Nudge 26 The Coward’s Way Out
The Coward’s Way Out
I deserve better. I know that. I am not in denial. But then Benji texts me and I smile, and my memory grows selective.
I went through the removal process – deleted his name from my phone, archived the chats, even had a mock wake with the girls. I was done – I swore I was, and I like to think that I meant it. But then he texted. Sorry, life’s been hard. And I folded instantly.
We discussed his terrible texting in great detail over the phone a couple of weeks ago, when he asked me why I was ‘being so pissy with him’.
‘I feel like you don’t want to talk to me,’ I said, trying not to sound too whiny.
‘Of course I do, otherwise we wouldn’t talk,’ he said.
‘Then why the gaps between replies?’
‘I’m just busy.’ He brushed my frustration aside. ‘But you’re my girl whether we talk or not.’
Not his girlfriend, of course. That would be far too much commitment and he’s made it clear that ‘that’s just not where he’s at right now’.
Instead, I’m his ‘girl’ – a vague moniker that feels far more like an anchor than a term of endearment.
When I went through it with Kimi and Devi over drinks, I could tell by their faces that they were not fans.
I get it, I totally wouldn’t be either, but I just can’t shake him, no matter how hard I try.
And I’ve tried. It’s been ‘over’ more times than I care to admit.
But I’m not getting any younger, or less single, and he is better than nothing.
Plus, he does make me laugh and smile every so often.
What about Saturday? X
It’s been three weeks since we last saw each other in person, him claiming it’s because I’m never free when he is. He ‘trades’ from home for a living. He could literally be free whenever, but I’m trying to play it cooler, so I’ve chosen to let that go.
‘Are you texting Benji again?’ Aiden asks, returning to his seat.
I used his quick toilet trip as an excuse to be on my phone, since he’s already called me out countless times over the last month for texting Benji too much.
It’s not my fault – the boy loves to pick arguments in the middle of my workdays.
That is, when he’s actually replying. It’s embarrassing, so I’ve learnt to hide my phone usage better in the office, texting behind my handbag or pulling up Messenger on my laptop.
But we’re not in the office today and being sat across from each other at a table doesn’t leave much room for hiding.
‘Sorry.’ I place my phone, screen down, on the tablecloth. ‘Was just trying to sort some things, but they can wait. You and these fishcakes have my full attention.’
And they do. We went to a fair few food tastings all over the month of May after we got over take-me-out-for-dinner-gate, but now June has rolled around we’ve had to start getting serious and locking down our final choices.
Castries Kitchen was one of the first St Lucian options we tried and I have not been able to stop thinking about their oxtail since.
We’ve been back and forth about final menu choices with them for the last three weeks, and I have been counting down the days until we could be back here sampling the final options.
We both lift a miniature fishcake from the sharing platter in the middle, raising them in an air-toast before taking a bite.
The crunch of the batter is immaculate, immediately echoing around the small, empty restaurant floor.
I close my eyes as I chew, taking in the flaky fish, the chilli, the seasoning, all at once.
‘We’ve got to serve these,’ I sigh in pleasure.
‘Agreed. They might be better than my mum’s,’ Aiden nods.
I gasp. ‘Blasphemy!’
He shrugs. ‘Hey, the bar’s high, but these might just be higher.’
I reach for another, then another, and pray the next course comes soon.
If it doesn’t, I might have to ask them to take this tray away .
. . or at least put the food in some Tupperware for later.
It didn’t occur to me until that first bite that, despite it being nearly 3 p.m., I haven’t eaten or even drunk anything today.
I am hungrier than I thought. And incredibly thirsty.
I’ve forgotten what hydration feels like.
My phone buzzes against the table and I can’t help but instinctually whip it around and check for Benji. It’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s Kimi, actually, once again stressing why chasing him is not a good idea.
‘Wow, you two don’t stop, do you?’ Aiden says.
‘That’s us!’ I lie, shrugging as I put my phone back down.
I may have exaggerated how well things were going with Benji to Aiden.
I couldn’t help it, I needed some world in which Benji and I were a perfect couple.
It started with innocent bouts of omission but the more I said, the more I started to believe my own lies.
The lie to Aiden was my comfort. A safe space among the barrage of blue ticks and gaslit phone calls.
Omission became embellishment, and that embellishment straight fiction.
A fiction where Benji actually acts like he likes me and I actually enjoy his company.
Kendrick, the owner, comes over, a gleeful smile on his face as we once again praise the fishcakes in all their entirety. Then he whisks them away, replacing them with a cone of what look like small corndogs.
‘I got creative with this one,’ he says with pride. ‘They’re battered and deep-fried plantain.’
I gasp.
‘Calm down, Maddy – you look like you’re about to start drooling,’ Aiden says as Kendrick chuckles.
I can barely hear them. I’m too focused on the cone of deep-fried golden goodness placed in front of me.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Kendrick says before walking away.
‘Do you need a moment?’ Aiden asks.
‘I need several,’ I whisper.
He laughs deeply, throwing his head back before reaching across the table and grabbing a stick. We bite into them in tandem, eyes widening at the sheer, rich, deep-fried nectar that befalls our mouths.
‘A definite yes,’ he says.
‘No question.’
Kendrick clears our plates away and pours us more water as we wait for the mains.
I guzzle it down quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Aiden slides his own glass over before my empty one has even touched the table.
I nod back in thanks and he shrugs it off instantly, watching as I knock back his too.
‘So, what’s Benji saying?’
I stare back blankly so he nods towards my phone, reminding me that I am supposedly in good, regular contact with Benji.
‘Oh, right, yes. Nothing important.’ I’m babbling. ‘We were just trying to make some plans for this weekend.’
It’s not entirely a lie . . . I have been pestering Benji for at least his availability so I can try to plan something nice this weekend.
‘Plans with Benji?’ Aiden’s eyes grow weary. ‘This weekend?’
‘Yes,’ I say, confused. ‘It doesn’t go against the bet. You said I could make plans a week in adva—’
‘You can’t. You’re busy.’
I blink. ‘What?’
‘We have plans this weekend.’
I roll my eyes before shaking off his weak attempt at a joke.
‘I’m serious,’ he says.
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say sarcastically. ‘What are we doing, then?’
‘Maddy. The overnight.’
I stop dead in my tracks, my blood running cold at the thought as I frantically reach in my handbag for our PLANS binder.
I plonk it on the table and flick through it maniacally, desperately searching the timeline and scanning for this weekend’s dates.
Lo and behold, OVERNIGHT stretches from Friday to Sunday in perfectly printed ink.
‘It’s that time already?’ I say.
‘You didn’t put it in your calendar?’
‘Nice try. I haven’t used a personal calendar in almost five months.’
He feigns a scowl, doing his best to act mad at the revelation, but I can see how impressed he is. ‘Well, I have.’
He whips out his counterattack.: a deep-orange suede book, the year embossed on the front.
He pauses dramatically, waiting for me to take it all in – let the book and me really have our moment.
Once I’m done, he flicks through to the month of June, where Overnight is written in purple from the eighth to the tenth.
‘I use purple for everything work-related,’ he says boastfully.
‘You need to stop talking about your colour coding; I’m getting emotional.’ I’m half-joking.
‘Weirdo,’ he says teasingly, as I quickly message Benji again.
Acc, can’t do Saturday . . . Next weekend? Xx
‘So I’m guessing you haven’t packed, then,’ Aiden continues.
I huff in response. ‘You’d be right.’
And, come to think of it, I haven’t done any laundry in a couple of weeks . . . Kimi deleted my reminders when she deleted my calendar. It’s been a struggle.
‘Bring jumpers – Evie’s house gets really cold at night,’ he says before calling Kendrick over and asking for two more glasses of water. ‘How are you getting there?’
‘I don’t know . . . Bus? Train? Something.’
It got thrown our way months ago and I only looked up the route once. That’s unheard of for me – even I can barely believe it. Neither can Aiden, apparently. He stares at me, mouth ever so slightly agape.
‘I’m gonna drive so if I work from your office Friday, you can leave with me?’ he says.
I nod in agreement; it beats buses and trains for certain. Plus, over the last couple of months, I feel like Aiden and I have been so busy with work that we haven’t had time to drive each other too mad.
Benji still hasn’t replied by the time I get home. Nor has he by Wednesday night, two whole days later.
We’ve talked about this.
I cannot keep having this same conversation. I understand that he’s busy – I am too – but I make time for his messages and he should be able to do the same. I can’t think about packing.
I type a quick message to Aiden.
I’ll get the train to Evie’s. I think I’ll need to come home to pack on Friday night.
I can’t think about anything but the unopened text bubbles that lurk beneath my lock screen.
One time would be fine. Twice, I could get over.
But I cannot keep doing this over requests for basic conversation.
And with him, it is basic. Basic as can be.
There’s no way it could be anything else – for that, he would have to reply.
The phone vibrates and I dive for it, but it’s just Aiden.
Getting the train makes no sense. Throw some clothes in a bag and bring it to the office with you.
My overnight bag sits empty on my bed, mocking me less than forty-eight hours before departure time, but I’m in no state to pack a bag.
I need answers, and quickly. The type that only Instagram can provide.
I roll onto my stomach, unlocking my phone and scanning the row of profile pictures across the top for Benji’s, to no avail.
It’s suspicious for someone who posts to his story all day and every day (and still doesn’t have time to text me back).
I go for Plan B. I open the search bar and . . .
Nothing.
No account when I search for his name.
No fragmented chat where our message history once was.
My heart drops to my stomach.
Can one of you search Benji’s @ and let me know if his profile comes up?
It’s a mildly unhinged request, but one the FGA take on with no question, each one sending through the same screenshot of his clearly active profile.
He’s blocked me. A week after we got on the phone and he begged me to ‘take it easy and just give him a chance’.
He blocked me. Like a coward. And I hate to say it, but there’s a part of me that’s not even that surprised.
So, guess we’re over?
I text, blood hot as I type, attaching a screenshot of the username not found message.
He’s online instantly. It’s the quickest he’s ever opened a message and the longest he’s ever spent typing a response.
I can’t look away. I wait for what feels like hours as the bubble keeps moving – taunting me each time it wiggles.
Eventually it comes through . . . One sad little sentence.
One long, nervous wait for a dull, thoughtless end.
It all got too much. Gd luck with everything.
And just like that, the bubble bursts. It’s over – for real this time.