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Book 1
I gaze around at the blank, dirty-creme walls of my new bedroom, trying to stay optimistic. It's not a big room by any stretch of the imagination, not even for a single, but I tell myself that's not a problem - I'm not a big person, and I don't have much stuff to fill the room with anyway. And then there's the tiny, grime-encrusted excuse for a window, which is letting in less natural light than a ship's porthole. But the landlord promised he'd be round to fix the light fitting tomorrow, so that's not a problem either. And once I've unpacked my few boxes; and gotten to know my new housemates (three music school graduates - George, Gina and Harvey); and once I've found a job; and gotten used to the city, I'm sure I'll feel right at home here in Bristol. I'll just have to keep repeating that to myself that until it's starts to feel true.
At that moment a spring pops in the single, second-hand mattress on which I'm perched, bouncing up with a dull, resonating twang and jabbing me unexpectedly right in the behind. For a second I'm not sure whether I'm about to cry or burst into hysterical laughter. But then the first tear falls and before I know it I'm in the foetal position, my body shaking with self-pity as I clench my mouth and eyes closed against the oncoming storm of sobs. The last thing I need right now is for my three new peers downstairs to overhear my outburst, but after weeks of holding it all in I guess that, just like Yellowstone, I've been overdue for an eruption. All I can do is bury my face in my knees and try to muffle my crying as my tears slowly soak through my jeans.
Book 2
The last slither of setting sunlight peeks it's head over the dark horizon as I stand in the street outside my house, setting the sky above in beautiful ripples of smokey grey, dark purple and fiery orange. It's an enchanting sight, but I can't seem to tear my eyes from the sleek, black Mercedes that has just pulled up in front of me.
As I gawp like an open-mouthed fool, a man steps out of the driver's side. For a second my breath catches in my throat, thinking that it could be Logan Norse - my mesmerisingly good-looking (if undeniably impertinent and arrogant) boss. But then I catch sight of the chauffeur's cap and the double breasted, shining silver buttoned jacket, and my heart allows itself to resume its normal pace. Of course I should have known that Norse would never drive himself anywhere, let alone come and pick me up to take me to the airport personally.
Book 3
The hot, sweet steam that rises from the fresh cup of tea clenched between my fingers, helps clear my blocked, swollen sinuses a little. I gaze down at the wooden kitchen table top through burning, blurry eyes, my vision fuzzy and distorted through the last of the tears I've been crying for God knows how long.
As I begin to finally regain my senses and awareness, I realise with a shock that this must be at least the fifth cup of tea my housemate, Gina, has patiently made for me, and that while I've been sat here, weeping and drinking slurpily, the morning sun has fully risen and now shines in at me through the small kitchen window, illuminating what I can only imagine to be my very mascara-streaked, puffy and unattractive face. What a wretched state I must look - and all over an obnoxious, ass-hole of a man.
I gaze around at the blank, dirty-creme walls of my new bedroom, trying to stay optimistic. It's not a big room by any stretch of the imagination, not even for a single, but I tell myself that's not a problem - I'm not a big person, and I don't have much stuff to fill the room with anyway. And then there's the tiny, grime-encrusted excuse for a window, which is letting in less natural light than a ship's porthole. But the landlord promised he'd be round to fix the light fitting tomorrow, so that's not a problem either. And once I've unpacked my few boxes; and gotten to know my new housemates (three music school graduates - George, Gina and Harvey); and once I've found a job; and gotten used to the city, I'm sure I'll feel right at home here in Bristol. I'll just have to keep repeating that to myself that until it's starts to feel true.
At that moment a spring pops in the single, second-hand mattress on which I'm perched, bouncing up with a dull, resonating twang and jabbing me unexpectedly right in the behind. For a second I'm not sure whether I'm about to cry or burst into hysterical laughter. But then the first tear falls and before I know it I'm in the foetal position, my body shaking with self-pity as I clench my mouth and eyes closed against the oncoming storm of sobs. The last thing I need right now is for my three new peers downstairs to overhear my outburst, but after weeks of holding it all in I guess that, just like Yellowstone, I've been overdue for an eruption. All I can do is bury my face in my knees and try to muffle my crying as my tears slowly soak through my jeans.
Book 2
The last slither of setting sunlight peeks it's head over the dark horizon as I stand in the street outside my house, setting the sky above in beautiful ripples of smokey grey, dark purple and fiery orange. It's an enchanting sight, but I can't seem to tear my eyes from the sleek, black Mercedes that has just pulled up in front of me.
As I gawp like an open-mouthed fool, a man steps out of the driver's side. For a second my breath catches in my throat, thinking that it could be Logan Norse - my mesmerisingly good-looking (if undeniably impertinent and arrogant) boss. But then I catch sight of the chauffeur's cap and the double breasted, shining silver buttoned jacket, and my heart allows itself to resume its normal pace. Of course I should have known that Norse would never drive himself anywhere, let alone come and pick me up to take me to the airport personally.
Book 3
The hot, sweet steam that rises from the fresh cup of tea clenched between my fingers, helps clear my blocked, swollen sinuses a little. I gaze down at the wooden kitchen table top through burning, blurry eyes, my vision fuzzy and distorted through the last of the tears I've been crying for God knows how long.
As I begin to finally regain my senses and awareness, I realise with a shock that this must be at least the fifth cup of tea my housemate, Gina, has patiently made for me, and that while I've been sat here, weeping and drinking slurpily, the morning sun has fully risen and now shines in at me through the small kitchen window, illuminating what I can only imagine to be my very mascara-streaked, puffy and unattractive face. What a wretched state I must look - and all over an obnoxious, ass-hole of a man.
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