Prescient

Chapter 18

I left Tanya's place with her ex-husband's address and a warning that he wouldn't give me a warm welcome when I stopped by.

But I wouldn't be talking to Donald Haydens yet.

First I needed a drink.

I'd spent the past hour and a half drinking nothing but Tanya's horrible coffee and I was starting to sober up.

I didn't like the feeling at all.

I stopped at the bottle shop on the way home and grabbed a bottle of cheap scotch. I'd been drinking a lot of vodka of late and I felt like something different.

So there I sat at my kitchen table, relishing in the burn of that harsh golden liquid as it slid hotly down my throat to warm my belly.

Hamster brushed in and out of my legs, meowing to be fed. However, I simply didn't feel like seeing to his feline needs at that point, so he'd just have to wait.

I was probably on my third or fourth drink when he knocked on my door.

I knew it was Noel.

I could see him standing on the other side of the door as if the door was made of glass and not solid wood, running his hands nervously through his short, muddy-brown hair.

I got up from my seat, annoyed he was back again and even more frustrated that squirming feeling I didn't like was returning to my stomach. Maybe that feeling was a warning about something, or perhaps it was just the scotch.

However, there was also something else in there. I think I felt somewhat glad he came back despite my every attempt to get rid of him, and I wondered if that meant he didn't care about my problem.

Maybe he just needed a cup of sugar or something.

I opened the door slowly and tried to look surprised to see him there.

"Wow, you're back."

"I am," he said. He smiled, but not as wide and as friendly as every other smile he'd flashed me so far.

The dropping feeling in my stomach at his smiles diminished lustre betrayed my dominant feelings of not caring for others' opinions of me. Regardless, I told myself I didn't care what he thought of me. Why would I? I don't care what anyone thinks of me.

"I really want to talk to you, Starla," he continued. "About what you told me the other day. Can I come in, please?"

"I don't know. You don't have someone out there who's going to follow you in, tie me up, and drag me off to the loony bin, do you?"

"No, of course not. I don't think you're crazy, Starla."

"No?"

"No. Can I come in, please? I just wanna chat."

So I let him in, desperately trying to ignore that feeling squirming around inside me.

It was possibly happiness, although I don't believe I've felt true happiness before, so I couldn't be sure. If I had it was so long ago I didn't remember so I had nothing to compare it to – that I could think of, anyway.

I grabbed my half-finished glass of scotch off the table and directed him to the couch. No point sitting at the table. It was tiny and I only owned one chair.

"You want one of these?" I asked, tipping my glass to him.

"What is it?"

"Scotch."

"Sure, why not. Cheers."

Once I got him his drink, I grabbed my one lonesome kitchen chair and dragged it over to the lounge area.