Charlotte Rixon

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This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either

an addiction, the same as all the others. Just less honest, perhaps.

It depicts a man on a surfboard, cresting the most impossibly high wave, with the words: What if your fears and dreams existed in the same place?

At least he tried. It’s all you can do. Throw your best efforts out into the world and see which of them take off.

She tilts her face towards his and he kisses her, the sensation so overwhelming it leaves him light-headed. His arms are around her waist and he feels his knees go weak with it, and his brain closes down and there’s no thoughts anymore, no muddled-up, messed-up, over-anxious thoughts, there’s only the feeling of her body against his, and the knowledge that he wants her, utterly and completely, and that he may do forever.

A small thrill at the thought of this unexpected excitement, punctuating his hectic Wednesday, like a shooting star appearing from nowhere in the blackest night sky.

He is a bad son. He should have stayed here, taken care of her. Not moved away to London and his life of debauchery. But his sanity – already so fragile, already hanging on by a thread – depends on him being able to escape from this most of the time. From being able to put it in a box and pretend it doesn’t exist.

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just around the corner.

around the corner.