“I hate this operation.”
“You’ll live,” she says breezily.
We head down the road toward the pub. The sky is stretched out the sun still high in the sky, the last of the heat shimmering off the rooftops. The village feels relaxed and summery, all gentle light and open windows. The complete opposite of how my stomach feels.
Christina bumps her shoulder against mine. “So. Alex.”
“No.” I stare ahead.
“No what?”
“No talking about him.”
“We’re literally walking to a place where he probably is.”
“That is precisely why we’re not talking about him.”
Christina laughs. “Come on. Admit it. You fancy him a little.”
“I don’t know him,” I say, flustered. “You cannot fancy someone you know nothing about.”
“Of course you can. That’s what half of romance novels are built on.”
“I don’t fancy him,” I insist. “He’s just… very confident.”
“And handsome,” she adds.
“That too.”
“And funny.”
“Yes.”
“And he looked at you like you were interesting.”
I trip on a paving stone. “No he didn’t.”
“He absolutely did. I know that look.”
“People… men don’t give me that look.”
“Because you never let anyone get close enough to give you one… look that is,” she giggles at that last comment.
I groan. “Can we please stop analysing this like it’s a GCSE text?”
“Fine,” she says lightly. “Then answer this: if he asked you out, would you go?”
I splutter. “He won’t.”
“That’s not the question, Emma.”
We pass Mrs Fletcher’s garden wall. I lower my voice as if the rose bushes might be listening.
“I don’t know,” I whisper honestly. “Probably not. I’d just… panic.”
Christina squeezes my arm. “That’s all right. Panic is allowed. But so is saying yes.”
We reach the corner where The Unicorn sits, tucked behind the square. Saturday night hum drifts out — laughter, clinking glasses, the low rumble of rugby on TV.
