Eight (Love by Numbers Book 6)

by E. S. Carter

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Books by E.S. Carter

  About Eight

  Quote

  Dedication

  Note for the reader

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Special Note

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright 2017 by E.S. Carter

  The Love by Numbers series

  Nineteen

  Twenty-One

  Three

  Thirteen

  One

  Eight

  The Red Order series

  Feyness

  Parasight

  I'm sorry for your loss.

  Why do people say that?

  When someone you love is taken from you, when a part of you dies along with them, you haven't lost them like you would your car keys or mobile phone. They aren't stuck down the side of the sofa or left in the ignition of your car for you to find later. You haven't absentmindedly put them somewhere and forgotten. You will never lose them because they live in you.

  The soul crushing hurt that burns your lungs with every breath you take comes from knowing where they are and not being with them.

  The ugly and real definition of grief is being left behind.

  I'm sorry they left you.

  I'm sorry you are alone.

  I'm sorry it hurts to breathe.

  Loss; it doesn't even compare.

  She was my first love.

  She is my last love.

  I am an empty husk who pretends to be filled with enough love for those of us she left behind.

  Our little girl and newborn son need me.

  I am both mother and father now.

  I am hollow and empty.

  I am a shell.

  So why does the girl with the face of an angel and eyes that mirror my emptiness, look at me like I'm her everything?

  Book #6 in the 'Love by Numbers' series. Can be read as a standalone.

  Let my soul smile through my heart and my heart smile through my eyes, that I may scatter rich smiles in sad hearts.

  Paramahansa Yogananda

  To my family.

  We have loved and we have lost, but have never hated.

  Thank you for being my smile.

  The entire ‘Love by Numbers’ series, including this book, is written using British English. It contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the British spoken word, which form the basis for the book’s writing style.

  Please remember that the words are not misspelled, neither are any of the words that use British spellings and terminology.

  If you would like further explanation, or to discuss the translation or meaning of a particular word, please do not hesitate to contact the author. Contact details can be found at the back of the book.

  (Age 14)

  “Hey, Josh. How’s it hanging? To the left or to the right?”

  Isaac’s unbroken voice comes from behind me, and despite having my head deep in my locker, I roll my eyes at his juvenile greeting.

  My younger brother is twelve years old, cockier than a man twice his age and since he began attending the same school as me a year ago, he’s been the bane of my life.

  “Grow up, Iz. You’re in big boys’ school now, and it’s time to start acting like it.”

  I grab the thick mathematics textbook for my next lesson and slam the locker door shut with a clang.

  “And you’re fourteen not forty, Josh. You’ll have plenty of time to be old and boring later in life. Why do you have to act like Dad all the time?”

  Because you’re all so childish.

  I spin to face Isaac, the strap of my backpack slipping from my shoulder and catching on the crook of my arm, the thick book in my hand falling onto the worn linoleum floor with a loud slap.

  “Haven’t you got any friends you can hang around with?” I huff, staring daggers at him while bending to retrieve my fallen ‘G.C.S.E Statistics’ book.

  Iz falls silent and takes a step back, his mouth turning up in a cheeky grin and with my attention locked on him I’m oblivious to my surroundings.

  My fingers touch the edge of the book’s cover at the same time my head collides with another person’s, and I tumble to my side while cursing and clutching at my forehead, an egg-shaped lump forming instantly.

  “Ouch. Sorry, I’m sorry,” a soft voice rushes out. “I’ve always had a hard head. I was just grabbing the book you dropped.”

  The math textbook comes into my vision, held in pale, small fingers tipped with baby pink polish.

  “Maybe I can walk with you to the lesson? It’s my first day at St Helen’s, and it seems we both have statistics next,” the sweet, feminine voice continues, her hand wiggling the book a little to encourage me to take it.

  I rush to take it from her hand with a mumbled thanks, my head swimming with the sound of her voice, but it’s when my eyes finally land on her face that all my communicative skills leech from my body and form a puddle at my feet.

  White blonde hair in loose curls frames her heart-shaped face, ice-blue eyes with long, darker blonde lashes stare down at me and the pinkest lips I’ve ever seen on a girl curve in a shy smile.

  “Hi, I’m Iz,” Isaac declares confidently, holding out one hand for her to shake while running the other through his messy and dishevelled hair - hair that all the girls seem to swoon over.

  She smiles at him and offers a quick ‘Hi’ but doesn’t take his hand, instead, she leans down and offers her delicate hand, with her pretty rose tipped fingers, to me.

  “I’m Laura Miles. It’s nice to meet you…?”

  I stare at her. At her silky hair and dainty features. At the tiny freckle just below her left eye and the faint, silvery scar at the corner of her plump upper lip.

  “He’s Josh,” Isaac supplies helpfully. “And I think he’s swallowed his tongue.”

  She smiles once more, just a gentle curve at the side of her mouth, her hand suspended in the air between us, her offer of help right there for me to take. With each second I remain comatose and mute, her soft smile drops slightly, and I see hesitation flit across her crystalline eyes.

  “Flipping heck, Josh. Get up off your bum and take the girl to her lesson or I’ll show her the way, even though I’ve got P.E. next and Mr Higgs will have me doing laps of the rugby field if I’m late again.”

  Laura smiles, nervously this time, and slowly pulls back the offer of her hand. Her fingers find the frayed edge of her satchel, and she shifts on her feet slightly while debating on how she can walk away from this situation and never look back.

  It’s at that moment when I feel her pulling away, that my limbs cooperate and my legs push me to stand. My brain is finally catching up with the organ beating uncontrollably in my chest, and something inside me shifts until it clicks into place and the entire world comes into
high definition.

  Don’t let her walk away.

  Take her hand.

  Don’t let go.

  “Hi,” I offer tentatively, one hand extended towards her, the other pushing my thick glasses up the bridge of my nose.

  “I’m Josh. I’m sorry about before. I think I lost my words for a second, or maybe you took them,” I babble and shrug self-consciously at the gibberish falling from my mouth, but one look in her eyes and suddenly I’m feeling brave enough to finish my random confession. “But I don’t want them back. You can have them all.”

  Isaac groans somewhere in the background and I hear him singing ‘Loser’ by Beck, but I don’t care because Laura Miles is smiling at me. It’s not a hesitant smile or a shy smile. It’s big, bold and takes over her whole face. Even her eyes smile at me, her brows arching perfectly to frame her beautiful beaming expression.

  Laura Smiles.

  She takes my hand in hers, our fingers linking, our palms flush and my words leave me again. I have no witty banter to offer as we walk hand in hand through the bustling school halls, no practiced cockiness or flirting. The silence we share is electric and pulses with a newness that tickles over every inch of my skin. This day, this moment is alive with possibilities. It feels bigger than just me or just her. This moment is the start of us.

  Once more she’s taken my words, and I never want them back. They belong to her. I belong to her.

  (Age 14 ¾)

  Another new school.

  I stare at the crowds of teens who collect in groups formed by social standing, age or sex. The sporty guys are already kicking a ball between them on the edge of the football field, and the popular girls are sitting on a wall observing them while gossiping about anyone and everyone. The younger kids, wide-eyed and a little scared are staring at the large building before them as if it may swallow them whole, while the studious and eager pupils, the ones the others label as geeks or swots, are already waiting on the steps for the main doors to open.

  Where do I belong?

  Yes, I’m new but I’m not young like the ones about to start their first day at senior school, and I don’t have any friends here, so I’m not with the popular girls. That leaves the swots because I’m not going to walk up to the sporty boys and start playing keepy-uppies – that would be instant social suicide in a place like this.

  I like school, love learning and already know what I want to be when I leave – a teacher – so maybe I should be on the steps waiting for the buzzer to sound and the doors to open? Or maybe I should stay by myself.

  I don’t know how long this new job of my father’s will last, or how long it will take before he’s caught shagging someone from his office and we’re forced to leave for yet another ‘fresh start.’

  Why my mother stays with him, I don’t know. Well, I do. She’s weak. She likes the security, enjoys the money and fears being forty and alone. If you asked her though, she’d say she stays for me. Yeah, good one, Mum. The last person either of you thinks about in all of your messed-up, drama filled lives, is me.

  I’m alone.

  ‘Laura Miles, the new girl, is a loner.’

  ‘Laura Miles is pretty, I suppose, but I heard she got expelled from her old school for having sex with a teacher in the toilets.’

  ‘Laura Miles thinks she’s special. She’s nothing but a slag.’ – Just a few of the things I’ve heard said about me in my last two schools.

  I lift my satchel higher across my body and make my way to the steps. At least these kids will leave me alone. They aren’t interested in school gossip unless it involves who came top in that coursework or who aced the last test. They are competitive, yes, but not hateful or manipulative.

  Yes, I belong on the steps. Alone.

  As I approach, the buzzer blares out, echoing over the drone of chatter and causing a universal groan to fall across the front yard. I ignore everything except the face of the boy leaning up against the wall next to the doors.

  He’s dark, tall, with classic features and thick, black-framed glasses. He’s hot, in a nerdy, geek-chic kind of way, but it’s the smile on his face when the buzzer stops and the doors open that has me entranced.

  He’s ready. He knows who he is. He’s eager to be in control of his future. He doesn’t care about social climbing or new girls and their secret pasts. He’s confident in his skin, and I drink in everything about him until he enters the school and disappears from my sight.

  I’m almost fifteen. I’ve fancied boys before, crushed on a few. I’ve even had one, unimpressive kiss with a lad who bit my lip with his demanding teeth and proceeded to slobber all over my mouth with his slug like tongue.

  He was handsome - the slug kisser - handsome and overeager in a bad way. He wanted to be the first to gain entry to the new girl’s knickers, despite having the star netball player as his girlfriend. Yeah, she’s the one who spread the rumours about me shagging teachers.

  Senior school is so much fun when you’re struggling to navigate its unknown waters. Always being the new girl, never making connections, never having a friend to have your back.

  That’s me, Laura Miles or as they named me in my old school ‘Laura Never Smiles.’

  I don’t think I’ll be given that name here.

  I can feel it.

  My smile.

  My lips tingle with it as I follow the hot guy with the glasses to his locker. I dawdle on the edge of the hallway and watch him interact with a younger boy, and I rush forward on confident feet to pick up his book when he drops it, almost giving him a concussion in the process.

  I almost walk away, almost. My belly churns when he gawks at me like I’m a loser. My chest tightens when he refuses my helping hand.

  And then he smiles at me.

  Josh.

  Promising me all his words. Lighting me up from the inside out when his dark eyes hold my gaze. Linking the last point on the never-ending dot-to-dot of my life when his hand takes mine. The shape created by our newly formed connection morphs my empty page of whiteness scattered with randomly numbered dots, into a magnificent archway of possibilities that spans high into the sky, its roof not visible to our naked eyes.

  I’ve taken his words.

  I’ll keep them safe.

  I’ll give him one of mine.

  Alone.

  I don’t want it back.

  With him I know I’ll never be alone.

  (Age 29)

  It’s 3 am.

  Your perfume is on everything.

  On me.

  On our entire world.

  It permeates the cotton sheets of our bed. It clings to the collar of my blue work shirt that I can’t bear to wash, and the pretty purple scarf draped across the dressing table mirror – the one you wore to the shops just a few days ago and you laughed because it matched the colour of your swollen ankles.

  Your shoes sit unworn in the hallway.

  Your coat hangs uselessly on the peg behind the door.

  By day, you’re a black hole that I manoeuvre around, never getting too close to the edge. By night, I tumble over and fall straight in, the inky emptiness of its bottomless depths consuming me whole.

  Your perfume is on everything.

  Why does it get to stay when you left?

  I blink at the harsh sunlight that bathes our bedroom. The curtains are wide open, just as they were when I found you.

  Rolling my head to the side, I watch the lights on the baby intercom run from specks of green, to yellow, all the way up to a warning signal of red. Over and over they complete the sequence.

  Flicker – three green dots.

  Flicker – three green dots followed by three yellow.

  Flicker – three green dots, three yellow, three red.

  A cautionary traffic light of distress.

  He’s crying, likely screaming.

  I can’t hear him because I’ve shut off that sense. I’ve closed the receptors in my ears, and blocked out all noise.

  Plus, I have th
e intercom on mute.

  I should be ashamed.

  He needs me, and I’m not there.

  Eight days old and he’s already being ignored by the one person who should always be there for him. The only person left who created him. His only parent.

  He’ll only ever know one parent.

  We brought him home from the hospital yesterday. The house was swarming with family and visitors, with strangers who observed me, who made notes about my mental wellbeing, who judged my ability to father my children. Who watched with sharp eyes as I handed my kids to anyone who would have them – my mother, my father, Isaac, Liam, Nate… anyone.

  If I felt guilt, I could assuage the emotion by telling myself that they are safe and with family, with people who will love and care for them. The truth is, I feel nothing.

  I am empty.

  I’m past the point of pain. My muscles and my emotions still bruised but quickly turning numb.

  Comfortably numb.

  I can exist like this.

  I can breathe like this.

  And if I’m really lucky, I can sleep like this because sleep is when all the pain and numbness disappears and everything is how it is meant to be, how life should be.

  I kiss her goodbye in the morning. She smiles as she grips my hand tightly, refusing to let go of it when I attempt to step away from the bed and readjust the tie she messed up with her wandering hands. Her white blonde hair is a tangled mess across the bed sheets, her pinkest of pink lips shine from my kiss. Her belly is round and swollen with our baby. Her smile. Her smile. Her smile.

  It’s life.

  “Josh, darling. Can you feed the baby while I make us breakfast?”

  My mother’s fake cheer seeps through the crack in the bedroom door, and the air in my chest solidifies. Her hand grips the frame, her body patiently staying outside and waiting for her son to come back to her, waiting for him to stand up and be a man.

  I ignore her and turn my head away from the frenetically flashing lights and her piteous tone.

  “Josh, I know you’re awake,” she all but whispers as she cautiously steps over the threshold of the room. She doesn’t want to come in here. She doesn’t want to see me lying on the same, unwashed sheets on which I found my wife cold, limp and unresponsive. She doesn’t want to accept that I’d take my last breath on these sheets if I could.