Because it’s not just bad kissing and bad groping. Those things, you might be able to work with in the end – if a person were open to careful instruction – but this is badeverything. There is absolutely no chemistry there between us. Nothing is firing anywhere in me. If anything, my vagina is shrinking further inside my body, husk-like. I can feel it dry-coughing inside me, desperate for a drop of liquid to quench its desert-like thirst.
Jesus. How has this happened? Have I mistaken nostalgia for sexiness? I examine him again now and he looks back at me, eyes half closed, pupils black.
Oh no. I don’t fancy him at all.
I mean, I can see he’s handsome, and I feel an intense fondness for him and for our memories together. But that’s it.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Am I sure?
I regard him again, begging my body for some kind of spark to ignite. For some kind of flicker to catch inside me.
Nothing.
Oh no. FUCK. This isn’t my One. Not even close.
And oh my god, I’ve led him on so much! I’ve completely led him on. Look at us, romantically kissing by a river in the moonlight. This is a fuckingfilm set! He’s going to think I love him madly. He’s even dumped a fake girlfriend for me. What can I do?
‘Shall we walk for a bit?’ I swallow a clump of – what I hope is – my own saliva, turning for the path. Tourists continue to pass by, smiling sweetly in our direction, unaware that all my romantic notions have just been crushed to smithereens.
He takes my hand again, sighing happily. It feels nice enough. His hands are warm and it’s quite cold, but there’s no more to it.
As we walk in apparently contented silence, I realize all those images I had flashing through my brain before we kissed, they could’ve been with anyone. They weren’t really about Alistair himself. They were big, romantic ideals a lot of people hope for from their future. It’s OK that I have them, but I can’t use him to achieve them. Not when he’s all wrong for me.
With my other hand, I fish inside my mouth for something in my teeth. It’s a bit of what looks like orange Wotsit. Did I…? No, I’ve had nothing like that today. It’s come from Alistair’s mouth. I almost retch but don’t.
‘I’m so happy,’ Alistair says blissfully, swinging our arms between us as we walk.
Oh god. I feelsounbelievably awful.
Louise was right, I shouldn’t have done this. I should’ve quit this mission – this experiment – before it went too far. I’ve been so caught up in what this project might do for me, I forgot that I could really seriously hurt people in the process. I’ve hurt Bibi, I’ve hurt Alex, I’ve hurt Lou, I’ve hurt Katie at work. And now I’m going to hurt Alistair.
But I have to.
‘Alistair…’ I take a deep breath and stop walking. For a second, I take one last long look behind him at the view. It’s so beautiful here, along the water. If I was walking with the right person, this would be totally magical and wonderful. But he’s not the right person, I know that for sure. None of these seven exes have turned out to be the right person. That’s why they were exes! And, if anything, this mission has left me more alone than I ever was before. This stupid obsession has taken so much from me.
‘Yes?’ He looks at me with his lovely crooked smile, eager for another genuinely horrendous kiss, and I tell him the truth.
I watch his face fall, slowly, bit by bit, but as the words come out of my mouth, I feel stronger and stronger. I’m doing the right thing.
And I still have time to fix things. I can fix all of this.
CHAPTER FORTY
I decide to walk home.
The theory was that it would give me time to think and understand where my head is now. To try to see a purpose in these last few months. To think about my seven ex partners and whether any of them meant anything. To figure out a way to not get sacked at work on Monday. To decide once and for all what to do about Bibi and Alex.
But also because it felt a bit dramatic and cool? A bit movie-esque to walk for a solitary two hours in the evening dark. But it isn’t movie-esque at all. Unless you’re thinking of maybe a depressing sitcom? It’s fucking cold and I stood in a puddle within the first ten minutes, which meant I walked the entire rest of the way with a soggy right foot. Then my left foot started aching a bit, so instead of thinking about my romantic situation, I was mostly thinking about how unfit I am and that I should go to the gym more.
At one point I passed a tube station, but told myself, ‘No, you’ve committed to this, you decided to walk.’ Then chidedmyself for the next half an hour for being such a stubborn, prideful prick, forcing myself to stay the course when there’s no one even around to judge my backtrack.
I mean, just because you decide to do a thing doesn’t mean you always have to fucking do it! You can try things and if they don’t work – or you get a soaking wet sock early on – you can stop. Sure, it’s good to try new things and push your own limits, but if those limits push back and you find yourself miserable, just don’t do that thing anymore!
Ugh. My whole life is a wet foot.
About ten minutes away from home, I spot our lovely gross local pub in the distance.
God, I could do with a drink. I need to chase away the disappointment of this evening, and warm my bones after my not-the-least-bit-movie-esque walk.
