Christa is silent again, and when she speaks, her voice is gentler. “Oh, Babes! You don’t really think you are using him? I always thought you had made your peace with—”
“I have. I really have,” I say immediately. “I’ve accepted that I can’t have children. I truly have! I’ve got Pee-Pee’s bills to prove it. But… I do love Lucy. And it’s terrifying, because I didn’t mean to. She’s not mine. She never will be. But I love her.” I breathe in.
“What about Theo.” My heart starts beating faster when I think on how he makes me laugh, how he helps me without making me feel silly or helpless. How I feel like me when I amaround him.
“I think I may be falling in love with him as well.”
“And he might love you back,” she says quietly. “Just maybe not in that restaurant, or in those trousers, or on that particular day.”
I laugh, then sniff. “I don’t know what went wrong. It’s like we tried to be something else and forgot how to be us.”
“Probably because you were both trying so hard,” she says. “You’re not auditioning for a romcom. You already had the magic—and then you went and put it in a place with amuse-bouches and stuffy twats.”
I sit up a little. “You think there’s still a chance?”
“I think,” she says carefully, “that what you had was rare. And if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants it… the real thing…. then you owe it to yourself to be honest.”
I don’t respond. Not right away. Because part of me wants to crawl back into bed and forget the whole thing. But another part is still wondering if maybe what we had isn’t gone. Just... buried under one very weird night and a lot of unspoken things.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, quietly.
“I root for you both.” She pauses, then adds, “Also, the next time you try to reinvent yourself, can we maybe ease into it with a skirt?”
I laugh. “Deal.”
As I hang up, I settle back into my pillows, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. It’s clear that I’m not done with this—whatever this is between me and Theo. I’m not ready to call it over.
Ten minutes later, when hiding under my duvet is no longer an option, I pull on my hoodie and head downstairs, the weight of the morning still hanging over me. Ineed a distraction, so I decide to get some coffee. But not from Theo's café. I can’t bring myself to go there—not yet. I might just cheat on him with a cheeky Starbucks.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, something catches my eye. The letterbox in the door has an envelope lying on the floor beneath it. As I pick it up, I recognise the handwriting. I freeze, my heart thudding in my chest. It’s from Theo. I stand still for a moment, just staring at the envelope. It feels like the world has shifted in some strange way, like it’s suddenly become a little smaller, and a lot heavier.
Why is he sending me something? He could have just texted me… or called me… or I don’t know. My stomach twists, but I know I can’t just leave it there. I can feel the flutter in my chest as I tear it open. It feels like an eternity before I pull out the single sheet of paper inside.
I unfold it, running my fingers over the edges, holding my breath.
Dear Ivy,
Yes, I’m writing a letter. I realise that makes me sound like I’ve wandered out of a period drama by Jane Austen, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to text you after yesterday. Texts don’t carry the weight I need them to. And I owe you more than a blinking cursor and a half-thought-out emoji.
I messed up.
Not in a catastrophic, scandal-worthy way, but in that quiet, clumsy, soul-sinking way where you realise you’ve taken something good and made it... weird. I wanted the dinner to be special, and instead I made it awkward. That’s on me. Entirely.
I tried to turn something simple and real into a performance. I overthought it. I picked a restaurant that didn’t suit us. I wore way too much cologne. And worst of all, I turned into a version of myself I barely recognised. Uptight. Tongue-tied. Talking about Viennese coffee like I was doing a dissertation.
You didn’t do anything wrong. You showed up. You were stunning, thoughtful, generous as ever, and I made you feel like a stranger. I don’t know how I managed that, but I felt the shift as much as you did. We lost the thread. The spark. The us.
And that was my fault.
For three months, I’ve had the enormous privilege of knowing you. And I liked you from the start. Then I started to care about you. And then, somewhere between glue sticks and flour explosions, I realised I was in love with you.
Friday night, I let all that go quiet because I got scared. I thought I had to show you something more. That maybe being a single dad, a bit chaotic, not wildly glamorous or interesting, wasn’t enough. So, I overcompensated. I tried to be someone else. Someone who wouldn’t let you down. But in doing that, I let you down.
I didn’t need to impress you. I just needed to be present. And myself. The man who laughs at your drama and loves how you light up when Lucy says something completely bonkers. The man who feels calmer when you’re in the room. Who misses you when you're not.
So here’s me, owning it. All of it.
And here’s what I’m asking, if you can bear to read this without throwing it dramaticallyinto your recycling bin: let me try again. Not to impress you. Just to be with you. To show up honestly, and ask if maybe, despite the very beige weather conversation and talk about composting (I AM SORRY!!), you’d consider a second date.
