Alex
Was cooking. Burned it. I blame you entirely.
Me
LOL. You texted me! I should let you finish your dinner.
Alex
I’ll text you later. And Emma… I can’t wait to see you Friday.
I stare at the message far too long. I type “Me too”, delete it, type it again, delete it again. My heart is already halfway out of my chest. No need to throw the rest after it.
Me
Have a good evening.
I set my phone aside and sink into the water, letting the warmth close over my skin. Something is shifting. Quietly, tentatively, but undeniably. For the first time in years, I don’t feel like running.
For the first time in years, something feels like it might actually go right.
My phone buzzes again for a second my heart jumps stupidly, thinking it’s Alex. But the name on the screen makes my stomach dip.
I sink lower under the water, wishing I could pretend I didn’t see it. Then I force myself to answer.
“Hi, Mum.”
“What took you so long to pick up?” she asks in that falsely-bright tone she uses when she wants to sound concerned rather than annoyed.
“I was getting out of the bath,” I lie.
“Oh good.” She sounds pleased with herself, as if she’s completed a motherly duty. “I just wanted to check in. It feels like ages since we’ve spoken.”
We spoke last week, but challenging that would only start an argument. “I’ve been busy,” I say.
“So I’ve heard,” she replies, in the careful voice she uses when she’s nudging the conversation somewhere. “Gina rang me this morning. You remember Gina. My friend from Fellside. Her sister still lives there.”
A slow pause follows, one she expects me to fill. I don’t.
“Well,” she continues, “apparently her sister saw you yesterday. With someone.”
A quiet ache settles under my ribs. “Word travels fast.”
“Small villages always do have a way to spread the gossip.” Another soft, loaded pause. “I just wanted to say… be careful.”
I shut my eyes. “Careful how?”
“Well, darling…” Her voice drops into gentle caution, the kind that sounds caring if you don’t listen too closely. “Men like that — very handsome, very charming, I hear — they have options. They don’t always choose girls who aren’t… quite their usual type.”
The breath I take is sharp, though I try not to let it show. “You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t have to,” she says kindly, which somehow makes it worse. “A man like that can have anyone. And I don’t want you getting hurt because you’ve misunderstood his intentions. You feel things so deeply. You always have.”
I grip the edge of the tub. “You’re assuming a lot.”
“I’m being realistic,” she answers, certain and soft. “You have a lovely personality, Emma, truly. But men don’t marry personalities alone. I just want you to manage your expectations.”
The words land exactly where she aims them, like always.
