It wasn’t fair on any of us.
I had a sinking feeling that, given the chance, I could actually fall head over heels, crazy in love.
And for once, the thought actually excited me.
I dropped the girls back at each of their houses, waved at my brother, Simon, from the car. I couldn’t face talking to him. My body was raw, aching with confused emotion.
I drove the last few miles back to my own rented house slowly, deliberating what to do for the rest of the day. It was only lunchtime.
Heading through the back door, straight into the kitchen, I heard cricket commentary blaring out from the television in the lounge. I rolled my eyes and followed the sound.
There he was, predictably sprawled on the couch, can in hand and another discarded at his feet.
‘How’s things?’ Rob didn’t turn his head; his eyes never left the screen.
‘Fine, thanks. How are you?’ I picked up the can from the floor.
‘All well here. Had a lazy weekend.’
What’s new? I refrained from saying it out loud.
Upstairs, I unpacked my weekend bag. It took all of ten minutes. The house felt claustrophobic. I needed to get out. Pulling on my gym clothes, I headed out the back door again, only shouting I was going out as an afterthought.
I thought I heard, ‘What time’s dinner?’ but I chose to ignore it, banging the door defiantly.
The gym was a five-minute drive away. I was surprised to see the carpark almost full. Great. Just when I was hoping for a bit of solitude.
I remained in my vehicle, staring searchingly at my phone. Would I ever hear from him again?
Was it just a bit of craic for him?
Or did it feel as real to him as it did to me?
After a brief internal contemplation, I decided then, shit or bust, to ring him. If he answered, I’d see where it took me. If he didn’t, I would never ring him again, just simply draw a line under the weekend. I’d let fate decide.
For all I knew, he could have been exceptionally charming over the weekend, and then not give our meeting a secondthought. It was complicated, to say the least. It wouldn’t be any wonder if a person didn’t want to get caught up in what was about to be the car crash of my life.
I found John’s name in my recent calls log, chewed my lower lip and pressed the phone tightly to my ear.
‘Welcome to the Vodafone messaging service, your call cannot be connected right now, please try again later.’
Well, that was that.
Fate had decided.
It was a great weekend. Nothing more.
Sort your life out Lucy O’Connor, you are in no position to be hoping for anything. It had served its purpose as a complete eye-opener, regardless of what happened from that point.
In the gym, I found a free treadmill overlooking the car park and started the machine. Pure alcohol streamed out of every pore. I increased the pace, the physical burn distracting me from my self-inflicted heartache. My feet pounded the rubber, thumping thunderously with each step.
Old school dance music blasted from my eardrums as I attempted to drown everything else out; how I’d felt for those few hours with John, how impossible the situation was, regardless of the fact that I was actually married. The odds were massively stacked against us. We lived in different countries.
He didn’t answer.
Write it off, I repeatedly reminded myself.
I was two kilometres in when the music cut out, and I looked down at my phone in surprise to see John’s name flashing up on the caller ID. I hit the emergency stop button and swiftly positioned a foot either side of the running belt.
