TWO

ESTELLA

Slushy grey sleet wet the toes of my boots, chilling my feet with each soggy step through the city streets.

At least I had two glorious weeks off of work. It’s funny how quickly your dream job can become a daily grind. Years of studying and cramming, painful interviews, and what do I end up with? Long dreary days and a lacklustre pay-check.

Cars nudged along the street, nose to tail, like a giant trail of angry ants. I slid sideways between bumpers, the man behind the windscreen scowling out into the masses. Twinkling Christmas lights reflected on the glass, a candle and holly design making it look like he had a glittering dick on his forehead. I couldn’t help but smile as I dodged through the traffic until I reached the other sidewalk.

A quick diversion into the noodle shop below my apartment sorted dinner, and I unlocked the front gate, juggling the paper bag containing my steaming, deliciously spicy-smelling noodles.

The cloying scent of cinnamon greeted me as I made it up the three flights of grime-covered stairs and into my apartment. My solace amongst the intensity of the city. A quiet, cozy den where I could escape from the deafening din outside. I’d failed to appreciate the quiet in the suburbs where I grew up. The city had its benefits. Being more than a stones-throw from delicious food was a rarity, bustling bars and all the entertainment I could wish for on tap. Excitement had driven me for the first few years, but lately the sheen had faded. Beyond the glittering facade, which attracted people to the city like moths to a flame, the city was dirty. Tired .

A city filled with drones, dashing through a haze of exhaustion as they went from one ring of their alarm clock, to crashing back into bed, drained. Always striving. Playing the game. Fighting to climb the ladders and hoping they wouldn’t buckle under the pressure.

It’s all I’d ever wanted.

Well, almost .

Kicking off my shoes, I collapsed onto the sofa and tucked into my dinner. Nothing back home could compare to the flavour-bomb from the tiny restaurant below my home. Not Mom’s chef, nor the hoity-toity restaurants she’d favoured after marrying Jack Whitney. Her tastes had escalated after marrying into the Whitney family, but mine had never quite caught up. Give me grease soaked food doused with oodles of spice any day.

Buzzing had me raking in my bag for my phone, casting wanton glances at my half eaten tub of noodles.

‘Hey,’ I said, pressing my cell phone between my shoulder and my ear and picking back up the carton. Graham could suffer through my munching if he insisted on calling me the minute I got home from work.

‘Hey, babe. That’s me just leaving work. Are you excited for Christmas?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ I responded. Was I looking forward to Christmas with his parents? Not particularly. Graham was a good guy. Solid. Sensible. And so were his folks. Dependable. Boring. Christmas with them would be fine. I didn’t doubt the ham would be cooked to perfection and the gifts ever so useful, but I doubted there would be an ounce of frivolity. No silly games or jokey gifts. Then again, this was what I’d wanted. To date a grown-up man who would make a reliable partner.

‘I picked up a new tool for dad, you can use it to get the exact…’ Graham went into minute detail about the utilitarian presents he’d purchased and I zoned out, focusing on my food.

Eventually, he finished the detailed monologue.

‘Wow, they are going to love those,’ I said, trying to give my most enthusiastic tone that avoided tipping into the wrong side of patronising.

‘Are you coming over tonight? I can send a cab?’ Graham asked .

His apartment was undoubtedly nicer than mine. He’d gone slightly outside the city centre, sacrificing convenience for space. The sea of chrome and glass screamed bachelor pad . Staying over meant battling through the early morning rush on the subway. Getting into work smelling like the underground was my least favourite part of the day. Even if I enjoyed waking up with arms wrapped around me. With no work in the morning, my usual excuse wouldn’t fly.

‘Do you think you can come here? It’s Christmas Eve and I’m all cozy and I’ll need to have all my stuff for getting ready in the morning to go to your parents’.’

Graham let out a sigh, hesitation stretching out in a few seconds of silence. He didn’t enjoy the dirty stairwell or the noisy nights, nor the teeming bookshelves and overabundance of potted plants. My apartment looked far more lived in than his pristine place.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come here? It might be easier for getting to Mom’s in the morning.’

‘I can just meet you at your place in the morning if you don’t want to head over?’ We had this dance far too many evenings, and I was too tired to keep it going.

Another sigh.

‘No, it’s fine babe, I’ll be over soon. Just need to grab my things. Can’t have you spending Christmas Eve alone.’

I shouldn’t want to spend it alone. I should be beside myself with excitement at the thought of Christmas Eve with my man. What was wrong with me ?

It had to be the nerves.

With less than a week to go before I returned home for the first time in six years, I had been stuck in a cycle of deciding to call off my trip, and going. Mom would be heartbroken if I missed their anniversary. She’d been talking for months about how excited she was to have us all under the same roof again.

Her whole family together.

There was one big problem with her plan.

Leo .

My step-brother.

The one person I didn’t want to see.

Being that he hadn’t left the house since his mother died, years before we met, avoiding him had been really easy since I left home.

Until Mom’s party.

I remained rotting in my thoughts, the discarded noodle carton on the table, until Graham walked into my apartment. He took a moment too long to mask his disgust at the hallway, pulling his face into an unconvincing smile when he caught me looking.

‘Estella,’ he said, placing his bags neatly on the chair before walking over to me. I stood and hugged him, his hands stiff on my waist as he planted a brief kiss on my lips .

Sometimes I wondered if he was with me out of the same belief that we were suitable that I had. Did he lay awake and wonder about passion like I did? Maybe he was holding back a wave of unmatched desire on my behalf. What if we were both stuck in some sort of loop of trying to be the ideal match? In a moment of madness, I reached into his hair and pulled him back into the kiss, pouring my need into his mouth. His lips parted, allowing my tongue to stroke against his. Instead of melting into the touch, he stiffened. And not where I’d hoped he would.

I broke off the kiss, my face heating as he cleared his throat.

‘Shall we have a glass of something? I brought some white wine.’ Graham released me, looking ruffled.

‘Yeah, sounds great.’ I didn’t even like white wine much. I pretended to like it to fit in. It felt like something I should like. Most adults had to be faking half the stuff they liked, right? Like olives and blue cheese. There had to be some sort of fake it until you make it handbook someone had forgotten to give me. Adulthood was proving to be a far more mundane existence than the world had led to believe. What was the point in having money, and nobody telling you what to do, when you spent all your money on rent, and were too exhausted to do anything naughty, anyway?

I suffered through two glasses of the vile yellow liquid, and three episodes of the latest drama show that Graham was obsessing over before we collapsed into my bed. I pushed the tower of books and yesterday’s coffee cup out of the way to place my phone on my bedside table.

I’d stripped off as usual, and Graham came out in his button-up pyjama top and checkered bottoms.

I wanted to tear them off of him and have him ravage me.

Other people ravaged, right?

I’d never been ravaged.

With Graham, I never would be.

Minutes later, Graham was inside me. He spooned me from behind, his pyjamas pulled down and his arm looping around my waist.

‘Touch yourself, babe,’ he muttered, the words the only noise he made. I hadn’t known sex could be so quiet until we were together.

Perfunctory.

In out. In out. In out.

I took his hand and slid it over one of my tits, using my fingers to make him knead the flesh. I pressed harder, sliding my other hand between my thighs to take advantage of his cock at least.

‘Harder,’ I moaned, arching back against him. He slid his hand back onto my waist, his tempo remaining as steadfast as always. I swore he had one of those tempo setting clickers in his head.

Still, the sex was…fine.

It did the job. Expecting more was probably unrealistic after two years together. At least we were still doing it, right?

He filled his condom with a small grunt, and I clenched my muscles to give the impression of an orgasm, too tired to bother pursuing a real one.