Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) Read Free Page B

experience and killed the opportunity like catastrophic blood loss.
    Instead she got a cheery text before she got to the tube. W e’d love to have you. When can you start ? That meant telling Hamish she was leaving was a pressing reality.
    She got up and righted the suitcase so it stood on its wheels. If she dragged it into the bedroom and unpacked it would feel like progress and it might stop this senseless rehashing of the events of the last few weeks. They no longer mattered. The whole of the last eight years hardly mattered; it was scar tissue, a non-lethal brain lesion. She never needed to think about it again.
    She thumbed to a David Guetta track on her phone and swayed in the space between the boxes, cases and badly positioned furniture. She couldn’t sing for nuts and no sooner krump, pop, lock or hip hop than she could get a basic side to side step, school disco à la 1997 going, but moving, no matter how randomly, felt better than remembering that night she announced she was leaving.
    Hamish was seeing someone. He hadn’t bothered to hide it, staying out all night and leaving restaurant receipts and movie tickets on the kitchen counter. It was the act that pushed her to end things and look for a way to move home.
    And it was the admission that made her announcement seem like retreat instead of advance. She’d expected him to fuss, cause a scene. He’d laughed and told her it was good timing.
    Georgia turned in a circle, knocking her hip on the edge of a tallboy dresser and didn’t care that it nipped and would bruise. She was dancing and no one could tell her she looked like an idiot and moved like a zombie on human meat ‘roids. She was dancing, in her own place, halfway around the world from Hamish and his new lover, Eugenia, and the grey, hesitant existence she’d lived since she’d married him for all the wrong reasons.
    The song changed and she was just getting warmed up. She worked a shimmy into her shoulders. Did anyone shimmy anymore? Who cares? She did. In her own flat, where no one could see her, she shimmied and sidestepped and bopped her head, got a little tush action going and knocked over a box of new linen. If she kept this up she might need to strip off, dance barefoot in her mismatched Marks and Spencer’s underwear because she wasn’t scared and awkward, she was young still, and hot and desirable, about to set the local recording scene on fire with her stunning command of sliders, her dab hand at sequencing and her perfection with pre- and post-production.
    Dancing made you sweaty. She should’ve remembered that. It made you a little light-headed and giggly. She pulled her t-shirt over her head and did the twist in her beige bra and her vintage 501s, using the shirt as a makeshift boa around her neck. Dancing made your breath come short and your chest hurt. That was peculiar. Was that normal? It made you feel a little panicked and burned your eyelids. But she was absolutely not crying, so it had to be the dust she was kicking up irritating her eyes, making water course down her face and drip off her chin, like it had that night in front of Hamish as she’d packed a bag and left him.
    He’d done all the talking. She’d said nothing after all of it, the youthful love, the horror and blame, the stupidly hopeful bedside wedding and the years of trying to make something good from the disaster of feeling responsible.
    She wiped her face on her t-shirt and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the loss of innocence and love that hurt. Hamish had cherished his mastery of her guilt more than he’d ever loved her and she’d been the one dumb enough to let him manipulate her into staying in the relationship so long. What hurt, struck the knockout blow, like walking into a glass wall you didn’t see, was the years she’d lost to putting his needs exclusively above her own.
    So she danced in a whirl of flailing arms and jerky gyrations to crappy audio, in her cheap flat, surrounded by newly purchased