17 Made Mistakes

⋆47༄ I won't

Hello everyone! Another chapter. Love you xx

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I barely slept last night. My mind kept floating back to Anaya and the atrocious truth, which I'd learnt about her. I spent hours on pondering, trying to find a mistake that she could have made along the way.

There were none.

When I finally managed to doze off, the sun rose above the horizon and I was unable to stand the chirping of the birds outside my window. I complained under my breath and decided to have a shower. I skipped the breakfast routine. I was still furious. I couldn't swallow a single thing, except for coffee, which I desperately needed.

Dressed up and with nothing to do, I messaged Will that I'd be on my way soon. I wanted to find out what he had to say, so I ordered a taxi and tried not to fall asleep whilst waiting for it.

When I arrived at his house, it smelled of waffles and coffee.

More coffee. I couldn't complain.

It was strange, seeing Will rush around the kitchen, cooking breakfast for me, as if he could have sensed that I hadn't had any. He was being polite, unusually chatty — a genuine fountain of energy.

We sat at the dining table. He moved closer to me, asking if I was feeling alright, because I looked worryingly pale. I told him everything. I imparted the reason for my sleepless night, and the real cause of Cassie's death. Will choked briefly on his coffee. He pounded his chest with his fist to get rid of the cough that came afterwards. He couldn't believe it. Just like I'd expected, he wanted to hire someone to gather the essential evidence, but having heard my further statements, he resigned from the idea.

The proofs were gone, and so was his appetite.

"Can I get you anything else?" He places his hand on my shoulder, simultaneously collecting the half-empty plate from before me.

"I think I'll stick with the coffee, but thanks." I raise a faint smile.

He walks off towards the dish washer. I watch him discard the plates. He's clad in a pair of blue, vintage jeans, a checked shirt, which is similar in colour but also unbuttoned, and a white T-shirt underneath it. This isn't his wonted way of dressing.

"What's with the shirt?" I ask, curious.

He slams the dish washer shut and turns to me. "It belonged to my dad. I gave it to him for Christmas."

A flicker of a tired smile stretches my lips. "It really suits you."

He reappears by my side and proffers his hand to help me off the chair. "Thanks. It's nice to have a break from the formal clothing that I need to wear to the gallery."

I place my palm in his and stand up. We start pottering towards the living room. "Is the dress code really that necessary?"

"I mean, it makes you look professional, and when you want people to buy your work, you need to occur smart."

"Do you like it?"

His brow rises. "Owning the gallery?"

I nod my head.

"Not really, but I guess it's just the fact that I'm still getting used to it all. Quite a lot to remember. Quite a lot to plan beforehand and then trying to sort it out. It can be really taxing at times."

"Why don't you hire some help?"

"My mother gives me a hand every now and then, but I can't rely on her indefinitely. I always did on my father, and now look." He points at the empty house. "It all changed in a blink of an eye. I need to learn how to cope on my own."