He wasn't grinning at me, it was for a colleague, some guy goofing around, but the expression drew me in, I liked him immediately. Please note that I don't say loved. I don't believe in Love at First Sight -- and you shouldn't either. Sorry, that was rude. It's none of my business. Anyway, I liked him a lot.

He ran my things through the scanner thing, and I asked him how his shift had gone - because I'm nice like that, not because I fancied him. He looked at me with deep brown eyes beneath deep brown eyebrows, and talked to me like I really mattered. I wasn't used to that. It went a little bit like this:

"I can't complain. No one screamed at me, no jars of olives smashed on the till belt. And I'm off tomorrow. How's your day been?"

"It's been extremely okay," I said, very honestly, and with my version of a charming smile.

"Extremely okay?"

"That's right, extremely. I'm glad it's over though."

"Oh, why's that?" He frowned at a tin of tuna which had a rebellious barcode, but it worked on the third attempt.

"No reason really, I'm just always glad when the day's over." I blushed a bit -- what I'd intended to be amusing and clever had come out as depressing and sort of.... sad.

"I feel like that sometimes."

"Are you from here? You don't sound like you are," I said, steering the conversation clumsily towards personal details.

"Nah, I'm from down South."

"I knew it."

"Yeah. Guilty secret. Twenty-two thirty, please."

"Sorry?"

"That's the total. Twenty-two thirty."

My blush returned. Luckily there was no one else to hear, I was only embarrassing myself in front of him. "Right, sorry. Card please."

I paid and I think there were a couple more remarks which could be categorised as small talk. And then I went home, alone, and made a cup of tea and tried to continue chapter three of Rosie's Winter of Love. But everything I wrote felt flat, and unconvincing. Really I just wanted to write a sexy scene, but this was supposed to be the chapter in which Rosie spends a long, sad week recovering from her nasty break up with Simon, setting her up well for her decision to go on holiday solo in chapter four. I was feeling lonely and horny, basically. That evening I thought a lot of Ed, not that I even knew his name. I thought about that strong brow, and playful smile. And the extended eye contact that he hadn't had to give, and about how he might like the look of me. My self-esteem wasn't very high back then, but I was aware that sometimes men found me attractive. My friend Brian described me once as "petite with a nice tight bod". It's okay because he's gay. He said that if I could be a bit more open, I'd have them queueing up. But that sounded awful. I really didn't want a line of men waiting for me, I didn't want the hassle. I just wanted to be in love like the characters I wrote, and be able to write about how it felt, to write honestly, and not have to rely on my erratic imagination or Rom Coms or songs. I wanted to live it myself. And some physical affection wouldn't go amiss too.

Well, that night was lost to pathetic wonderings, sad music, half a packet of chocolate-digestives, and an unsatisfying attempt at self-pleasure. But a few days later -- sooner than I actually needed to -- I returned to the supermarket, and there he was again, just as I'd hoped. Two tills were open, and he was busy, so I lingered at the washing powders until it was appropriate to go to him. Taking a breath, I told myself that he wouldn't see my crushing loneliness, that I'd covered it up well. That I looked completely sane, and healthy.

"Hello again."

"Hello."

"I'm back. I needed more food."

"Yeah, that happens to a lot of people. No one's ever satisfied."

I did a big mock sigh, and rolled my eyes in a way that I hoped was funny but also alluring. It probably looked ridiculous. "Well your employers should start selling some products that actually give us some lasting satiation, shouldn't they? I'd pay double for something that would fill me permanently." Was that an innuendo? It wasn't intended to be. He laughed and I knew he was thinking the same.

"Yeah, life is so disappointing, isn't it."

"It is." I nodded enthusiastically. The conversation was on safe ground now for me, so I took up the depressive theme and ran with it. "I don't know why we all bother, really."

"I suppose some people think that things might get better."

"Ha."

He glanced across at the next customer, who had started to arrange tins on the belt. Heavy products first, working along to the more fragile stuff. Good technique. It was a man in his... sixties? Seventies? My guesses never were accurate. He didn't appear to be listening in on our conversation but true ear-wiggers are very careful never to betray their intrusions. I wanted to move this along -- this man I'd met was good looking in a simple, unfussy way, and I liked the way he talked -- the things he said but also the way in which he said them. His voice put me at ease. And I felt that he liked me.

"Eighteen pounds fifty-five."

Wow, what had I spent all that on? This was supposed to be a very cheap top-up shop. Oh, those two bottles of wine, of course. They were the main culprits. I asked to pay by card, and asked for the receipt, and then with what I must say was a very, very smooth flourish, I pulled from my jeans pocket a biro I had placed there cunningly and wrote my phone number on the receipt. I added 'call me?', and scribbled a lopsided smiley face onto it, for maximum persuasive effect, and handed it to him. A quick look over told me that the other customer hadn't clocked anything. He was placing his peppers.

Ed smiled at me, and took the receipt. "I'm Ed," he said, and held out a large right hand, and I met it with my little one.

"Lizzie. Nice to meet you."

"You too. Have a good one." He poked his tongue out at me, childishly, charmingly, and turned to the guy in his sixties or seventies. "Evening, how's it going?"

I left happy. Back in my flat I switched on my desk lamp -- a small concession to the near pitch-dark of the room, and reluctantly done because I always loved the blackness of it, and would have happily sat like that if it didn't make the laptop screen so painfully bright. I poured myself a very full glass of one of the bottles of red wine -- not the absolute cheapest they had to offer, a sensible compromise. Seated, I took a few long, slow breaths to bring myself into my writing zone, and then attacked the chapter concerning Rosie's melancholic recovery week.

Ten minutes later Romeo interrupted me with his harsh cries for sustenance, and I got up, fed him, sat back down again, and surveyed the words I had added to the screen. I had to admit to myself that it was all pretty limp. Rosie walking along the seafront, feeling an icy breeze in her hair, smiling bravely through tears at the couples and families and friends walking in the opposite direction... it was all a bit... a bit weak. I didn't believe any of it myself. I slaved away for a little while loner and then decided to call it a night. Unplugging my phone from the wall charger, I saw a message that wasn't from my family group or my French language practice group or my very annoying work group. It was from a new number, and I knew it was Ed. Do you fancy a drink tomorrow night. Yes, I replied. Yes I do.

If the way I've described my life so far seems a bit... barren, well, it was. My admin job bored the hell out of me, I loved the cat but got absolutely bugger all back from him in terms of affection, my social life had mysteriously evaporated apart from Brian (I was so thankful for him), and Kelly who only ever wanted to meet so that she could vent about her cheating fiancee. And the books I self-published to very very modest success were just becoming more and more frustrating. I had no good ideas, and no spark. For the books. Or for the rest of my life. Thirty-one years old and life really did feel like it was drifting away a bit.

I'd never been the cleverest, or the most beautiful, but I'd got through A-Levels and university alright, and I'd always had a boyfriend of some description. I slid into my admin work, reluctantly and without much dignity, and I did a thoroughly half-arsed job and complained about it a lot to family and the remaining friends whom I managed, for a few years at least, to keep entertained with my occasional drunken escapades and wacky anecdotes. But I picked up writing and ran with it, and I poured a lot of myself into the stories of young women and young men and young werewolves who took their own lives in their own hands (or paws), and made brave, exciting decisions, and met change with vigour, full of passion and fire for the challenges and fights and loves that fate thrust upon them. Fate thrust nothing upon me. No one had done any thrusting on me in several months. And the worse part was I felt no real desire for it -- until now, until a stranger with a bright smile and sympathetic words at the supermarket. I went to bed that night happy, happy that something might be about to happen.

And it did, something did happen. I went to work the next day with a little bit of positivity and people commented on it, they said there was something different about me, and I laughed, but my nice laugh, not my cynical laugh. I dealt with my work professionally and without the usual internal monologue of complaints and self pity. At lunch I sat with Daisy and Michelle and Laura and we chatted happily about the latest episode of Love Island (which I hadn't seen) and the latest scandal in the Senior Leadership Team regarding sleazy Bill (whom I didn't know) and the events of the Christmas do night out three weeks ago (which I hadn't attended). Sitting there with them, pretending and laughing and making little jokes, I thought yeah... I could probably do this more often... I'm good at acting. And it's almost like I'm actually having fun. I'd expected the day to crawl, considering how much I was looking forward to the evening, but it zipped along quite nicely. Five came around and I was hardly even ready for it.

On the bus home nerves started to hit me. There's a writing podcast I listen to religiously, and they had a new episode out, but I couldn't concentrate. I missed my stop and had to walk back on myself ten minutes. I stepped in three puddles. But I made it back and managed to cook and eat some pasta, wash up, tidy up the flat (just in case), and drag myself into and then out of a hot shower. I stood there, wrapped in a towel in my cold, cold bedroom, and wrestled with the choice of what to wear. A real doozy, a real back and forth brain-teaser between my two good date night outfits. In the end I went for the short midnight blue satin dress, that looks faded enough to be casual, but still looks quite nice. I arranged my hair to fall down my back like a chocolatey stream, which was not difficult because that is of course exactly what it would naturally do anyway. I considered my small collection of necklaces but couldn't decide on one, and gave it up. As I did with the perfumes. None of them had brought me a partner who could really love me anyway, so why trust them now.

I ate leftovers and scrolled through social media on my phone, without really intaking anything. Then I turned on the writing podcast and half-listened to that, and thought about Ed, and wondered if he was very nervous about this. There was no reason to be. A well-adjusted person would only be the tiniest bit apprehensive, because it's not a big deal. Except to me, that night, it was, I felt that I was on the precipice of something, and that it would be very good or very bad or a dizzy blend of the two, and that feeling was oppressive. There I was, in the hour before what should by rights have been a chilled-out, low stakes first date, and I was all knotted and pulled and tugged, like I was about to go for the most important job interview of my life. Or to my own trial. Where had the light, fun Lizzie of that same morning disappeared to? I sighed and shook my head at Romeo, who had fixed me with a judgy stare. That cat is the king of judgy stares. Such a bitch. Then my phone pinged and it was a message from Ed, suggesting a pub we could meet at. I knew the place -- independent, sort of nice but down to earth. I very occasionally went there with Brian, when his hectic schedule of work at the hospital and myriad social engagements allowed him.

The time to go rolled around, and I gave Romeo some extra treats for good luck, and he blinked slowly at me, which I took as a good sign. My Mum had told me that cats did that in place of smiling. It was one of the few interesting things I ever learned from her. But this story doesn't dwell on my parents -- so don't worry, I'm not going to go off on a long rant with respect to how my Mum never had time for me, and my Dad was a nervous wreck who exhausted everyone around him -- even though those things are true and I probably should try to talk about them more. Better I do that with a professional. No offence. Anyway. Back to that night.

He was waiting for me outside, and I saw him and his nice face and those eyebrows that I liked, and his hair the same colour as mine but short and sort of wavy, and fashionable stubble which wasn't my cup of tea, but fine. And I felt another hit of that premonition, that this was going to lead to something significant, one way or another. We did an awkward handshake thing, and laughed about it, and in we went, and we both asked for wine, and he paid and I said I would pay the next round, which isn't really something to say when neither of you yet knows if they're going to want to spend two drinks worth of time with the other. Except I did know. Or I was fairly sure I did.

We sat and he asked me how my day had been, and I talked about work for around one-hundred and twenty seconds, and tried to make it sound interesting by exaggerating the foibles of my colleagues. He nodded along, and the something in his expression made me think he was aware of my liberal treatment of the truth. Which wasn't a good start. I wanted to say hey -- look, I'm not lying here. I'm simply making things a bit more colourful, so that you'll enjoy the conversation more. I'm thinking of you here. I'm a nice person. But of course I didn't say that, that would make me look unhinged. Which I was not.

"How about you, how's your day been?"

Ed raised those wonderful eyebrows and took a big sip of wine. Really I had expected him to get beer, a smooth German Pilsener. Or some obscure local cider.

"I can't complain. I did the early shift, and that was pretty easy, and my best friend -- he works there too -- had just got engaged the night before, and was really really happy, so that was great to see."

"Ah, nice," I said, and it sounded inauthentic.

"Yeah. And then I went home, and out for a run, and then just chilled out, basically."

"Sweet. Where do you live? I mean like, are you from round here, do you live alone or like share with people, or family, or whatever."

He named an area I wasn't familiar with on the edge of town. "I like it there, you can get out into the hills pretty quickly. And I'm with housemates, I've lived with them a couple of years. Gareth and Mary. Nice people."

"Cool, cool. I live on my own. Well, I have a cat. He's called Romeo."

"Is he."

"Yes, he is."

We tooled around with conversation on family and friends and hobbies for a while, and then, when I came back with the mooted second round, Ed asked me what I liked to do outside of work, and I told him about the writing.

"Okay, so it's like... erotic stuff? Or just... romantic?"

I felt defensive even with nothing to defend. "They're romantic novels. Sometimes there's some like, sexual content, obviously. But that's not the purpose."

"No, of course not." Smiling.

"Cheeky monkey." I laughed despite myself.

"And you self-publish them?"

"Yes. I do. And some people actually enjoy reading my work, you know."

"I never said they didn't."

"No, but you were thinking it." I wagged a finger, happy to back onto safe, jokey ground. "You probably think I'm a right sad sack, sat at home with my cat, drinking endless cups of tea and writing soppy stories."