Me-Before-You-by-Jojo-Moyes

and I was afraid of what I would do if she stayed there in front of me. ‘Just piss
off, Treen. Okay? Just piss off and leave me alone.’
I slammed the door in my sister’s face. And when I finally heard her walking
slowly back down the stairs, I chose not to think about what she would say to my
parents, about the way they would all treat this as further evidence of my
catastrophic inability to do anything of any worth. I chose not to think about
Syed at the Job Centre and how I would explain my reasons for leaving this most
well paid of menial jobs. I chose not to think about the chicken factory and how
somewhere, deep within its bowels, there was probably a set of plastic overalls,
and a hygiene cap with my name still on it.
I lay back and I thought about Will. I thought about his anger and his sadness.
I thought about what his mother had said – that I was one of the only people able
to get through to him. I thought about him trying not to laugh at the
‘Molahonkey Song’ on a night when the snow drifted gold past the window. I
thought about the warm skin and soft hair and hands of someone living, someone
who was far cleverer and funnier than I would ever be and who still couldn’t see
a better future than to obliterate himself. And finally, my head pressed into the
pillow, I cried, because my life suddenly seemed so much darker and more
complicated than I could ever have imagined, and I wished I could go back, back
to when my biggest worry was whether Frank and I had ordered in enough
Chelsea buns.
There was a knock on the door.
I blew my nose. ‘Piss off, Katrina.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I stared at the door.
Her voice was muffled, as if her lips were close up to the keyhole. ‘I’ve got
wine. Look, let me in for God’s sake, or Mum will hear me. I’ve got two Bob the
Builder mugs stuck up my jumper, and you know how she gets about us drinking
upstairs.’
I climbed off the bed and opened the door.
She glanced up at my tear-stained face, and swiftly closed the bedroom door
behind her. ‘Okay,’ she said, wrenching off the screw top and pouring me a mug
of wine, ‘what really happened?’