‘Ignoring him and avoiding home isn’t going to do you one bit of good. You get yourself home. You tell him what you want, even if that’s never to set eyes on him again. You do this before you find yourself on national TV telling the country the only man you can get to stick his boaby in you is dead!’
The door to the café opens, a cute guy in jeans and t-shirt entering.
‘You ready, June,’ he asks, all dimples.
‘I am, Sam, my chicken hen.’ She pats his hand as he grasps the handles of the wheelchair I didn’t realise she was sitting in.
And how did I not realise it?Born to be Mildemblazoned across the back, it also has purple wheels and glittery streamers hanging from the handles.
‘Good luck, hen,’ June calls. And with a wave over her shoulder, Sam wheels her out the door.
I don’t exactly take her advice, but I do eventually have to go back home. It’s all well and good sitting in a café alone, even if you do meet the strangest of characters, but it’s not quite as scary as eating dinner by yourself.On a Friday night, of all nights.
I know, it’s not very forward thinking of me. But I just feel like a sad sack sitting amongst families and couples.Oh, look at that poor lady. She can’t even get a dinner date.
So home I go. And as Will’s car is still in a parking bay as I enter, I consider crossing the road and slashing his tires for all it represents.
I’m not good for you = We’re too different.
We’re too different = I’m the son of a lord. And you’re an American peasant.
And apparently, a petty American peasant because though these might be my equations, they aren’t how Will makes me feel.
He’s like the boy in fourth grade pulling m pigtails. Or the same boy a couple of years later pinging your bra strap. It’s an annoying kind of attention, but it’s the only way he can express himself.
I say hi to George, the porter, as I pass, my running shoes then making quick work of the stairs. I’m almost home, my keys in the lock when a deep voice says my name.
‘Creeping Jesus! Don’t do that,’ I exclaim, swinging around to face him.
‘You haven’t answered any of my texts.’
Will stands on the staircase behind me looking more handsome than he has any right to be. Dark pants and a gleaming white button down, sleeves folded almost to the elbow. Not that I’m staring too hard or anything.
‘Oh, today’s texts?’ As in not the dozens of invisible ones. ‘I have answered them. In my head.’
‘As a means of communication, I find telepathy isn’t a particularly good one.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Will. Maybe you just need to concentrate harder,’ I reply, hiking my purse higher a little too aggressively. ‘And I bet if you tried hard, you’d be able to tell what I’m thinking right now.’
Please ask to come inside.
Please tell me you’ve missed me. That you’re sorry for leaving me for days and days without saying anything at all.
I’m able to hide my internal turmoil, fixing my expression to read, “I give no fucks”.
‘I’m sorry.’ His tone is chastened and he ducks his head. ‘There really isn’t an adequate excuse for leaving you the other day. But I had to get to work. Babies and nature are a law unto themselves. I certainly didn’t feel good about leaving you as I did.’
‘It’s not that you left. It’s that you didn’t come back.’
‘I know.’ He nods again, though this time shoots me a flirty half grin. ‘You know, you’re really good at this chastising thing. If I didn’t know better I might think you were a teacher.’
‘Don’t get cute with me. I’m not in the mood.’
‘Cute?’ he says, full of faux astonishment. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, except that it’s ingrained. I don’t know how to switch it off, really.’
‘I can think of a couple of ways,’ I reply, sarcastically.
‘And I can’t wait to experience them.’ His index finger traces his full bottom lip like I need reminding of its kissable-ness.
