‘I was thinking,’ I begin Friday morning, as Nell bustles about the kitchen, a slice of toast hanging out of her mouth. I take some pleasure in seeing her eat though wonder if she thinks the grocery fairies have been stoking her kitchen.
‘What?’ propping her hip on the countertop, she looks at me for a beat before her gaze glides away as it meets mine. But I saw that—saw the way her eyes devoured the bulk of my thighs before crawling over my neck and chest, only moving once she realised she’d been caught. She clears her throat. ‘You were saying?’
‘Do you want to go to the movies?’
I’m not sure what I expected in response but it sure as shit wasn’t a derisory snort as her chin comes up, meeting my gaze again.
‘You don’t want to take me to dinner, but you’ll take me to the movies?’ She bites the corner of toast aggressively.
Remind me not to get my dick in the vicinity of those chompers.
Then I remind myself that’s the plan. Platonic.
‘I wouldn’t take you, exactly. We’d go as friends.’ Something pinches tight in my chest though I force away the discomfort with a deep breath. And as for dinner, the food in the cupboards is my version of feeding her.
‘When,’ she answers flatly. Not exactly a question. More a demand.
‘Tonight.’
‘Can’t.’ She shoves the rest of the toast into her mouth—a sizeable corner—looking now to her fingers as she dusts off the crumbs. She swallows the half-masticated lump uncomfortably, chasing it down with a mouthful of orange juice before delivering the rest. ‘I have a date.’
Yeah, I know, I don’t reply. Call me a masochist for trying. For wondering if she’d blow the dentist off for the suggestion of a platonic date with me.As if anything between us could be remotely nonsexual.But I guess that showed me, didn’t it?
‘Another day.’ She shrugs, nods; it’s all very noncommittal. And gut-tightening. And maddening. And while it’s also a little of what I expected, it’s not nearly as much as I deserve because only a creepy fucker keeps tabs on someone’s phone. ‘I’d like it to be friends, Nell.’
‘Yeah.’Not me, too,or I’ll think about it, orthe thoughts of that makes me want to puke. She’s well and truly retreated from her dealing with me, and that in itself speaks volumes. ‘Well, I have to go,’ she says, not really looking at my way again as she drops her juice glass into the sink.
I’m sad to see her go, and fucking confused—it’s like I just engineered that whole exchange just to dig the knife in a little more. But onward and upwards—I have things to do. More renovation jobs to complete, for sure, but I also have a little reconnaissance work going on. Picking up my coffee cup in one hand and my running shoes in the other, I make my way into the living room where my laptop sits on the coffee table... covered by a furry lump of cat.
‘Come on, off you get,’ I coax in the same sing-song tone my granny used to use when talking to her cat. What was her cat called again? Prudence—that was it. I always thought it an odd name for a cat but not quite as mad this fuzzy fucker’s tag. Smalls is a total misnomer because the thing is almost as big as a beagle. ‘She should’ve called you Biggy, not Smalls because you are one B.I.G. mother fucker. Ow!’ I snatch my hand back. ‘You little bastard!’ I growl, examining the two-inch scratch on the back of my hand. ‘So this is the way it’s going to be? In deference to your owner, I won’t make a pair of flippers out of you.’
It’s no wonder the thing has a superiority complex. Nell doesn’t make time to buy decent food for herself, yet I’ve noticed the cat eats gourmet.
‘Go on, fuck off.’ On my second attempt, I don’t go for the laptop but rather scoop my hand under its bulk and chuck him onto the chair. He’s not impressed, but I don’t have time to mess about as I might’ve, sort of, hacked Nell’s Tinder account. Okay, I definitely did hack it, and the best time to execute my plan is while she’s driving to work when there’s no chance of her looking at her phone.
Opening my laptop, I go straight to her messages, reading her conversation with Jarrod the dentist again. I might’ve tortured myself over the last couple of days reading their bantering over and over. Every day there’s the new exchange, each getting progressively more open and comfortable. Familiar.
And tonight, the icing on the cake, it the fact that she’s going on a date with him.
I wonder how familiar she’ll get with him tonight. She’s not a fuck-on-the-first-date type I don’t think, even if I didn’t get into her knickers pretty early on. But we have a history, I remind myself. She’s not going to screw a random bloke, even to get back at me.I hope.
And if she does? I’ll have to deal with it. I mean, I’ll have to deal with it at some point, won’t I? She’s going to move on. I’d just prefer it to be at a time I’m not here to watch. It’s for the best, I tell myself. Same as my screening her new messages is for the best, too.
I log into her account without an ounce of guilt.
Okay, a touch.
But not fucking much.
Jack:Hey bb. Your profile pic is so fiiine! If I flip a coin gurl what r the chances I’ll get head?
What are the chances I find out where you live, Jack, and teach you a lesson on how to speak to women—and yes, I do mean beat you to a fucking pulp—before enrolling you in English lessons?
I type my—Penny’s—reply.
Penny:There’s a 100% chance you’ll be giving it to yourself.
Naz:Hey, babe. Great picture. How about a quick-fire getting-to-know-you-round? Tell me two truths and a lie and—go!
