Time of Your Life (Time of Your Life #1)

by Jessa Hastings

I didn’t think you could tell in the moment—I didn’t know you could feel the gravity of your life changing around you when it is, in fact—I always had sort of felt as though you became aware of it in retrospect. Like, after the fact, you think back and you’re able to identify “oh yes, that moment did actually change my life”—but I have it here now, straightaway.

Uncomfortable things have to be worth it, worth whatever discomfort they bring you, otherwise they’re just…uncomfortable for no reason.

“He’s staring at you like no one’s ever stared at you before in your whole entire life.”

that man’s gaze was the thing that was anchoring me to the planet. Gravity.

“Like, what the fuck was I doin’ till now?” I shrug it off. “Who the fuck was I singin’ about?”

She laughs. Proper laughs. Best sound I heard since that first time me mum showed me “Here Comes the Sun,” which is funny now that I think of it. I reckon—somehow—them boys wrote that one about her. Feel like science might one day prove it that she, in fact, is the proper fuckin’ sun.

I nod once, feelin’ this weird responsibility that wasn’t there three seconds ago. Don’t know if I’m ready for it or even want it, but fuck it. Heavy is the head, and she’s the fuckin’ crown.

And I can feel—somehow fuckin’ feel it, I can, in the equilibrium of the universe, that I am going to pay for that somewhere down the line.

“You’re Joah Harrigan, you can’t do girlfriends.” I give him a look, deadpan. “I’m Joah fuckin’ Harrigan. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“No,” Joah tells me. And that—I’ll realise in eventual time—will be the first time that he lies to me.

don’t say that shit to me—” I scowl at her. “I’m a fuckin’ rock star, alpha bullshit, manly man.”

This is a terrible part of loving someone, isn’t it? That they become your heart that lives outside of your body and they exist in the world, and the world we live in tries to beat everyone and everything down, and today it picked him, and it’s working.

“You’ve just got a front-row seat now…” I give him a confused look. “To what?” Richie looks past me over to his brother, nods his chin that way. “Welcome to the Joah show.”

And I do love her, not saying I don’t—but it was on accident, and I think that’s key for remembering. Because I didn’t plan for this. Wasn’t this thing I’ve spent the last few preparing for, it just fuckin’ happened, didn’t it? You know all that shit about sowing wild oats; I’ve got so many fuckin’ oats to sow, man—and I can’t now, can I—? Cos I’ve met this girl I fuckin’ love and I don’t wanna hurt, and ya know what’s fuckin’ fucked-up—? Still hurt her anyway, didn’t I? Without even trying, you know?

“Something can be great and scary at the same time, you know…” She elbows me gently. “Most worthwhile things are.”

“Ah,” she chuckled under her breath, like she got it. “You only love a circus when you’re the ringleader.”

“I fucking hate Ysolde Featherstonhaugh,” she says, spitting her name like it tastes bad. I take another swig of the scotch, nodding back at her slow. You know what? Fuckin’ me too.

feelings are shit and liars.

That man—” She pauses, reconsidering. “Boy.

I understand men. I know how to make them dance for me on strings like little puppets. Am I proud of that—?

“He doesn’t love me,” I tell him. “Yes,” Rich says solemnly. “He does.” “No,” I insist. “He says he does, but he doesn’t.” Rich shakes his head. “He says he does, doesn’t act like he does because he don’t know a fuckin’ thing about it—but he does.” He gives me a look, trying to make his point. “Loves you as much as someone can love another person when they’ve never really seen…you know, love like—”

“Whoa, you’re like—” He shakes his head, speechless. “—Beautiful.” I nod. “I know.” I give him a glib smile. “It’s riveting stuff.” His head pulls back, surprised. “You don’t care about being beautiful?” I shrug. “Not really.” He looks confused. “Even though it’s gotten you…everything—?” I stare up at him in defiance. “Do you care about air, River?” His eyes pinch, curious. “Not particularly.” “Even though it keeps you alive?” He nods, sort of getting my point. “I guess I’d only care about it if I was running out of it.” “So tell me I’m beautiful when I’m sixty and the world is tired of my face,” I tell him, unwavering. “Yeah, okay.” He nods, smiling. “Deal.”

I have experienced the goodness of God in my life, and it would be remiss not to acknowledge as much.