Page 6 of Bad Girl
I put my fork down and reached for the bottle.
??????
When I woke up it was dark.
I turned onto my side and the room tilted with me. I lay very still for a moment, waiting for it to settle, instantly regretting the second bottle. Or the third glass. Whichever one had been the bridge too far.
From the kitchen I could hear Finley rummaging. Cupboard doors. The soft mechanical whirr of the microwave, then the ping.
I wondered idly how much radiation it took to kill someone, then dismissed the thought. A kitchen appliance was a boring way to go and I was fairly certain the cheese toasties he made at midnight didn’t count as a weapon.
I blinked at the ceiling until my faculties started returning one by one, slow and reluctant.
Then I remembered.
The phone. The website. The very confident clicking.
Fuck.
I grabbed my phone from under the duvet and opened my emails with one eye closed.
There it was. Bold. Official. Unignorable.
Booking confirmation.
Croatia. Return flight. Twenty-six pounds each way.
No hotel. No accommodation. Nothing else at all.
I checked my texts.
Me:Haha, Dad, my flight was cheaper.
Dad:Good girl. Where are you going?
Me:Crotcha
Dad:Where?
Me:Dunno. Somewhere in Europe. Night dad. Luv u.
Dad:Love you too. Text me when you’re sober.
I stared at the conversation for a long moment.
My poor Dad, he knew I was hammered.
I switched back to the confirmation email and read it properly this time, or as properly as I could manage with wine still softening the edges of everything. Five days. A little over two hours in the air. Departure in—I did the maths slowly—less than two weeks.
I typed Croatia into my browser and lay there in the dark scrolling through images. Coastline so blue it looked edited. Old stone towns spilling down hillsides toward the water. Lavender fields. Forests that looked like they’d been there since before anyone thought to name them.
My grandparents had come from somewhere near there. I’d always meant to look into it properly and never had.
The heaviness that had been sitting in my chest all evening shifted slightly. Not gone. Just—different.
As soon as I started thinking about what Finley would say, I made myself stop.
I was going. That was it. If he wanted to come, he could pay his own way for once. I was done subsidising his life one transfer at a time.
