‘Can we walk?’ I ask, checking over my shoulder for anyone from work who might’ve chased me out. ‘I might get in trouble if I’m seen here.’
He nods and we start moving aimlessly.
‘Look,’ he begins, sounding breathless. ‘I just have to say this thing to you after your text last night. And I feel like an absolute idiot for lying in the first place but I was so overwhelmed and freaked out by seeing you again… I don’t know.’ He sighs and I feel my brow furrow. ‘OK, I’m just going to say it, and I understand if you never want to see me again.’ He takes a deep inhale before continuing. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend. My last relationship ended over a year ago. I made her up because I was scared of how I felt about seeing you. I was scared of getting back into anything or what itmight mean. I was scared of how seeing you was making me feel. I was scared of how much it made me realize nothing had really changed for me.’ He side-eyes me coyly. ‘And maybe I wanted to make you a bit jealous, too, I don’t know.’
I don’t look up, I just keep walking, my heart racing.
I have no idea how I feel about this. He lied? Another person who lied to me. But this lie doesn’t feel like a betrayal. It feels… flattering? Sweet? Endearing? I mentally pat myself down. I am pleased by what he’s saying. I’m relieved he doesn’t have a girlfriend waiting in the wings. Nothing’s happened between us but the emotional affair element has concerned me. Seeing him and knowing how I felt about him made me feel awful.
I can feel his anxiety beside me as he starts talking again. ‘But then we saw each other again, and then again… And my lie seemed more and more foolish. And embarrassing. What an idiot to do something like that! I felt like such a dickhead! I’ve wanted to tell you so many times but I couldn’t.’
‘So, why are you telling me thisnow?’ I try to keep my voice even.
He pauses, stopping me with a hand and turning me to look up at him. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he says and my heartbeat notches up from fast to nuclear meltdown.
We say nothing for another minute, just staring at one another, before Alistair continues casually, ‘Shall we head down to the South Bank?’ He smiles, taking my hand in his, and begins to walk again. ‘It’s getting dark and it wouldbe romantic to stroll down there, along the river, don’t you think?’
‘Fucking romantic,’ I say, my whole body filling with warmth as he intertwines his fingers with mine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Are you my person, Alistair?
Are you him? Are you the person I will finally, somehow, be fullymewith?
Imagine if you were that person after all these years! Imagine if you were someone I could justlet gowith. Someone I could stop worrying about holding it all together in front of. Imagine if I could be all of themeI hate so much; if you were the one person in the world who wouldn’t judge me for it. Imagine if I didn’t have to say sorry when I let those parts I don’t like leak out of me. If you just held me close when I was anxious for no reason. If you stroked my head through hangovers without judgement, if you brought me coffee with three sugars in the morning without being asked, if you left the towels in the specific way I like them. Imagine if you were someone I could show my saggy stomach and boobs to, and you only fancied memore. Imagine if you giggled when I farted in my sleep, or bought more chocolate without saying anything when I ate all oursupplies for breakfast a week before my period. Imagine if you were him.
Are you the person I’ll be able to talk to about all the things I feel sad about? Will I be able to cry in front of you about everything that’s happened, without feeling embarrassed and ashamed of myself? Can I get too drunk with you and talk nonsense too loudly, and obsess about that girl I hated at school who has her own cake business on Facebook that seems to be doing annoyingly well now – andnotwake up at 2am, heart thudding with horror that I have alienated and disgusted you with the real me? Are you him?
I look into those big eyes, examining his long, dark eyelashes – so much nicer than mine – and wonder silently: are you The One?
He takes my hand, kissing the throbby, veiny bit on the inside of my wrist and moves closer to kiss me on the mouth.
Fuck. I think you might be.
As Alistair moves closer, the river shiny and dark behind him, I think about how it will feel to finally touch his lips to mine. To finally unleash the feelings I’ve been burying for months. The feelings I’ve kept buried foryears. Everything seems to move in slow motion as his eyes burn into mine. I can’t believe this is happening. He’s so sexy. I’ve wanted this for so long, it’s hard to believe it’s really happening at last.
No more searching, no more pointless swiping on dating apps, no more exhausting messages with strangers, no more endlessly disappointing dates. Just me and my first love, Alistair Morris. Alistair Morris from the footballteam, who will be mine forever. Just mine. My first and my last.
As our lips finally touch, a flash image of us getting married crosses my vision. Me in a white dress, laughing as he tears up watching me walk towards him down the aisle. I see us freaking out over a pregnancy test as it turns positive. I see us bickering over who’s going to do bedtime with the kids tonight. I see us getting old and teasing each other about our wrinkles. I see us still holding hands, like we are now, as we sit in our medium-sized garden, watching the grandchildren and our dogs chasing pigeons away. I see us reaching across the gap between us and kissing, just like we are now and—
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh no, what’s happening here? What is this? He’s jabbing his tongue at me, his lips pecking on and off mine. This is less a kiss than it is an overzealous, overworked dentist mining for cavities. Oh Christ, what’s going on now? He seems to be gnawing on my bottom lip. It fucking hurts, honestly. Oh, now the peck-jab is back. What is – oh fuck this is bad.
All that awful teen sex we used to have suddenly comes flooding back, triggered by his woodpecker embrace.
He was good at football, I remember thinking back then, but shit at sex. And as a teenager, I was OK with that balance. Now? Probably not so much. And, if this kiss is anything to go by, he hasn’t improved much in the intimate areas across these intervening years.
‘Um—’ I pull away a little, though he jabs me with hismouth one more time as I lean out. ‘I mean,hmmmmm!’ I add quickly. ‘That was soooooo good! But, er, maybe we could, um, just go a little bit more softly?’ I venture. He deserves at least a little bit of coaching. Maybe this could still be OK. I owe our grandchildren that much.
He nods eagerly. ‘God, it’s so good to kiss you at last!’ he says, closing the gap between us again. This time he doesn’t jab, he mashes. He smushes his lips against mine, lapping at my tongue with an intensity previously known only by dogs on arseholes.
I pull away again when his hand reaches to – and this is the only word for it –honkmy right boob. I wince in pain and regard him with panic.
This is catastrophic.
