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“Yes, Joseph Wakefield, in the flesh,” I cut him off. I check my watch. One minute. I’m impressed I lasted the whole minute before blurting it out.

Felix, however, looks miles from impressed.

“What the actual fuck?”

“It was a random, chance occurrence. He came into the shop,” I explain.

“Why?” Felix frowns again. He’s got such an expressive face. I can always tell what he’s thinking, even if he isn’t speaking. Loud face, resting bitch face—whatever they call it, Felix has it in abundance.

“I gather he had an argument with a cup of coffee, and so he popped into the shop on the off chance I could help. He seemed as shocked to see me as I was to see him, once he realised who I was, I mean.”

“Well, you do look different to how you were in school, but ignore that for a minute. What did he say to you?”

“He just purchased a shirt. Well, I say purchased, but I guess he’s loaned it. I’d already cashed up the till.”

“Please tell me he isn’t planning on coming back to settle up the bill.”

“He said he would, but he probably won’t.” I give a little shrug, like it doesn’t bother me, but Felix groans.

“Dee, that would be such a bad idea. You have to nip this in the bud, tell him he can’t come back,” he urges.

“You want me to bar him from my shop?” I laugh.

“Yes, bar him from the shop, the street, a ten-mile radius of you. You should banish him from the fucking city. That man has no right to be anywhere near you.”

I knew it would start him on a rant. I was braced for it. Though I’ll be better braced with a cocktail in my hand.

“Drink? My round,” I suggest, picking the menu up from the table. I skim over the list as Felix bristles next to me.

“I’ll have a White Russian,” he eventually replies. I honestly don’t know why I bothered to wait for his confirmation.

I nod and grab my purse, slide out of my seat, and head to the bar. The woman who had been singing has at least finished, something I’m grateful for because I think I’ll get a migraine if she sings even one more note. But then I spot her at the queue to pick another song. From the frown on her face, I’m guessing it’ll be another rage-filled one. For now, though, a timid-looking young woman takes the stage, the opening bars to a popular love song playing. She, at least, can sing.

“What can I get for you, love?” The man behind the bar gives me a warm smile.

“A White Russian and an espresso martini, please,” I request.

“Got any ID?” he asks. “It’s a challenge twenty-one bar,” he apologises.

“I’m thirty,” I shoot back, exasperated, but I’m already digging in my purse for my driver’s licence. I’m used to it. I’ve been proving my age since I turned eighteen. My favourite was when somebody knocked on my front door and asked me if my mother was home to talk to about changing the energy supplier. They blushed furiously when I announced I was the homeowner, but at least it got me out of the conversation quickly.

“Wow, you really are thirty,” the man comments as he checks over my details.

“Yep,” I agree.

He hands me back my licence, and I tuck it into my purse as he starts to make the drinks. As he selects the bottles from the shelves—probably grateful not to be making a Long Island iced tea—I glance over at Felix. He’s definitely simmering in his annoyance. It probably wasn’t a good idea to tell him about Joseph, but I keep very few secrets from Felix. He’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember. How we became friends wasn’t a surprise given our fathers were best friends, but how we stayed friends is nothing short of a miracle. We had completely different upbringings after I turned nine, and completely different family dynamics, but somehow our friendship always worked.

Life with Felix has always come easy for me, and I love him to pieces. Jennifer, Felix’s mum, would wistfully wonder if we would end up together. She made some subtle jokes about what type of wedding we would have, and she would drop some not-so-subtle comments about how Felix should stop being a chicken and ask me out. She kept that up for two years until Felix announced to his parents that he’s gay—a secret of his that I’d kept for years.

The bartender gives me the drinks, and I pay before taking both glasses back to where Felix is still stewing. I slide the short tumbler glass with his cocktail in it towards him. He scowls slightly and takes a sip.

“Still a fucking abomination of a drink, if you ask me,” I announce.

Felix puts his glass down but keeps his hand wrapped around it, knuckles white with tension.

“Don’t see him.”

“I’m sure he won’t even turn up. You have nothing to worry about. He’s probably so bloody fancy that he’ll send an assistant to settle the debt. If he even thinks about paying for it,” I try to appease him.