“Then you’ll have learned something,” Pee-Pee says. “You’ll have learned something about yourself, about him, about what you truly need. And you’ll have grown. But you can’t sit on the sidelines forever waiting for the perfect person to fall into your lap. Relationships—real ones—take risks. But you don’t have to go in blind. You can be honest with Theo. Talk about what you both want, what you’re both ready for. And the fact that you are even thinking about all of this, Ivy, I am very proud of you because you have come a very long way. Three months ago, you wouldn’t have worried about any of this.”
I let her words sink in, and the quiet ache in my chest grows a little less sharp. “I don’t want to keep holding myself back from something real, just because I’m scared of it not working out.”
“No one wants to be disappointed, Ivy. But disappointment doesn’t always mean failure,” Pee-Pee says gently. “Sometimes it just means you were brave enough to try. It doesn’t mean the story is over. It just means you’ve learned something, and you can carry that with you moving forward. How do you know what he wants if you don’t ask him? A lot of miscommunication happens when we make assumptions about what another person feels or thinks without giving them a chance to express themselves.”
I nod slowly, the idea of being vulnerable with Theo still making my stomach twist, but less terrifying than before. “Yeah. I guess I’m not really giving him a chance to tell me what he wants if I don’t let him in.”
Pee-Pee smiles, standing as the session comes to a close. “Exactly. You won’t know what’s possible until you let it happen. Trust yourself, Ivy. Trust that you’ll make the right decision. And if it doesn’t work out, you’ll be okay.If you have an open conversation and he doesn’t feel the same way, it doesn’t mean you have to lose him as a friend.”
She is right. In my head it’s been all or nothing, but we can handle this like adults.
As I leave her office, I feel lighter, even though the uncertainty is still there. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the fear of falling into old patterns isn’t something to avoid, but something to face head-on. I need to trust myself enough to see where this could go with Theo—without letting fear decide for me.
A bra flies across the room and lands on the lamp. The lamp doesn’t deserve this, but I’m past caring.
My wardrobe’s been ransacked. It looks like a stylist had a tantrum and stormed off halfway through a styling session. There’s a silk blouse crumpled in defeat on the floor, two dresses that scream “please take me seriously”, and one particularly dangerous jumpsuit I only wore once, when I briefly lost touch with reality.
I’m down to the leather trousers.
They gleam up at me from the bed with the smug confidence of clothing that knows it’s a poor choice. Still, I tug them on, one determined hop at a time. They make a noise like cling film and immediately begin the slow, hungry crawl north. I wiggle. They wiggle back. My arse is now in a fight for dominance and losing.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Very subtle. Nothing says romance like synthetic thigh friction.”
Top next. I try on one that feels a bit too low-cut, but I catch my reflection and pause. The neckline is... working. There’s cleavage, yes, but tasteful cleavage. Cleavage with purpose. I stand sideways and try to decide if I look effortlessly cool or like I’ve been vacuum-sealed.
In the mirror, I adjust a strand of hair, then pause again.
What if he kisses me?
The thought appears out of nowhere and sends a ridiculous thrill through my chest. I grin—actuallygrin—at myself like a teenager with a crush. What if this is it? What if it goes brilliantly? We laugh, we eat, we kiss, I somehow don’t spill wine on anything, and he looks at me like I’m not just Lucy’s babysitter or the woman who baked cat vomit.
I pin my hair up—loosely, with one of those clips that makes it look like I didn’t try, when really it took me three attempts and mild swearing. Then makeup: a bit of eyeliner, mascara, that lipstick Christa said makes me look "dangerously capable". Whateverthatmeans.
I step back from the mirror again, catch a glimpse of myself with flushed cheeks, slightly glossy lips, hair up just so—and for a second, I feel it.
That buzz. That ridiculous, fizzy kind of excitement I haven’t had in years. The good kind. Thewhat if this is the start of somethingkind.
What if the date is perfect? What if he kisses me and it’s everything I hoped? What if this isn’t just a nice night out, but the first line in a completely new chapter?
What if I finally get it right?
I press my palms to my cheeks to cool them down, still grinning like a lunatic. My heart’s pounding. In a good way. I feel electric. Alive.
And then, because my brain isme, the doubts start to creep in.
What if it’s awkward? What if we run out of things to say? What if I get spinach in my teeth or laugh-snort in that unfortunate way I do when I get nervous and then try to cover it up by over-explaining and oh God—
I suddenly can’t remember how to walk in the trousers. The fabric is climbing again, heading somewhere no synthetic blend should go. I tug at it, unsuccessfully, and glance at the clock.
Still just enough time to cancel.
No, I tell myself. Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got this.
But my chest’s gone tight. My stomach’s staging a protest. My hair suddenly looks too “done”. My top feels too tight. My cleavage is trying to make a statement I’m no longer sure I believe in.
I grab my phone, scroll to Christa, and hit call.
Voicemail.
