I smile, slightly reassured. This might not be exactly how I’d always imagined my first date with Jamie Reynolds (Not that this is a ‘date’, of course…), but this placecoulddefinitely be describedas ‘authentic’, which has to be a good thing. Alex would think it was, anyway. He’d deem the touristy bars and restaurants — the ones with beach views and exotic looking cocktails — “fake” and lacking in substance. But Jamie hasn’t brought me to one of those. Instead, he’s brought me to a place that’s importantto him. A place the locals come to eat. That’s even better, really.
Isn’t it?
I pick up the menu on the table, quickly re-calibrating my ‘Summer and Jamie on a date’ daydream as I scan it.
“It was perfect,” I imagine myself telling Chloe later. “Personal, you know?Intimate. Just me and him, without any distractions. And anyway, Jamie and I don’t need fancy restaurants or expensive cocktails toenjoy each other’s company. Our connection goes much deeper than that. It’s —”
“Summer?” I look up from the menu to see Jamie looking at me questioningly.
“I was asking if you want me to order some tapas for us?” he asks. “You were miles away.”
“Sorry, sorry,” I reply, giving myself a small shake. “Yes, tapas would be lovely. I’m absolutely starving. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Well, we’d better do something about that, then,” he says, grinning. “I’ll get us some sangria too, will I?”
I nod happily, and he gets up and heads to the bar, where he gives our order to a Spanish waitress, who looks over at me suspiciously. I tug at my shorts self-consciously, wondering if I should put Alex’s jumper back on. It’s way too hot for that, though, and before long, Jamie’s back, sliding into the seat opposite me, with a large jug of sangria, and two glasses.
I watch him covertly from behind my sunglasses as he pours for both of us. Up close, Jamie doesn’t look quite as much like his old self as he did from a distance; or even on his Instagram. He’s still good looking, with that boy-next-door vibe he’s always had, but he also looks a little worn around the edges,somehow, like someone tried to draw high school Jamie from memory, and didn’t quite capture him. His tanned skin has an unhealthy sheen to it, and when he pulls off his baseball hat and puts it on the table, I notice that his hairline’s receding in a way that makes him look a lot like his own dad.
It feels both disloyal and shallow to be even thinking these things, though — I mean, it’s not likeIlook exactly the same as I did back in high school either, is it? — so I push the traitorous thoughts aside and take a nervous sip of the sangria he’s poured me, wondering what I can say to make this situation feel evenslightlyless awkward.
“So, you own a bar now?” I say brightly, telling myself it’s only awkwardfor me, because I know why I came here. Jamie doesn’t, which means, as far as he’s concerned, this is just a chance meeting between old friends. Well,acquaintances, I guess.
Jamie’s glass pauses halfway to his lips.
“How did you know about the bar?” he says, instantly proving that, actually, this can definitely be awkward forbothof us. Just leave it to me to make sure of that.
“Oh! I, er… I’m not sure,” I stutter, deciding on the spotnotto tell him about the strange chain of events that led me to this knowledge. “I think Mark might have mentioned it at some point? Maybe?”
I pick up my drink again to buy myself some time. I haven’t seen my brother since before Christmas, and it’s been years since he so much as mentioned Jamie to me, but, much to my surprise, Jamie buys it.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, as the waitress appears and starts piling plates of food onto the table in front of us. “He probably heard about it from Sparky, if they’re still mates. How is Mark these days, anyway?”
I’ve no idea who/what ‘Sparky’ is, or if my brother is, indeed ‘mates’ with him, but I’m so relieved that I didn’t have to admit to stalking Jamie on the internet that I just smile broadly, and start telling him all about Mark, his wife Lisa, and the glamorous new apartment they just bought in the city, because they’re both doctors, and can afford stuff like that.
“And you?” asks Jamie, when I finally pause for breath, and pick up my fork to try some of the food at last. “What are you doing with yourself these days? You still like singing, you said? I remember I used to hear you through the wall sometimes. I used to kill myself laughing at you. You were pretty good, to be fair, but you were no Mariah Carey.”
I pause, a green pepper halfway to my mouth.
“I’m… taking a bit of a career break right now, actually,” I tell him, trying — and failing — not to feel hurt at that last comment. “Just so I can decide what my next move should be. There are so many options, you know?”
This isalmosttrue, to be fair. I’ve just omitted the bit about how one of my ‘options’ is going back to work in the call center again, like my boss is expecting me to.
“Tell me about it,” Jamie agrees, spearing a Canarian potato with his fork. “I think that’s brilliant, Summer. Too many people get stuck in a rut with work, you know? Why not take a break if you can afford it? Why not take some time to figure out who you really are without all the 9-5 bullshit weighing you down?”
I nod enthusiastically.
I can’t believe someone actually gets it.
“That’s exactly it,” I breathe, excitedly. “WhoisSummer, really? That’s the question?”
I rest my chin on my hand thoughtfully, ruining the look slightly when I almost knock over my glass of sangria.
Jamie looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“So, are you still playing guitar?” I ask to change the subject, and he immediately launches into a very long story about his band, Havoc, who play at the Squirrel every weekend. When it’s over, though, and I’ve dutifully laughed along at the wild and kerrazy antics of band mates whose names I’ve already forgotten, Jamie falls silent, and I realize there’s nothing much left to say.
We’ve exhausted all the topics we have in common; school, and Margate, and how our parents are. All we’re left with now is banalities about the weather, and how much nicer it is here than it is in the UK, and I wrack my brain, frantically trying to come up with something else we can talk about, because I don’t want this to be it. I don’t wantto have to admit to myself that I don’t really know this man, and that it’s entirely possible that we don’t have anything in common. I don’t want to have flown all the way out here to see a guy who still thinks of me as “Mark’s little sister” and makes fun of the way I used to sing into my hairbrush loudly enough to be heard in the house next door.
