I can’t believe you actually did it.
After everything I told you.
Are you seriously ignoring me now?
I stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, thinking maybe if I hold it long enough, a reply will write itself.A clever, casual, totally- not-crumbling-inside kind of response.
But nothing comes.
Because she’s not wrong.
I toss the phone onto the bed, drag myself to the shower, and wash off the remains of whatever the hell last week was.
By 8.45 a.m., I’m standing in the sterile reception area at my work, badge clipped to my jacket, smile glued to my face like I haven’t just returned after imploding my personal life for a man who told me not to come back.
My desk is as I left it.Too neat.Too untouched.My nameplate is slightly crooked – it knows I’m a fraud.
Kira from legal comes over with a triple-shot oat milk latte and a tight smile.‘Good weekend?’
I nod.‘Productive.’Not a lie if you count Tinder matches and existential dread as productivity.
Before I’ve even sat down, I get briefed on a new campaign for a toothpaste brand pivoting to charcoal.Edgy.Disruptive.Very clean- girl aesthetic meets bio-activated enamel science.The kind of beige campaign that’s perfect for someone trying to quietly disappear into corporate obscurity.So, I bury my head in the deliverables and pretend the blinking cursor isn’t mocking me.But no matter how many brand decks I scroll through or concepts I fake-smile at in meetings, my brain keeps short-circuiting back to a dusty farm, those stupid cows and a pair of blue eyes that saw me too clearly.
I text Abbey.
You working in the city today?
She replies in 0.03 seconds because Abbey is surgically attached to her phone and has push notifications for oxygen.
Always.Lunch break?
We meet outside the salad place we pretend we enjoy, at one of those outside tables that make you feel slightly less cool than a Parisian chain-smoker.
Abbey’s already mid-rant about a PR launch that went viral.‘Anti- ageing cream made from, get this, rendered animal fat.I shit you not.It’s literal cow goo.I swear to God, Jamie, science has gone rogue.’
I push cherry tomatoes around my biodegradable bowl of sadness.‘That’s revolting.’
She shrugs.‘Apparently it works.Probably because your skin is too traumatised to move.’
We’re both mid-bite, chewing like health-conscious frauds, when I see him.
Tom.
He walks past in vet scrubs and does a double-take when he spots me.I do a double-take too and groan internally for the car crash that’s about to happen.
He stops.Smiles.‘Hey!’
Abbey, to her credit, catches on fast and straightens up with a grin that’s all teeth and silent judgement.
‘Tom.Hi.’I give him the kind of wave that saysPlease don’t ask me any real questions.
He glances at Abbey.
‘Abbey, this is Tom,’ I say, waving a hand between them.‘Tom, this is Abbey.’
Tom, ever polite, shakes her hand.‘Nice to meet you.’
Then – of course – he looks at me.‘How’s the dog hunting going?’
