I let my hand drop and look over at the others. Christina presses her lips together, half exasperated, half worried. Phil just blinks up at me like I’ve spoken in riddles.
“Well,” Christina says at last, grabbing her bag, “looks like my friend is even weirder than yours.”
Phil splutters. “Hey!”
She pats his head. “It’s all right, Bambi. You’re cute-weird. She’s panic-weird.”
Phil’s face turns a shade that could stop traffic.
Christina steps back from the table but pauses, fixing me with a surprisingly serious look.
“Are you actually interested?” she asks quietly.
“More than is sensible,” I say, because there’s no point lying.
She nods once, decisive. “Then don’t write her off. She’s not great with people. New ones, especially. She doesn’t trust easily. Doesn’t expect anyone to pick her.” She slings her bag over her shoulder. “If you’re serious, be patient with her. Take it slow. Don’t disappear just because she panicked.”
I nod, throat tight for reasons I don’t particularly want to analyse in a public place.
She gives Phil one last affectionate tap on the head. “See you soon, Bambi.” Then she heads out after Emma.
Phil and I sit there in the quiet left behind.
He clears his throat. “Mate… you all right?”
I huff out a laugh. “Not my smoothest performance.”
Phil shifts, thinking. “For what it’s worth… she didn’t look annoyed. More… overwhelmed.”
I glance at the door she disappeared through. The draft from her exit still lingers.
“I’d like another chance,” I admit quietly.
Phil nudges my shoulder. “Then you’ll get one.”
I hope he's right.
Because for the first time in a long time, I actually want one.
We finish our drinks in a mostly comfortable silence. Phil checks the time and winces.
“Right, I’d better get going,” he says. “Jane’s roped me into helping at her tack shop tonight. Her assistant’s got norovirus, and apparently half the county has decided their horses urgently need salt licks, fly spray and luxury hoof balm.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Busy day in the world of horse fashion?” We drop our empty glasses at the bar on the way out of the pub.
He groans. “You’re laughing now, but last time I helped my sister a Shetland pony escaped its stable, ate half a display of apple treats and chased a spaniel across the car park. I nearly retired on the spot.”
I snort. “Good luck, mate.”
“If I don’t make it out alive,” he sighs as we step out of the pub, “tell Mum I was taken down by a feral pony.”
He heads off down the lane muttering something about hoof oil and chaos.
I take the opposite route home, the evening air helping — very slightly — to settle my head.
Inside my cottage, I drop my phone on the coffee table, collapse onto the sofa, and immediately replay the entire disastrous encounter with Emma.
Her smile at the waterfall photo. Her shrinking the second I showed genuine interest. Her sprinting out like I'd asked her to elope.
