Chapter 11 #2
Do you wear necklaces often? Oh my god, that is not what just came out of my mouth, please tell me that is not what just came out of my mouth.
For work, I mean? What am I saying? Alba is looking at me with bewilderment.
Her eyes, wide as saucers now, ask, Who the hell are you and what have you done with my cousin?
So much for my so-called charm.
But thankfully Alistair just laughs. No, I can’t say that I do. I’m more of a scarf man myself; I have to show off my family tartan whenever I can. The Campbell clan colours are, of course, the best. Who doesn’t love a dark, forest green?
The way he says it makes me blush again.
How is this man making tartan and forest green sound sexy?
I can imagine those colours on him would make his eyes seem even more green.
I noticed in the cemetery the other day that his right eye has a tiny freckle.
I hated that I noticed this and hated even more that I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
It’s like several things in my brain are clicking into place at once.
This man is so good looking I feel struck dumb.
Here he is, in his uniform, once again being a model citizen, walking around making kids laugh and looking jacked as hell and—I think he’s flirting with me?
Is he flirting with me? Do I want him to flirt with me?
Why do I feel like I’m sixteen years old?
Because you like him, the voice in my head says, and it sounds much more like Alba’s than my own. Do I like this guy? No. No? No, that can’t be right. No, no, no—
Oh, Fast Florence, I meant to tell you, Alistair says, grinning. Thankfully he’s interrupted the very, very bad train of thoughts barrelling through me. I can tell by his tone that this ought to be good. I finally have an answer for you.
An answer about what? I’m racking my brain trying to remember what I’ve asked him recently. He’s walking backwards now, away from us and towards the parade, a smirk plastered all over his face.
The last wild and crazy thing I did.
Oh yeah? I laugh, despite myself, feeling practically giddy. And what was that? I have a split second of panic: did he do something fun without me? I can’t deny that I feel a little put out at the thought.
He’s far enough away now that he calls back to me, pride radiating through his voice, Polar bear dip! I can’t quite name the feeling that surges through me, but the closest thing I can think of is delight. I laugh as he walks off, feeling a little dazed.
Alba and I watch him go and finally, she turns her head to me, deliberately slowly for dramatic effect.
That was… pathetic, Alba says, looking stunned. I mean, Flora, come on.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say, turning my nose in the air and avoiding eye contact with her.
You could barely even look at him! I mean, you talked to him the other day and you were fine? What was that?
That was fine. You’re being overly dramatic, I say, feigning the haughtiness in my voice. I hate that she witnessed that, and I know she’ll never let me hear the end of it.
She starts laughing, Oh my god, you’ve got it bad.
I will kill you, I promise her through clenched teeth, but this only makes her laugh harder.
And what was he talking about, the last wild and crazy thing he did? She raises an eyebrow at me, a move I’ve always been jealous of since my own eyebrows won’t do it.
I really can’t say, is all I manage to get out.
We’re interrupted by a loud screech of tires. Alba and I both whip our heads in the direction of the sound. Alistair is there in what seems like milliseconds, that worried look etched in the lines of his face.
What’s happening? I ask Alba, who is up on her tiptoes trying to get a good look at the scene. The crowd seems a little on edge, the line of parade floats fully paused now, but the Christmas music is still blaring.
I think it was something to do with that little kid, she says. But he seems okay.
A woman is holding a toddler, I would guess a little over two years old, sobbing uncontrollably. Alistair is kneeling down to talk to her.
Alba leans over and asks the people next to us, Did you see what happened?
The two women, both in their sixties or so, nod gravely. One of them says to us, The little guy ran out in front of one of the parade floats. His poor mother just about had a heart attack, but he’s fine.
The parade resumes shortly afterwards, the mother and son moving further back into the crowd and away from the road. It occurs to me that had it not been fine, it would have been Alistair’s job to deal with that situation.
Fuck, poor Al, Alba says, as if reading my thoughts. Thank god the kid is okay.
I realize that Alistair has probably seen some bad shit working as a police officer. Really bad, if I had to guess.
I don’t like the pit of worry that forms in my stomach and the thought that appears out of nowhere: This is the kind of career where people die on the job.
I don’t like that thought one bit.
I’M LYING IN BED LATER that night, rolling all of the events from today around in my mind like stones. I was happy to see Alistair at the parade tonight. No matter which way I spin it, that is an undeniable fact.
He has a job where safety is a real risk. Maybe not so much in rural Cape Breton, but still—bad things can happen anywhere. It’s not that the thought never occurred to me, but it never really sunk in. Or maybe it’s that I didn’t care. Do I care now? It feels like I do.
I wouldn’t want to take that choice from you. Alistair’s words from the beach come back to me for what feels like the hundredth time. I know why that exchange has been replaying in my mind so much and I accept that it’s finally time to deal with it.
I pull out my phone and it surprises me how quickly I type out the message.
Normally, I would want to have this conversation face-to-face, or even on a call.
But Justin hasn’t exactly given me the respect I deserve over the last few years, so I’m fine with doing this over text.
There’s also a tiny part of me that worries if he gets me on the phone, he’ll talk me into changing my mind again. And I realize that isn’t what I want.
I sit with that thought for a few minutes, as new ones start bubbling up. I don’t want to be with Justin. Not now, not ever again. I deserve better. I was wrong—and this one appears seemingly out of thin air—I wish I’d ended things sooner.
But I don’t want to live with any more regret.
There are several messages from him that I haven’t read yet and I don’t read them now. Despite me asking him for space while we’re both off work, he hasn’t respected that at all. This only fuels the fire more and reaffirms to me that this is the right thing to do.
I re-read what I’ve written one more time.
Hey Justin. Hope you’re having a good holiday break.
I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve decided we need to end things permanently.
I think you’re a great chef and I’m sure we’ll find a way to develop a professional working relationship going forward, but I’ve realized this isn’t what I’m looking for.
Since you weren’t respectful of my initial request for some time apart, I’m going to block your number once this is sent.
I toy with the idea of adding another line, that I hope someday we can be friends. But I realize that it isn’t true—I don’t want to be his friend.
So instead, I end the message with: Wishing you all the best.
I take a deep breath and press send.
After the text goes through, I block his number and put my phone on the side table, not even bothering to plug it in.
It takes me mere seconds to fall asleep.