At First Sight by Hannah Sunderland (best inspirational books txt) 📗

a powder blue bridesmaid’s dress and forced to pretend to be happy for an entire day made my toes curl. And if spending an entire day with Kate wasn’t bad enough, I knew that Eloise ‘Fucking’ Kempshore would be there too. ‘Eloise has already agreed to be my maid of honour—’ boom, there it is ‘—and I already have eight bridesmaids, but we’ll find a place for you somewhere.’

A place for me somewhere.

I replayed the words in my head. If that sentence didn’t sum me up completely, then no sentence ever would. She would shoehorn me into her special day like that time I tried on a pair of size eight jeans and had to ask the attendant to hold the ankles while I lay on the floor and tried to wriggle free of them.

How stupid I’d been to think that I even warranted the nightmare task of being one of Kate’s bridesmaids, when there were already so many volunteers.

‘That would be amazing, thank you.’ The words fell from my mouth like dry turds during a bout of constipation.

‘Enough about me,’ Kate said, picking up her phone and staring back down at the screen. ‘What’s new with you?’

‘New with me?’ I repeated as I tried desperately to think of something that had happened in the two months since our last unbearable coffee date. Kate’s French-tipped nails click-clacked across the screen furiously as she typed out a text and frowned with concentration. I tried desperately to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. Kate wasn’t listening anyway so, in the end, I just said, ‘Mum got a new kettle last week.’ That wasn’t even true.

Kate didn’t reply, react or even listen as she continued to tap away at the screen, her nails sounding like tiny hooves as my words hit her solitary bubble and bounced away into the atmosphere.

I felt my nostrils flare as I took a sip of my latte. I guessed that the barista had given me the bitter option because it tasted like battery acid.

I had planned on telling Kate that I had a date tonight with some guy I’d met on Tinder; but Kate wasn’t listening.

Kate never listened.

Almost two full minutes of silence passed as I continued to force down the coffee I’d wasted four quid on and Kate giggled at a group chat message that I wasn’t allowed to join in with.

The argument was brewing inside my mind. It had marinated itself in years of bitterness and subtle betrayals and by the end of those two minutes my words were fully oiled and ready to hit the scalding frying pan. I waited for myself to do it, to slam my mug down hard on the lid of the ‘table’ and say everything I’d always wanted to tell her, but the truth was that I would never say the words that filled my mouth like bile. I’d never been able to do it before, what made me think I could do it now?

I looked down at the illuminated phone in Kate’s hand and noted the time. We’d spent the grand total of twenty-seven minutes ‘catching up’ – that was record time, even for us.

‘It was great to see you again, Eff,’ Kate said as she pulled me into a hug that felt both unnecessary and intrusive.

Fuck, she even smelled amazing.

‘It was great to see you too,’ I lied, almost hearing the thud of more heavy, dry word turds as they hit the frosted pavement.

‘I’ll be in touch before I leave for Toronto. Love ya, bye.’ She blew a kiss over her shoulder and walked away, her ponytail swaying behind her like a silken pendulum.

I stood for a moment and watched as Kate walked away. The memory of our school prom photo leapt into my mind and brought slight warmth to my chest. Our mums had paid in advance and forced us to have it done because, just like us, they’d still refused to let our friendship die the quick death it so truly deserved. The image in my brain was of two sixteen-year-old girls, hugging each other like the years of history would prevent us from ever truly drifting apart. Of two beaming smiles that held years of secrets, shared joys and shared pains; of love.

I had loved her once, there was no denying that, but that time and that love was now nothing more than an image in my brain; a memory.

About the Author

Hannah Sunderland was born and bred in Sutton Coldfield, north of Birmingham, where she still lives with her partner, several thousand books and a Swiss cheese plant named Wallace. She has a BA Hons degree in Fine Art from the University of Derby and now runs her own business, a company that makes props for crime scene reconstruction. The writing bug set in when someone handed her a notebook and she realised that she could create a world within it. She was a debut author during the Covid-19 lockdown and during this time discovered that a writer’s life is not so different from self-isolation anyway. Her claim to fame is playing Tree #4 in her Year One school play.

You can follow @hjsunderland143 on Twitter.

Also by Hannah Sunderland:

Very Nearly Normal

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