Dating isn't easy. Finding love is harder. But being a Delaney makes it all a thousand times worse because let's face it, with parents like theirs, the NextGen never stood a chance.
11 short stories following the disastrous love lives of:
Seraphina...
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The shrill of the doorbell reverberates around not only the appartement but also my head. Groaning as I flip over in bed, I wince as the sunlight hits my face. God, why is it so bright? When the bell rings again, I force myself up and reach for my phone, sighing as I see the time. Who on earth thinks it's ok to wake another person at stupid o'clock in the morning?
At the third buzz, I roll out of bed, slamming my knees against the hardwood floor before limping onto my feet and heading for the door. Pressing the intercom button, I mumble something that sounds remotely like French but might have been Franglais. Last night, I'd spent most of the evening with some British cousins and the next day always fuzzes my mind.
"Christian, c'est moi," a mildly annoyed voice shouts down the speakers. Wincing, I quickly realise who it is and press the button, allowing her entry. "Merci."
I unlock my door and open it ajar, then stumble to the kitchen, throwing open the fridge door and looking for supplies. When nothing takes my fancy, I reach for the glass decanter of orange juice and drink directly from it, earning myself a disapproving 'beurk' from Maely.
"That is dégoûtant," she sneers, turning her nose up and away until she hears me replacing the decanter in the fridge. "Why are men so disgusting? You are a troglodyte."
I scoff as I wipe away the thin sliver of juice that clings to my top lip. "And a bon matin to you, too, Maely." Walking closer to her, I crane down to kiss both her cheeks. It's the French way but with Maely and me, this was one tradition that we were happy to forgo day-to-day, except when I want to annoy her. Squirming away, I feel her hand connect with my bicep. "What time is it, and if it's before midday, why are you here?"
"It is the eighth hour," Maely says. It amuses me that despite her grasp of the English language, the one thing that she hasn't quite managed to nail is how to tell the time. Not bothering to correct her since she is technically correct, I start to make my way back to my bedroom in search of a shirt. Maely follows. "And I am here because I did not know where else to go. My father and I had another argument about you and it was not bearable. So I... exited with anger?"
I frown. "You stormed out? Once again?"
"Exactly that." Flopping down on my unmade bed, Maely throws up her hands in exasperation and makes a strangled sound. "I could only think to come here, and so, here I am. Why does your room smell bad? Like a... brasserie?"
"The word is a brewery, and it smells like that in here because I am hungover," I respond. "J'ai trop la gueule de bois après le dîner d'hier soir [I'm too hungover after last night's dinner party]. My cousins are in the city and they wanted to go out. Owen and I may have drunk to excess. He's thinking of opening his own bar in London and we went menu tasting to several places after dinner."
Looking for a clean shirt, I open the wardrobe and fish out a white v-neck t-shirt that would contrast the black jeans I intend to wear. Throwing both items onto the bed, I hear Maely groan as her face is buried under the white material which suits me just fine since I have to find a clear pair of boxers and then get changed. Rounding the bed, I smile to myself as I notice Maely hasn't moved and remains hidden under my clothing. Opening the dresser drawer on the left side of the bed, I open the top compartment and pull out some underwear and quickly throw off the remnants of last night's outfit.
