Daniel.
I’d repliedAbout what?when he first messaged. Shouldn’t have, but I did. Then he came back with:I’m in a difficult place. Could really do with some friendly advice.
Friendly advice. That’s what you ask a colleague about broadband providers, not your ex-husband you spent ten years trapped under. I didn’t reply. I couldn’t.
But now, standing here, watching couples glide past on paddleboards like some smug Noah’s ark, I feel the weight of it. The familiar pull.
I start typing:Okay. We can meet.
My thumb hovers, then hits send before I can stop myself. Regret floods in immediately, prickling my skin. Why do I do this? Why do I let him back in, even a sliver?
Guy would have told me not to. He was always blunt like that. Once, when I was still married, I moaned about Daniel’s silent treatments, and Guy just said, “Sounds exhausting. My other half’s obsessed with scatter cushions but at least I can switch off withoutgetting frostbite.” He had a point. He always did. I wish I still had his voice in my ear now.
As I come to the circuit, I tuck my phone away, sigh and keep walking. Past the Arnolfini, past the buskers murdering Ed Sheeran on acoustic guitars, past the jogger with the smug Fitbit glance. The air smells of chips and canal water, which is less romantic than it sounds.
And then—
I look up.
And there he is.
Pete.
Walking towards me, basket-free this time, no avocados in sight. Just him. Dark hair, stubble, jacket unzipped against the breeze.
For a split second, my brain panics. Should I smile? Should I say hello? Should I turn away? Almost like the anxiety and self-doubt is talking me out of approaching him.
But then he lifts a hand in recognition, smiling, and my chest does this ridiculous flip that could probably be measured on the Richter scale.
“Hey,” he says when he’s close enough. “Tom, right?”
And just like that, the harbour doesn’t feel lonely anymore. It feels… electric.
Of course, my brain’s contribution to the moment is:Don’t trip over a bollard.
Chapter 8
TOM
He says my name and everything in me starts fizzing, like someone’s tipped a can of Coke and a Berocca into my bloodstream. I try to walk toward him at a normal-human pace, which in my case is somewhere between “lost tourist” and “man whose shoelace has betrayed him.”
“Hi,” I say, aiming for suave and landing on breathy.
“Hi,” he echoes, smile easy, eyes crinkling. “Fancy seeing you here and not by the avocados.”
“Uh, yes, well, I’ve branched out,” I say. “I’m testing a new diet plan. Less healthy fats, more tripping hazards.”
He laughs. “Well, it’s a pleasant surprise. I’m just here for a walk while the sun is out, before it no doubt turns to torrential rainfall next week.”
“Yeah, same here.”
He gestures down the harbourside. “You fancy carrying on the walk with me?”
My brain immediately short-circuits. Walk? With him? In public? While consciously controlling my limbs?
“Yes!” I say, far too quickly and with uncomfortable levels of enthusiasm. “Absolutely. Yes. Walking. Love… walking.”
Inside, I’m screaming.
