Drawing my bottom lip into my mouth, I flicked my eyes down to his pinky. Before I could give myself time to overthink, I interlocked my little finger with his. ‘Deal.’
I wished I’d known then how pivotal that night had been. Not only for Fallon and Oliver. But also for myself. Wished Icould bottle the incandescent glow shimmering around the man who I’d originally thought would only be in my life for a night.
Life was rarely fair. George Blake didn’t leave my life.
He stayed.
We never talked about the kiss. He didn’t bring it up, so neither did I.
And as the months progressed and I watched my best friend fall in love with his brother, I sat on the sidelines, carefully building a wall around my heart against the man who I always caught staring at me from the corner of his eye. The man who held doors open for me, and sat next to me at all the football games we’d attend together, cheering on his brother.
The man who had the potential to ruin every single idea and preconception I had about men.
So I did what any grown adult would do when presented with an uncomfortable situation. I ignored it and prayed like fucking hell it would go away.
2
One Year Later
I gaveone last heave as the contents of my stomach emptied into the grimy toilet bowl. The skin-tight, silver dress I wore bunched at my waist—my poor attempt to keep the material from touching any other surface of the nightclub bathroom. I’d slipped it on this evening, knowing how it moulded to my body like a second skin and I didn’t want it ruined simply because I couldn’t handle cheap tequila.
A used tampon sat shrivelled up in the corner, and various patches of liquid puddled on the floor. Even in my inebriated state, I’d avoided the worst of the toilet stalls.
Consulting my gut to see if it had anything else it would like to evict, I gingerly got to my feet, closed the lid, and slumped down on the cold porcelain. Fluorescent lights flickered above my head, a curse of sober reality and a stark contrast to the low light and deep bass that thumped only a few feet away through the closed bathroom door.
The stale taste of secondhand liquor laced my tongue. I grimaced. I’d narrowly missed getting the David Beckhamlookalike I had been flirting with splashed with vomit. From the way he had dodged out of the way when I’d clamped a hand over my mouth, a look of justified disgust on his face, I doubted he was still waiting for me.
Shame. He’d beenreallyhot.
I was on a winning streak recently. Every night this week, I’d managed to pick up a guy. If my body hadn’t rebelled against me, the knock-off Beckham and I would be in a taxi halfway to my flat by now. Considering how his eyes had roamed over every inch of exposed skin on my body, the interest hadn’t been one way. All that had come to a crashing halt ten minutes ago.
Apparently, when you near your thirties, your tolerance for drinking and bad pickup lines plummets. I’d thought it was a myth meant to scare the youth of the world, until I got two shots of tequila down, and my stomach decided to pull the plug.
A hundred tiny gremlins were hacking away at my temple. Paying me back for asking it to function on little to no sleep and pot noodles. I brought a hand to my head, wincing.
The guy had probably moved on by now. I’m not sure how you could continue flirting with a woman who slams back a shot of tequila and nearly spews it all over you. A lead weight settled in my gut that had nothing to do with the last few minutes. I didn’t want to go back out there, the music pounding and the sweaty bodies moving together. Four hours ago, I’d been desperate to get out of the confines of my flat. The quiet was so loud I could hear my own heartbeat. At least if I was out, around people, I could distract myself. I wouldn’t be alone.
Right now, all I wanted was to go home, wrap myself in my duvet, snuggle with my dog, Roxy, and wake up to this entire night being nothing but a bad dream.
Home. I need to go home.
Plucking my silver sequinned clutch from the top of the toilet roll holder, I rummaged around for my phone.
Fallon.
She’d come pick me up, and I wouldn’t get a lecture about going out every night this week. Her face would go all scrunchy, like it did sometimes when she thought my decisions were questionable, but she’d keep them to herself—at least until I was sober.
Something my mother definitely wouldn’t be considerate of. Especially if I interrupted one of her coven meetings. She’d be more likely to toss several globes of garlic at me, claiming I neededcleansing.
Fallon’s picture flashed on the screen—it was of the two of us at a football game, both grinning madly at the camera, her pink hair glowing in the sunlight.
My lungs seized as I waited for her to pick up.
‘Rosie?’ she croaked.
‘Hey,’ I whispered, pressing the receiver to my mouth in case anyone else was in the bathroom.
‘Is everything okay?’ Alarm pitched in Fallon’s voice.
