It’s Up to You
After a bitter divorce, Emily decided to leave everything behind and return to her hometown. Nothing tied her there anymore except her decent job—her daughter had married and moved in with her husband’s family. She had to go. She knew her ex-husband would never let her live in peace. That was just the kind of man he was.
Back in Sheffield, she had a small two-bed flat in a modest five-story building, left to her by her late aunt, who’d passed two years prior. Moving brought its own headaches, but Emily was desperate to escape the city where her ex still lived.
A month of job hunting finally paid off—she landed a position at a prestigious ad agency and started on Monday. They don’t call it “Monday blues” for nothing, but this one was something else.
On her way to work, she nearly stepped into traffic, jerking back onto the pavement as tyres screeched behind her.
«Blimey, got a death wish or what?» growled a man’s voice from the car. «Tryin’ to get yourself flattened?»
She turned to see a scowling face behind the wheel.
«Maybe learn to drive properly,» she snapped before bolting for the pedestrian crossing.
«Nearly wrapped the car round a lampost thanks to you!» he shouted after her.
The awful start to the week was offset by a warm welcome from her new colleagues. The department head personally showed her to her desk and introduced her to the team—mostly women, with only three men, including the boss.
On the bus home, she sighed. *Not a bad day, despite the start. The team seems nice. Need to stop by the market for groceries.*
The stairwell was pitch black when she got back—bulbs blown again. Clutching her shopping bag, she climbed the steps carefully, only to collide with someone’s chest.
«Sorry,» she mumbled.
«Watch it—nearly sent me flying,» came the reply in a voice she recognised instantly. The man from this morning. «I’m in flat 17. Thomas.»
«Flat 19. Emily,» she said curtly. «And maybe fix the bloody lights before someone breaks their neck.»
He flicked a lighter open.
«Well, well. You again. So we’re neighbours now,» he said, irritation lacing his words. «Just what I needed.»
She decided this conversation was going nowhere and marched upstairs without another word.
Thomas headed out as dusk settled. He needed groceries. Walking down the street, he replayed the morning’s near-miss.
«Thank God I replaced the brake pads last week. Could’ve been a right mess. And she’s got a mouth on her—no apology, just attitude.»
Thomas was a journalist who dabbled in writing children’s stories—a hobby that paid surprisingly well. His marriage had ended six months back when his wife had an affair with his best mate. She’d hoped Mark would keep quiet, but he’d spilled everything.
His fridge was empty, hence the trip to the shop. And then *that* encounter on the stairs.
«So the she-devil’s moved into Aunt Margaret’s old flat. Right above me. Brilliant.»
The next morning, they crossed paths again—Thomas fiddling with his lock as she rushed out. They stepped toward the stairs at the same time, and she nudged him aside.
«Oh, didn’t see you there,» she said with a smirk, hurrying down.
«Hard to miss you—always underfoot,» he called after her. *Thought Aunt Margaret was the worst tenant I’d ever have. Turns out I was wrong.* He shook his head. *Some bloke must’ve done a number on her. Now she hates all of us.*
That evening, Emily cleared out her aunt’s old storage cupboard, stuffing a bin bag with junk to toss. Outside, she ran into Thomas just as he pulled up.
«Not moving out, are you?» he said dryly.
«Don’t get your hopes up.»
«Wouldn’t dream of losing such a *charming* neighbour,» he shot back, noticing—despite himself—how softer she looked in casual clothes. Pity about the personality.
The next day, Emily overslept. Everything went wrong—her glasses vanished, coffee splashed across the table, keys missing (under her bag, of course). She sprinted for the bus, but it was already pulling away.
Then Thomas’s beat-up car rolled up beside her.
«Training for the Olympics? Impressive sprint, but pavements exist. Get in—you’ll be late.»
*Ugh, pompous git.* But she didn’t want to be late, so she slid in.
They drove in silence until she barked, «Here’s fine,» and bolted for the office.
Rushing down the corridor, she smacked into a stranger.
«Sorry, running late—»
«No worries,» he said, following her in. «You’re Emily, right? The new hire. I’m James, just back from holiday. Boss is chill about tardiness, thankfully.»
She settled at her desk, but James soon appeared with coffee. The day passed smoothly. That night, lounging on the sofa, she replayed it.
*James is nice. Handsome, clever, well-read. And single, I think.* But the way the other women fawned over him… *Whatever. No office romances for me.*
Thomas’s day was uneventful. After work, he visited his mum, who fed him while fretting.
«Son, it’s been six months. Make up with Victoria or find someone new. Living on takeaways’ll land you in hospital.»
«Mum, men don’t just want a cook,» he said, kissing her cheek. «Thanks for dinner.»
That night, Victoria called. *Mum’s doing, no doubt.*
«Tommy, I miss you. Can I come home?»
*Like it’s that simple.* «Victoria, you can’t step in the same river twice.»
«What river? Tommy, please—I hate myself for what I did. You’re too kind to hold a grudge.»
*She’s crafty. Knows Mark dumped her.* «No, Victoria. I’m better off without you.»
«Let’s talk. I’ll come over—»
«Café. Tomorrow. Six. *Don’t* push it.»
James invited Emily for drinks after work. She agreed—anything beat another night alone.
«Where to?» she asked, admiring his sleek car as she got in.
«Like it?»
«Very comfy.»
«Costs a fortune to keep it that way. Petrol, repairs, parking—extortionate.»
«Then why buy it?»
«I like nice things,» he said, resting a hand on her knee. She moved it away.
The café was quiet. Emily ordered a cocktail, sipping slowly until she spotted Thomas across the room with a striking brunette.
*Of course he’s here.* He waved cheerfully, eyeing James with interest.
«Should go. Things to do,» she said abruptly.
Thomas watched them leave, Victoria’s pleas fading into background noise. His mood soured—all he could think about was Emily and *that bloke*.
«Tommy, darling—» Victoria slid her fingers up his sleeve.
He jerked away. «We’re done.» He tossed cash on the table. «Pay for yourself.»
«Fine!» she shrieked. «Don’t trip over your ego on the way out!»
James pursued Emily for a week, pressing to come over or host her. She resisted, uneasy. On Friday, he snapped.
«Emily, this is ridiculous. You’re not some blushing virgin. What’s the hold-up?»
«You don’t *love* me.»
«Love? Who needs it? We’re having fun, aren’t we?»
The words scalded her.
«We’re done, James. Let’s not waste each other’s time.» She fled the car.
Near home, she slipped on a banana peel, crying out as pain shot through her ankle.
No one stopped. Tears welled until Thomas appeared.
«Hurt?» He scooped her up gently, drove her to hospital.
Just a sprain, thankfully. He helped her home, settling her on the sofa.
«Need anything else?»
«No. Thanks.»
«See you tomorrow.»
He returned at noon with a stack of papers.
«Wrote a story. About us. Want to read it?»
She did. «It’s lovely, Thomas. But… do they end up together?»
He grinned. «That’s up to you.»
They say there’s a thin line between love and hate. For Emily and Thomas, it was the opposite.