She laughs. “I’m serious, sweetheart. It suits you. I’ve never seen your bust look so …”
I slap a hand over my eyes. “Do not finish that sentence,” I say, cutting her off.
She giggles like she’s still twenty. “OK, forget your bust. Tell me about the man.”
“There is no man.”
“Oh, come on now. The tall one in the suit you asked out. When are you seeing him?”
“I’m not. It’s not like he’s actually going to call. That’s not …” I wave my hands at the ceiling, exasperated. “It was just a joke. A dare. That’s all.”
“Hmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Well, I think he looked rather handsome. And if he does call, you’ll at least give him a chance, won’t you? It’s not like you’re exactly …”
I cut her off before she says getting any younger.
“Mum, I’ve got to go. I have work. Love you, bye.”
“Bye,” she says.
I hang up to the sound of her still chuckling merrily.
Tossing my cell phone back on my desk, I try to refocus on the logo design, but my brain refuses to play ball. All I can see is a pair of green eyes and the pitying smirk of that woman at his table. Bitch.
Hours later, after a half-hearted lunch of leftover chicken and some salad, and two more mugs of coffee, my cell phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text, not a message from the group chat. And it’s from an unknown number.
My stomach flips. Could it be George? Did he change his number? Did he finally realize that blocking me was cruel, andhe does, in fact, want me back? With trembling fingers, I unlock the screen.
Unknown number: Jessica, meet me at Mason’s tonight at eight. Roger.
My shoulders slump. It’s not George. But who is it? Roger. Who the hell is Roger? I don’t know anyone named Roger.
I stare at the words on my screen, my heart pounding. It can’t be George. George would never send something so commanding. So presumptuous. He’s more of the would you like to grab a coffee sometime if you’re not too busy type.
The commanding tone, the telling rather than asking, it reminds me of the man from the bar. Oh God. It’s him. It has to be. The man in the suit. The stranger from the bar. He actually texted me.
I sit back in my chair, wide-eyed, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind. Part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and part of me wants to scream, and most of me wants to pretend I never saw this message. If Sandra and Lucy don’t know, I don’t have to go – my forfeit is complete if he doesn’t contact me. I can just delete the message and carry on with my life, and this embarrassing chapter will close.
My mind made up, I open a reply, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
Sorry, no. Can’t, I type out.
I nearly hit send. But then something twists in my chest, and I find myself once more thinking of George.
George, who blocked my number. George, who couldn’t even be bothered to reply to my drunken, pleading texts. George, who was safe and dependable and apparently had no problem throwing me away. And with those thoughts, for the first time, comes anger rising like a tide inside of me. How dare he just ignore me? Why should I waste my time pining over him when that’s the way he treats me?
Before I can overthink it, I delete the text I have written, and instead, I type just three words.
Me: See you there.
I hit send. The second the message whooshes away, panic sets in.
“Oh, shit. Oh, no. Oh, God.” I clutch myself, rocking in my chair as if that might undo it. But it’s done. I said yes. I actually said yes. This is bad. This is so bad.
All afternoon, I can’t think of anything except the fact that I agreed to go and meet the man from the bar - Roger. My cursor blinks accusingly on the blank screen, but all I can do is cycle through reasons why this is a terrible idea.
He’s too good-looking. Too intense. Too not George. He’s not someone who is interested in someone like me. It’s obviously a joke. Maybe he and his friends are laughing about it now. Maybe he wants me to show up so he can reject me publicly.
That doesn’t feel right, though. He doesn’t seem like the sort of man to waste his time like that.
