. . . a last-minute visit
A chronically single girl’s six months to find ‘the one’
The Midway Check-In
It’s been a long old road, but here we are, almost three months into my journey with three more to go. I’ve been through highs and lows, princesses and a fair few frogs, and I’ve still got a plethora of places to explore.
The longer I go about this, the more I learn about the standards I’ve accepted in the past and the ones I never will again. I also think I’ve perfected my kissing technique tenfold, but I’ll need someone from the last three months to weigh in on that.
I read over it and sigh. It’s unbearably bad.
Dry, boring, lacking in character and void of humour.
It feels forced, like a caricature of myself that isn’t even bold enough to be a caricature.
That’s what I get for trying to write a midway check-in after churning out eight articles within two days.
But what else have I had to do? I’m all alone, for the first time since that train in Brussels.
Not for much longer, though. Two days of solitary living were enough to teach me that I am not in the right headspace for this. So, a call was made and a cavalry was summoned. A cavalry I hear from the moment they enter the hotel lobby.
I stash my laptop in my bag and leap from my seat, barrelling towards them with outstretched arms. Paige almost flies back into the wall as I reach her and throw myself into a hug, but she doesn’t let it deter her from squeezing me back.
Sara, on the other hand, pays me no mind.
She’s too busy checking that the room’s equipped with everything she emailed about.
Once satisfied, she takes the key card and turns to look me over.
‘Have you eaten today?’ she asks.
I nod, thinking back to the share bag of chocolate-covered pretzels I demolished.
‘Was it substantial?’
I shake my head.
She prattles on and on about nutrition as we make our way towards our room.
Within an hour, she’s been out and back to source us healthier snacks and fairly loaded focaccia sandwiches, and Paige has unpacked her braiding hair and made a start on my scalp.
I sit cross-legged at her feet, munching on layers of mozzarella, sundried tomatoes and spinach, and feel one long, deep exhale leave my body.
I’ve missed this. I’ve missed them, as annoying as they are.
I start to curl up like a satisfied cat in the sun, but a rough slap on my shoulder sets my spine straight again.
‘Sit still!’ Paige says.
I squeal. ‘I’m trying!’
‘Not hard enough. Do you want these to look cute or not?’ she asks, ever so slightly muffled as she holds a piece of hair in her mouth.
She tugs hard at a section of hair for emphasis before concentrating back on the braid. I huff a deep breath through my nose and cross my arms in small protest, before making sure I sit as still as humanly possible.
‘I cannot believe you ended up on a date with a racist,’ Sara tuts, shaking her head.
Ever since she got in from her sandwich run, she’s been curled up in an armchair catching up on my articles.
Braiding position aside, I’ve been trying not to look her way out of fear of the expression I may happen to catch.
But this time she’s unavoidable. She cranes her neck round to the side to look me up and down in disappointment.
‘Well, I obviously didn’t know he was racist when I agreed to the date,’ I say. ‘I don’t typically expect people who date me, a Black woman, to have such overt racism within them.’
‘Nah, you can never be too careful,’ Paige says. ‘The streets are full of weirdos with an agenda who seem to get a kick out of hating the women they’re with. Just because someone dates you, doesn’t mean they even like you nowadays.’
‘God, is it really that rough?’ Sara asks.
She leans forward with the kind of intrigue you see members of the general public get as they stare too hard at road accidents or taped-off crime scenes.
‘Considerably so. So, as a betrothed woman, you’re going to have to sit this one out,’ Paige says. ‘How did Noah react when he found out?’
The name catches me off guard, pulling a small, discreet flinch out of me. I recover briskly, praying that neither of them caught it.
‘He threatened to go back there and beat him up.’
Paige drops my hair to clap her hands together in a raucous round of applause. ‘That’s my boy.’
‘You barely know him,’ I say.
‘But I feel like I do through all of your stories. You literally never shut up about him,’ she says. ‘I’m gutted he’s not here this week. Where’s he at?’
I feel my stomach turn in on itself, and muster all the energy I have to remain composed.
‘He’s in Nice, confessing his love to a girl called Eléa,’ I reply, looking down at the floor.
The room grows silent as I feel Sara and Paige exchange a worried look over the top of my half-done head.
‘And how do we feel about that?’ Paige asks slowly.
‘Fine,’ I lie through my teeth, shrugging. ‘Happy for him, even. He’s my friend.’
The last conversation we had that night in Milan solidified that.
‘I’m not going,’ he said.
His tone was so solid and sure, but he neglected to inform the rest of his face. It dipped with sadness at the notion that he could lose her, taking the last pieces of my heart down with it.
‘I can’t go. Not while we . . .’ He paused, grasping for words.
While we what? What did he think we were?
I never found out. Because as he grappled for his sentence, I was already in the process of fixing my armour back around my chest. I took a deep breath and a moment to check in on myself, laying out the facts at hand.
He had a choice to make: spend time with me, or Eléa, and I couldn’t bear to break my heart waiting around for the answer.
‘You should go,’ I said firmly.
His face fell even more and everything in my bones begged me to take it back. But I had to stay cool. I couldn’t get my feelings hurt by him, if I hurt them for myself first.
‘But we were just—’
‘You liked her right?’ I cut him off. ‘And now she’s single, so why wouldn’t you act on that? It’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’
I wanted him to push back. I desperately wanted him to say no – that he didn’t care for El and it’s too little too late, because the girl of his dreams was standing across from him.
But he said none of that. Instead, he stood there with a tortured expression, desperately running through his options.
I didn’t want to be an option. I wanted to be the one.
So, I booked a ticket to Verona and told him I’d meet him after Nice.
That part, however, is still to be determined.
‘Am, baby . . .’ Sara says gently, breaking me from my thoughts.
A lump forms in my throat. Not only have I failed at travelling alone, but I also failed at keeping things platonic with my travel buddy.
And now, I have my older sisters on an emergency visit because I couldn’t hack one week completely by myself.
I can’t let them pity me too. Adding pity to the mix only makes it more pathetic.
I dip my head, braids be damned, and expel the last of my external sadness with one long and dignified breath. Then I lift my eyes to Sara, a stone-cold resoluteness on my face.
‘What day shall we head to the Juliet Club?’ I ask. ‘I can’t wait to reply to the letters.’
She’s taken aback by my resolve, mouth opening to protest, before quickly shutting again as my stare grows more neutral. This is not the time and she knows it. She sinks back in her chair in defeat.
‘Whenever you want, Squeak,’ she sighs, reluctantly moving on.