“C’mon, I was only taking the piss,” Jules says. “Just go talk to ’im, what d’you have to lose?”
“Only the very last scraps of my heart,” I answer, pouring on the melodrama.
Because here’s the thing: I’d forgotten how magnificent it was to have a crush. That swelling of boundless promise, all the immaculate imaginings of what might be and could be and will be.
Part of me is convinced that Alexander and I really are going to work out. But the other part, the spiky logic lurking beneath the cotton covers, is aware that there’s aslightchance that I may have overhyped this whole thing, and that as soon as I touch it, the crush will pop in my face and leave my eyes stinging with residue. And that I’ll be slung straight back to the drawing board.
“What if he’s not like what I pictured?” I say to Jules. “Or what ifI’mnot like he’s pictured?” My voice is small but the fear is big.
“Then we’ll find another bloke for you to shag,” Jules says, ever the pragmatist. “Not exactly a difficult task.”
“That would make me feel worse,” I say, sulking.
“China plate,” Jules says, helping herself to a couple of my thick-cut chips and drowning them in mayo. “That means ‘mate,’ by the way. Reckon we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Maybe ’e’ll turn out to be exactly the man you think he is.”
I perk up a bit. “I think he might.”
“So tomorrow you’ll find out.”
“Tomorrow?” I screech, like a baby bird whose mother has just left the nest. “I can’t. It’s too soon—we need to build a stronger foundation.”
“Meaning you need to make more eye contact from afar?” Jules clarifies.
“Correct. It’s a slow burn, and I like it like that.”
“Quit faffing around, babes,” Jules says. “You’re not Rapunzel waiting in the tower for ’er bloody prince to come and save ’er.”
“I know that,” I say, bristling. “I’m a future CEO.”
It sounds harsher than I intend, like I’m putting down the fact that Jules doesn’t have grand career aspirations, that she’s happy bartending for as few hours a week as it takes to cover her living costs.
“What I mean,” I clarify, “is I’m not ready to talk to him. Not yet.”
I just can’t take that kind of disappointment right now. For a little while longer, I want to stay curled up in the cocoon of my unblemished fantasy. Preserve this symbol of hope without having it exposed as faux.
I know it sounds absurd, that I could be wrecked by a complete stranger not turning out to be who I thought he was, but that’s how it feels. Alexander has helped me feel vindicated for breaking up with Mateo, helped show me what I want and deserve in a partner. And he now represents so much more about my beliefs in love and serendipity and happy endings. It’s probably not fair to him to have to carry all this on his broad shoulders, but it really can’t be helped anymore.
The story is there, and I add to it each morning I see him. It’s brightened up my whole life, and I don’t want to risk losing the light. Not yet.
Perhaps Jules picks up on my unspoken thoughts. “Righ’o, babes,” she says. “I’m giving you one more fortnight to pine from afar, and then you’re getting on the bus and talking to the bloke. Or I’ll get on myself and tell ’im you fancy ’im.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Jules challenges, and I know she would, in a heartbeat. “After one Jägerbomb, I’ve got no shame.”
“Doesn’t even take one,” I mutter under my breath.
Customers are flagging Jules down from high-tops, but she neglects them to keep talking to me. “Just remember,” Jules says, reaching over the counter to ruffle my hair in a maternal sort of way, “you’re one fit baked bean.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Means ‘sexy queen,’” Jules translates. “But no matter what ’appens, me and Nina are always ’ere for a bevvy and a cuddle. Don’t go forgetting that.”
I’m old enough to know that Jules and I won’t be close friends forever. I’ll move away after my case ends, and staying in touch won’t extend much past the occasional Instagram “like.” But I can still appreciate that we’re intersecting now, at this London juncture that’s felt too sharp all by myself.
“Alright, I’ll do it,” I say, nodding with resolve as I wash down the beef bagel with beer. “I’ll get on the bus and talk to him. Within two weeks.”
“Pint-y promise?” Jules says, holding up her ale for a toast.
