Was nice bumping into you too.
A pause.Typing.
I’m thinking about you way more than I should.
My stomach flipped, and a familiar longing began to churn inside me.
Why shouldn’t you be thinking about me?
The pause between my message and Max’s reply was mere moments.
Because I know I don’t deserve a second chance.
—
And now, he’s back. So we’re meeting for dinner at a posh restaurant near his flat in Clapham Old Town. I looked up the restaurant online first, was horrified to discover it’s the kind of place with tablecloths and taster menus and a sommelier for pairing the wine.
I haven’t gone as far as to buy a new outfit for the occasion, but I have unearthed the most beautiful dress I own—wrap-style in blue and gold, with a pair of midnight-blue suede Jimmy Choos (Reuben, of course, launched into an Elvis impression when I entered the living room earlier). Jools did my hair and makeup, and we decided I should get a cab, whereupon I started to panic that we were turning this into far more of an event than it actually was. But then we looked at the restaurant website again, and decided it was definitely worth the effort, all Max-related complications aside.
The nicest place Max and I ever went while we were dating was a midrange pasta chain, where three courses and two glasses of wine apiece always felt highly indulgent. I dwell again on how much time has passed, the different worlds we’re now inhabiting. The idea that maybe Max isn’t the person he was before. That maybe I’m not, either.
Still. I guess there’s only one way to find out.
—
I spot him straightaway—is he really that striking, or is my mind just sharp with lust?—already at our table, eyes on the door, waiting for me. My stomach spins. He has the radiant demeanor of the recently holidayed, his skin a couple of shades browner than it was two weeks ago.
The restaurant is warm and mood-lit, the décor mostly charcoal, but accented with bright colors by the art on the walls. The waiters are in black, the linen is starch white, and I can just make out the trickle of piano music beneath the ringing of glassware and cutlery.
I swallow as I cross the room, trying not to think of that imaginary—though real to me—long-limbed diving instructor. After our initial exchange of messages, he was in contact every day, and I almost felt bad that he was thinking of me while he was on holiday somewhere so magical. But as Sal pointed out, we were indulging in some A-grade flirting, and what could be more magical than that?
He stands up when I reach the table. “You look incredible.” Leaning forward, he kisses me on the cheek, and I peck him politely back, which feels so weirdly formal.
We sit, and for a moment I just enjoy the sight of him across the table from me, newly tanned, fair hair brightened by the sun. He’s wearing a shirt in a flattering shade of blue, and has that particular kind of watch on his wrist most commonly seen advertised by Hollywood actors. I suddenly worry that this man I once loved has soared completely out of my league.
“You look great,” I say. “Very... relaxed.”
He laughs. “Thank you. Though that really only lasted till I checked my e-mails.”
“When did you get back?”
“Last night.”
“You’re not jet-lagged? What’s the flight time?”
“Ten hours. I’ve been asleep most of today.”
I smile. “So that’s why you look so ridiculously—” I break off, feel my face warm a little.
Max smiles too, lifts an eyebrow. “So ridiculously...?”
“Well-rested.”
As he laughs, I remember how much I love the sound of it: completely natural and unaffected, the kind of laugh that slips free while you’re watching live comedy, or your favorite sitcom.
“Champagne?” he asks, nodding down at the drinks menu, and I notice a waiter approaching.
We’ve never drunk champagne together before. The most we could ever stretch to as students was bargain bin cava.
