It sounds stupid and too scripted.
I try again.
‘You were the only thing that felt real, and I was too scared to admit it.But I’m not scared anymore.’
Better, kind of.
I press my palms against the cool sink.Take a breath.
‘Okay,’ I tell the mirror.‘Worst case, I humiliate myself.Best case, he kisses me in front of a fireworks display and the director yells, “Cut.”’
I rehearse the speech again on the way down in the elevator.It’s a mantra at this point.I love you.You were the only thing that felt real.Also, hi.It’s me.Surprise.
It sounds better in my head than it did when I said it to the mirror.
I breathe in too deep, then too shallow.I try not to imagine Luke gaping at me like I’ve grown three heads.Or worse – looking at me like he doesn’t care.
The elevator dings.The doors slide open with a self-important sigh.
I make my way to the bar, which is dim and polished and already starting to buzz with activity, full of strangers in semi-formal wear clinking glasses and talking too loudly.It smells of citrus and cologne and something expensive I can’t identify.And here I am.Not a guest.Not quite an intruder.Somewhere in the middle.
I find an empty stool at the far end of the hotel bar and order a gin and tonic.My voice doesn’t tremble, but my hand does – slightly – when I pick up the glass.The ice clinks against the sides as I take a sip.Sharp.Clean.Familiar.It doesn’t calm my nerves, but it gives me something to do with my hands.
The sun is starting to sink outside the wall of windows.Golden hour through bevelled glass – a cruel sort of beautiful.
People are trickling through the garden, towards the function hall.They’re laughing and reapplying lip gloss and fixing each other’s dresses.I don’t want to go near it.Not unless I have to.
Not unless I see him first.
‘Hey,’ someone says beside me.
I turn slightly.It’s a man.Early forties.Button-down shirt too tight around the biceps.Smiling in a way that suggests he thinks he’s doing me a favour by existing.
‘Here alone?’
I don’t even look up properly.‘Beat it.’
He blinks.His smile twists.‘Bitch.’
I sip my drink.‘You’ll survive.’
He walks off and I’ve forgotten him before he reaches the other end of the bar.
Because then –then– I see him.
On the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, out in the garden, walking slowly, is Luke.
It actually hurts.My heart is cracking open too fast, and my body can’t catch up.
He’s in a navy suit, the tie loose enough to remind me he’s always looked best slightly undone.His hair’s lightly mussed and golden.The kind of golden that only comes from real time in real heat.His skin glows – the sun is casting him in some kind of unfair, cinematic light, and I suddenly want to throw my drink at something.
He laughs – full and easy, throwing his head back – and it’s so loud I swear I hear it through the glass.
His arm is looped with someone else’s.
Lauren.
Of course.
