Page 63 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘I want to be in this all the way. Fifty-fifty. You and me.’ I’m powered up now, absolutely convinced. ‘I want to do this. You’re right. What am I so scared of?’

‘Allowing someone to love you, allowing yourself to be loved,’ he says.

And just like that, it floors me. For so long I’ve been protecting myself. Ever since my brother died, I’ve been building a wall around my heart. Looking after myself, never relying on anyone, determined that no one could ever hurt me, or let me down, or leave me. My eyes blink back tears. The grief. It was so overwhelming. I felt like I was drowning. I thought I’d never recover from the loss of Charlie, we were so close, but I did, and I’ve been doing everything myself, trying to remain in control. But then my dad died and I realized just how lonely I was. How exhausted I was of being alone. And now here’s this man asking me to let down those barriers, to allow myself to be vulnerable, to let him in, to let myself be loved.

I start crying then, and he takes me in his arms. The pasta pan starts to bubble and boils over. Spilling water all over the stainless-steel hob. But he doesn’t let me go. He’s never going to let me go. Everything that I’ve been looking for my whole life and that I never thought I’d find is here with this man.

‘I love you,’ he whispers over and over. ‘I love you.’

I don’t know how long we stay like this but his eyes never leave mine, and when he asks, it feels inevitable.

‘Marry me, Maggie.’

Twists and Turns

You’ve got to hand it to the younger generation. They think they know everything. Which is both incredibly annoying and, of course, absolute nonsense. They haven’t done anything to know anything. With age comes wisdom and all that. Except sometimes, thought Maggie with irritation, it turns out the most annoying thing is they’re actually right.

‘I can’t believe this was on my bucket list! Romantic? It’s a bloody nightmare!’

After being stuck for the last twenty minutes behind four coaches, not being able to move an inch forward or backwards, Maggie was flopped in the driver’s seat, fanning herself with her sunhat and fast regretting their decision to drive the Amalfi Coast.

OK, so the scenery was stunning, with dramatic cliffs and colourful coastal towns, but hello? Who can look at the scenery when you’re too busy white-knuckling the steering wheel as the road itself is frankly terrifying?

Filled with blind turns, giant buses and hundreds of motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic, she’d spent the last couple of hours narrowly missing hitting several vehicles that had veered over the centre line. Meanwhile with all the twists and turns it had been a nauseating ride for poor Flick, who had chosen that moment in her life to discover she suffered from motion sickness and had spent most of the journey chucking up in a plastic bag.

Ah, the romance.

‘You were right. Bucket lists are ridiculous things. I’m throwing mine away!’

‘You mean, you actually have one written down?’

Hanging outside the window, trying to get some air, Flick sounded incredulous.

Choosing to ignore her, Maggie swigged the last of the water from her bottle. The sun was beating down and she pulled back the sun visor and tried to angle it to shade her. It was hopeless. They’d had to turn off the engine as the petrol gauge was running dangerously low, and with it the air conditioning, which they’d managed to get working again. Even with the windows open it was about a hundred degrees. A hot blast of air blew in.

‘And now I need to pee.’

That’s the thing about road trips, you get very close, very quickly.

‘Again?’

‘I can’t help it; my doctor says it’s the perimenopause.’

From outside the car, Flick pulled a face. ‘Is it contagious?’

‘Ha ha, very funny.’

‘Oh look, we’re moving.’

Ahead the stuck coaches suddenly belched fumes of exhaust and forced themselves through the tiny gap, like corks popping from a bottle. Immediately there was an impatient honking from behind. Literally, not a second had passed and there was Mr Middle-aged Sportscar, blasting his horn. Turning the ignition, Maggie felt a sudden rage.

‘Oh, go fuck yourself,’ she cursed, giving him the finger in the rear-view whilst Flick stared at her in utter astonishment.

The horn promptly went silent.

‘Woah, Maggie, I’ve never seen you get angry! You should do it more often, it suits you.’

‘It’s not me, it’s the perimenopause,’ she protested, embarrassed by her outburst. That was so unlike her.