Chapter Thirty-Three
‘So you’re actually going out with him?’ Jonah shuffles into my bedroom, hanging around by the chest of drawers as I carefully create the perfect eyeliner flick. ‘I thought you said he was a bit of a twat?’
I study the flick in the mirror and, satisfied, move on to the other lid. ‘I said he said he was a bit of a twat. I think he’s nice. And he isn’t married.’ I made sure of that before I agreed to any kind of date. ‘Plus, he’s saved my bacon at work.’
Noah contacted me the day after the Halloween party, to let me know that Brian, his uncle’s best mate, was ‘chuffed to bits’ to be asked to don his George Michael persona once again and was more than willing to come into Rollerz to talk to Sally about the gig. Sally loved him and booked him pronto.
‘But I thought you were knocking the meet-cute thing on the head.’ Jonah flops on the bed, almost making me smudge my eyeliner. I flash him a glare before concentrating on my make-up application.
‘I have knocked it on the head.’ I hadn’t accepted a date with anyone since Kit, until Noah asked me out. ‘It isn’t as if I still have faith in the meet-cute thing any more.’
‘Then why are you going out with him?’
Because he helped me out. Because if I don’t, maybe he’ll rescind his George Michael gift. And maybe, just maybe, Noah is the key to shutting off the meet-cute wish.
I don’t tell Jonah this, however, because it feels a bit transactional. A bit tacky.
‘Because I like him. He’s fun. And cute.’
‘Other people are fun and cute.’
I snort. ‘Like who?’
‘I don’t know. Just people. People you have stuff in common with. You said that was important to you, remember? Do you have anything in common with this guy?’
‘I have no idea.’ I study my eyeliner in my little mirror, making sure the flicks are even. ‘I barely know him, but that’s what dating’s about, isn’t it? Getting to know the other person.’
‘I guess.’ Jonah shrugs and pushes himself up from the bed. ‘Have fun then.’
I smile as I twist the lid back on my eyeliner. ‘I’ll try my best.’
Noah and I meet up for drinks in the Corn Exchange in Manchester before we move on to Piccadilly Gardens for Wing Wars, a food festival offering a variety of chicken wings to judge, as well as a live DJ and a fireworks display.
‘No, no, no.’ Noah shakes his head as he watches me mark the cauliflower wings from the vegan vendor as my favourite. ‘They weren’t even meat! You can’t vote a cauliflower wing as the best chicken wing. That’s madness.’
‘But they were delicious.’ Noah tries to take my pencil from me so he can correct my scoresheet, but I snatch it away and hold it up in the air.
I reach up onto my tiptoes as Noah reaches for the pencil, his body pressed up against mine and his eyes alight with mischief.
Things have nudged into flirty territory and I’m confused when I feel a mix of delight and anxiety over where this may lead.
Part of me wants to lean into Noah and kiss him, but a bigger part wants to poke him in the side, in the soft bit between his ribs and his hip, and he jolts away with a child-like yelp when I do.
‘Hey. That tickles. That’s cheating.’
‘So is trying to coerce me into voting for a different wing.’ I’m still holding the pencil in the air.
‘I don’t want you to vote for a different wing. I want you to vote for a wing. Any wing will do, as long as it’s chicken and not a vegetable. So hand me yon quill forthwith, fair maiden.’
I step out of the way as Noah lunges for the pencil. ‘Didn’t we talk about how speaking like a medieval knight when you’re not in costume makes you sound like a knob? Perhaps even when you are in costume.’
Noah shrugs. ‘I am what I am.’
I snigger. ‘A knob?’
‘A knob who…’ Noah leaps at me and steals the pencil from my fingers. ‘…has your pencil. Ha!’
‘But not my scoresheet.’ I waft the piece of paper at him in triumph before turning and running from him, giggling as I weave in and out of the other festival goers as Noah gives chase.
I make a wrong turning and end up in a cul-de-sac of stalls, mentally kicking myself as I realise my mistake.
I back up but there’s nowhere else to go and Noah corners me against a boneless wing stall.
Our bodies are pressed together once more, and Noah’s eyes are alight with mischief again.
‘Thou art ensnared.’ Noah plucks the scoresheet from my fingers and waves it in my face. ‘Yet I be no knave, fair maiden. Cast thy vote as thou desireth.’ Handing me the scoresheet, he takes a step back before performing a bow.
‘You really are a knob.’
‘Yes.’ Noah hangs his head. ‘I’m afraid I am.’
‘Come on.’ I thread my arm through his and lead him out into the main festival space. ‘Let’s get a drink before the fireworks start.’
The date with Noah goes well; we have fun, we tease each other, and there are times when I could have kissed him, but there is something holding me back.
The Kit thing, obviously, because I don’t relish getting my heart broken again, but something else.
Something… No, I shake the thought away.
I’m being silly. Overly cautious. Creating barriers to protect myself.
I pick at my nails as I wait for the kettle to boil, my thoughts bubbling more than the water. When did my life get so complicated?
When I made that damn wish and cursed myself with meet-cute after meet-cute after meet-cute.
Except… When was the last time I experienced a meet-cute?
I think back over the past few days… Yesterday, at the Wing Wars festival?
Nope, no meet-cute there. Earlier that day when I went to the supermarket?
There was no reaching for the same pint of milk shenanigans or a trolley with a mind of its own, meandering into a handsome stranger.
Nothing. And the day before, when Brian came in to see Sally at Rollerz?
Did anyone toss a drink over me? Did I trip and fall into the arms of a conveniently placed handsome stranger?
Neither of those things happened. And the days between then and Halloween?
Oh my goat.
I have not had a meet-cute since meet-cute-ing Noah at the party.
‘Are you okay?’ Jonah pauses on the threshold of the kitchen and living room, stooping to take a good look at me. ‘You look… troubled.’
‘I think Noah could be The One.’
Jonah rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve heard that before. Many times.’
‘But I really do think so this time.’ I cover my mouth with my hand as the enormity hits me. Could this be it? Everything I’ve been striving for all these months? Could this finally be the end of my battle with that stupid wish? Could Noah be the one who breaks the spell? Has he already smashed it?
‘Please don’t jump headfirst into this.’ Jonah steps into the kitchen and places his hand on my arm. ‘You know I’ll support you whatever you do, but I don’t want you to get hurt again.’
‘I know.’ I pat Jonah’s hand before pulling my chin back when I clock what he’s wearing. ‘Aren’t you a bit dressed up for watching the fireworks?’
Living on the seventh floor of a block of flats, we have a good view of all the local firework displays on Bonfire Night, and last year we spent the evening camped out in front of the window in our pyjamas, working our way through snacks and tea, and it was such good fun that we agreed to make it an annual thing.
I’m in my pyjamas now and the kettle’s on but Jonah is decked out in jeans, a shirt and his blazer.
‘I’m not watching the fireworks here tonight.’ Jonah speaks slowly, his head tilted to one side. ‘I have a date with Paris.’
‘You’re going to Paris?’ This is news to me, and surely something Jonah would have dropped into conversation at some point (‘Can you grab some milk while you’re out? Oh, and I’m popping over to France.’).
‘I’m not going to Paris. I’m going out with Paris.’
There’s a beat of silence while I wait for Jonah to elaborate. He does not and I’m forced to prompt. ‘Who is Paris?’
Jonah narrows his eyes. He doesn’t speak for a moment, but when he does, he does that slow-speaking thing, as though I’m dense. ‘Paris. From the party. We’re going out tonight.’
‘Paris from the…’ I gasp, my eyebrows nearly shooting right off my forehead. ‘Patrick? You’re going out with Patrick?’
He smiles as he leans against the worktop. ‘It was like one of your meet-cutes, don’t you think? Me as SpongeBob and Paris as Patrick.’
‘Not really.’ I snatch up the kettle and pour water over my teabag in its mug.
‘I was supposed to be Patrick, remember? If you think matching costumes means you’re destined to be with someone, then you should be with me.
’ I scrunch up my nose. ‘Nah, that would be gross.’ I shudder before nodding at the other mug set out on the side. ‘Are you having a brew?’
Jonah shakes his head. ‘I’m heading out in a minute.’
‘Fine.’ I shove the kettle on its stand and wrench open the cutlery drawer, snatching up a spoon.
‘Why are you being so snippy?’
‘I’m not being snippy.’ Jonah does not point out that I said that pretty snippily, in case I stab him with the spoon.
‘But it’s Bonfire Night. We said we’d watch the fireworks together.
’ I booked the night off work and everything, and Sally only granted my request because she’s deliriously happy about the George Michael act for New Year’s Eve.
‘Sorry.’ Jonah shrugs. ‘But this is the only night Paris can do this week.’ He nudges me with his foot. ‘You’re not mad at me, are you? I did tell you about it.’
He didn’t. I’m sure of it. I’d have remembered. And besides, I am mad. This is supposed to be our night. ‘You said you’d watch the fireworks with me.’
Jonah straightens up from his slouched position against the worktop and folds his arms across his chest. ‘Why would you want to watch them with me if I’m so gross?’
‘I didn’t mean that you’re gross. Just the idea of you and me.’
‘Well, do you know who doesn’t think it’d be gross to be with me?’ Jonah doesn’t need to answer the question, but he does anyway. ‘Paris. So I think I’ll go and watch the fireworks with her.’
Ouch. I press a hand against my stomach as Jonah strides out of the kitchen and heads off for his date.