Illicit ✔

ten



♫ And I don't want you all inside my head
And I can feel you running through my veins ♪
(Charlotte Lawrence—Keep Me Up)

It took a few days of pillows over her face and cringeworthy music before Coralie was able to resume life as she knew it.

She ignored her social media—despite the impulse to stalk Ryan's page and respond to his message—and poured all her depression and anxiety into song-writing. Her sorrow-riddled, angst-inducing lyrics returned, and though her fans would praise her, she hated the events that brought her negative inspiration back.

Three days had passed since her return, and she busied about getting ready for her first night at work when her phone pinged.

She gritted her teeth when she checked the notification, but relief washed over her at the vision of Michael's name—not Ryan's.

Michael Mills: How does it feel to be home?

She sensed the corners of her lips inching up at the sight of his profile picture—him holding a camera and smirking, his sleeveless t-shirt exposing his tanned skin and well-defined biceps. There was a sensual but sweet air to him that she'd almost forgotten about while navigating the streets of London. Now that she'd returned to San Francisco, it came back to her.

Coralie Amber Watson: Weird, I think my English accent is resurfacing.

She meandered to the kitchen and finished preparing her dinners—oven-roasted chicken and cauliflower rice. It was her go-to and kept her filled for her extenuating shifts at work.

As she sprinkled spices over each meal in their Tupperware, her phone buzzed again.

Michael Mills: I'd like to hear that. But tell me—you didn't find a husband? Do I still have a chance? :)

Though she smiled, something pricked her heart. There it was again; that word that drew her mind to Ryan.

Will I never be able to say "husband" without thinking of him?

She flung her meals into the freezer and slammed the door a little harder than she'd intended, rattling the entire refrigerator. A few of the cereal boxes on top of it collapsed, as did a magnet, falling onto her bare foot.

"Fuck," she bent over to retrieve the magnet, "that hurt."

As she lifted the thing, she realized it was a London magnet—Big Ben and a typical red phone-booth, with Greetings from London written at the bottom. Of all the magnets to tumble onto her foot—Delilah collected them, and there were at least fifty—it had to be the one that would further prompt Coralie's brain to rehash every detail of her trip.

She'd had enough rehashing since she got home. Every night she waited for her eyes to dry out as she watched TV. In the mornings she drank her weight in coffee and stuffed her nose in her notebook, spitting out rhymes that were so truthful, so painful, that she had a stomachache for the rest of the day. And every evening, as she nursed a glass of wine, she did her damndest to not open up that recent message from Ryan, to not stutter out some vague retort to reestablish contact. She'd promised herself to stay away, for her safety; but it was her sanity that took a toll, and she worried she'd never be the same. She worried that abandoning Ryan in Scarfes was the last time she'd see him, the last time they'd ever talk.

It didn't sit well with her.

***

A few hours into her shift, Roger sauntered over and snuck her off to the back-room.