Chapter 19 Anna
Anna
I have a drink with Roger on Friday evening, which turns out to be about as enjoyable as a colonoscopy. As soon as I finish my cheap beer, I get the hell out of there and head to Gemma and Max’s apartment.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Gemma’s onto me the moment she swings her front door open.
I march inside, shedding my coat on their sofa as I make a beeline for the kitchen.
“By all means, make yourself at home,” Max says, his voice dry as he follows me.
I stretch up on my tiptoes, rummaging through their cupboards. “Where do you keep your wine glasses?”
“Top left,” Max instructs. “Here, let me, before you break something.”
He hip-bumps me out of the way, grabbing three. He uncorks a bottle, the glorious red liquid glugging into the glasses. He passes them to Gemma and me as we migrate into the lounge room, settling in.
I take a long gulp and groan, setting the wine down on the coffee table and rubbing my temples. “God, I needed that.”
Gemma and Max’s cats, Angus and Jezebel, trot into the room and leap onto the sofa beside me, snuggling into each other.
“Care to explain what happened?” Gemma asks, crossing her legs.
“You really don’t want to know,” I mutter.
“Oh, I absolutely think we do,” Max says with a teasing smirk.
I take another sip of liquid courage. “I went out for a drink with Roger.”
“The tosser from work?” Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you hated that guy.”
“Hate isn’t the right word. Despise. Loathe. Want to push him in front of a moving bus.”
Gemma laughs. “What did he do?”
I lean back into the cushions. “What didn’t he do? He didn’t ask me a single question; he only spoke about himself. He ordered us the cheapest drinks on the menu—beer. Can you believe it? I don’t drink that crap. And he couldn’t take his eyes off my tits—”
“You do have great tits,” Gemma says, nodding.
“I do.” I can’t argue with her, they are phenomenal. “But then he openly started picking wax from his ear and wiping it on his trousers. I thought I was going vomit up my three-pound lager. Now I need to burp out all the gas from the bubbles.”
Max’s face scrunches with disgust.
“That sounds awful,” Gemma says.
“It was, the tight-arse. Who invites someone out then spends three pounds on cheap beer?”
“I meant the earwax, Anna.” Gemma’s mouth pulls into a sly smirk. “But I think I have just the thing that’ll cheer you up.”
I lift my glass. “I think this’ll do the trick just fine, thanks.”
She raises her eyebrows and snatches the TV remote from the coffee table, switching it to the sports channel.
I blink. “Ew. Gemma, why are you watching sport?”
“We’re watching the football,” she says, reaching over and pinching my biceps.
“Ouch!”
“Watch the TV,” she says.
“No, turn it—” I freeze mid-sentence, unable to form words as the screen pans to a post-match interview. There’s Liam, still in his football kit, slightly out of breath as he answers the reporter’s questions.
“Oh,” I breathe, transfixed.
“Jesus. He’s even sexy in knee-high socks,” Gemma says.
Max shakes his head. “You two are hopeless.”
“Shh!” Gemma waves him off. “We’re doing research. This is important.”
I try to focus on what Liam’s saying to the interviewer, but my eyes are glued to the way his short shorts cling to those thick thighs and his biceps look ready to rip his sleeves.
“You could swing like a monkey from those shoulders,” Gemma says, clinking her glass against mine.
“Believe me, I’ve done it,” I say, staring at him. “I’ve had a long drink from that tall glass of water, let me tell you.”
Max chokes on his wine, spluttering as he bangs his fist against his chest.
Liam’s discussing game strategy and something else—I can’t be sure; it’s too boring to know. I tilt my head. “He’s quite articulate, isn’t he?”
Gemma scoffs. “That’s what you noticed?”
“Shut up,” I say, swatting her arm as my cheeks heat.
We all freeze when the reporter asks, “So, do you have anyone special you plan on celebrating tonight’s win with?”
I hold my breath as he responds with a panty-dropping smile. “Just the lads. They did an amazing job tonight. I think they all deserve a drink or two.” Then he winks at the camera. He bloody winks.
“Be still, my beating vagina,” I mutter. Gemma fans herself.
“That’s it, you have to text him,” she declares.
“And say what, exactly?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Something simple but direct. How about ‘Congratulations on the win’?”
“I guess that’s not too bad. All right,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my phone. I open our chat from earlier in the week and tap out a message. I turn the screen to show her what I’ve written.
Hey, I’m at my brother’s house and saw your win. Congratulations. Have fun celebrating tonight.
“Perfect! Now add ‘come and put your penis in me’.”
“Gemma!” I scold.
“Just do it. Trust me.”
“I am absolutely not saying that.”
She slaps her knee. “So dull! You have to say something that’ll get him hot for you.” She taps her chin as she thinks. “Oh! I know. Send him a nude.”
“That’s it—I’m out,” Max says. I watch him rise, scooping Angus into his arms before disappearing down the hall.
“Did you send it?” Gemma asks after a beat.
My phone makes a whoosh sound as the message sends.
“Done,” I say.
She nods sharply. “Right. Now wait for his response, then send him a nude.”
“Gemma, I’m thirty-five. I’m not sending a nude to a professional footballer. That’s something a naive twenty-one-year-old would do.”
She blinks at me, her face unreadable.
I stare at her. “You’ve sent a nude to a famous footballer before, haven’t you?”
She tips her chin up, defiantly. “Three, actually. And I was thirty-one when I did it, not twenty-one, thank you very much.”
I cackle into my drink.
She snatches up her glass, eyeing me over the rim. “Listen. You have a great pair of knockers. Send those nudes before they’re sagging down to your ankles. You’re hot, Anna. Own it. Channel your inner slag.”
“Oh God, they aren’t really going to sag to my ankles, are they?” My horrified gaze drops to my feet.
She purses her lips. “Who knows? But don’t take your ten-out-of-ten titties for granted, is all I’m saying. Put them to good use, I bet they’re hungry for a good tit-wank.”
I throw my head back and lose it in fits of laughter. Gemma follows, wiping tears from her eyes.
When the laughter finally dies down, she studies me with a blank expression.
“What?” I ask self-consciously, still catching my breath.
The corner of her mouth creeps up in a small smile. “Nothing, it’s just… there she is. There’s my Anna.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice suddenly quiet.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I think you buried yourself underneath all your hurt for so long, you lost a part of yourself for a while there. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure that part would ever return.” Her gaze turns watery. “It’s just nice to see that spark back, is all.”
Thousands of tiny knives poke the backs of my eyes. “I’m still me, Gem.”
She tilts her head. “Aside from Liam, when’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to, Anna? Because it was fun? Not because it was safe, solid, or practical?”
I open my mouth to answer and realize I can’t.
“Mason may have broken your heart, but he doesn’t get to break your spirit too,” she says. “You were incredible long before him, and you’re incredible now. You’ve always been your own person. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I don’t know what to do with all the grief I’ve carried for the last year. And I definitely don’t know what to do about Liam. I can hardly remember what it’s like to casually sleep with someone,” I admit.
She’s right—I did lose my spark.
“The grief doesn’t go away. It just becomes part of your story.
Acknowledge it and thank it, because it’s shaped who you are and carried you to this moment.
It’s a testament to your strength and everything you’ve survived.
The best way to move forward is to move through the grief, not around it.
You have to be in it, you have to feel it.
That’s where the real healing begins, and you’ve been doing exactly that. And I’m so proud of you.”
A tear slips free and I quickly swat it away.
Gemma lifts the wine bottle and unscrews the cap, refilling our glasses. “But with regards to Liam? Here’s what I think you should do.”
I nod for her to continue.
“Live a little. Take some risks. And if that means having mind-blowing sex with a gorgeous footballer”—she smiles wickedly—“I think you should go for it.”
“Really?”
She lifts her glass in salute, her own eyes sparkling with tears. “Hell yeah! Have fun, Anna. Do something for yourself. Fuck the football player. Be the slag I know you can be!”
I laugh around a knot of emotion clogging my throat. After almost a year of grieving, I know she’s right. It’s time to get back out there and enjoy life.
So when Liam finally replies to my text with a polite thank you and asks what I’m doing with my Friday night, I wait until I’m home, stare at my phone for two solid hours and do the last thing I ever expected I would.
I send the nude.