Chapter 12 #2
It’s a screenshot of Kenny’s Instagram page.
His profile is private but Daphne hate-follows him.
It’s a graphic from one of those running apps that tracks your route with a little squiggle and shares how many kilometres you’ve run, and all the other data nobody cares about.
He posts these almost daily and Daphne, who doesn’t like exercise, takes each and every post as a personal attack.
I heart the image and type back: God I hate him.
Typing bubbles flare, then come a series of vomiting emojis.
I laugh and look up. Timothy and Ray are still at the bar so I log in to the VHC website and tap through to Sally’s last message: In-laws arrived today. MIL is already reorganising my cutlery drawers. FML. How’s the man? How’s work? Douchebag boss die of a heart attack yet? Still praying!
As I look down at it, I know I should tell her about the break-up.
I’ve told her everything else about our relationship—it feels a bit like she’s been watching a TV show, she’s fully invested, and now it’s been cancelled.
But my thumbs just hover in space, and I can’t.
I don’t want our love story to be over. It can’t be.
So instead, I answer her other question, the one about Kenny and his potential heart attack. I send her the screenshot Daphne just forwarded me of Kenny’s running track with the text: Not yet, but it’s looking promising. Then I add an emoji with the prayer hands.
Send.
And then . . . comes a jolt.
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end and my breath catches.
There are eyes on me. I look up and around.
Most people are sitting and talking quietly among themselves.
A few men sit alone, staring down at newspapers.
But I can still feel the gaze on me . . . there, on the other side of the room.
There’s a man. He’s staring right at me.
He’s sitting at a table cordoned off by red rope.
He’s flanked by three women, and a silver ice bucket with champagne.
He’s not pretty, but he has a strong face, dark curls, and there’s something rugged and unbothered about him that clearly his companions fancy.
As I meet his gaze, another zap of electricity moves up my spine.
What the hell was that?
I look down, my shoulders tight.
Calm down. Men look at you all the time.
And so, I do what I always do when I don’t want to be bothered. I start scrolling on my phone, frowning into that blue-white light like I’m doing something very important.
So . . . I don’t mean to open Instagram.
I don’t mean to check on Jonathan.
It’s an accident.
But now here I am, staring at the beautiful lines around his mouth when he smiles, remembering what it felt like to be his—safe and like everything was right in the world—and now a dull ache rings out in my chest. Like there’s a big empty cavern inside me.
How did we get here?
And do I really want to stay here? In this misogynist, old-money bar with the likes of Timothy and Ray and some guy staring at me from across the room? It’s all so sordid. So pointless.
No. I do not. I don’t want to be here at all.
I just want to be with Jonathan.
So, I know I just agreed to do what Daphne said, but what if it doesn’t work? Or what if it works too well and I become just that girl he thought was ‘the one’ for a while, but who he never heard from again? Who was posting happy snaps on Instagram within a week?
That’s totally what’s going to happen if I do this Daphne’s way. My stomach clenches, my head gets light.
Screw it.
I can’t do this. I just can’t.
I need to go to him.
That’s what I need to do.
Once he sees me again, he’ll remember everything . . . us. He just needs to remember.
I look up, just in time to see Daphne arriving back from the bathroom.
‘You have to go to the loos,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘So lush . . . They have a Jo Malone candle in there.’
‘I have to go, I’m so sorry,’ I say, standing up and pulling on my coat.
‘Babe,’ she says, looking at me long and hard.
‘I’m just not ready for this.’
‘What are you going to do? Remember Aubs, don’t crack first . . .’ She’s frowning at me.
‘I won’t,’ I say, because I can’t deal with an argument right now. ‘I’m just going home. But be careful with these two. They’re arseholes.’
She rolls her eyes and whispers, ‘Whatever, I’m just using them for drinks. There are far hotter men in here.’ She winks.
‘Are you going?’ asks Ray, grabbing at my sleeve.
‘Yes.’ I smile politely, pulling away.
Before he can protest, I’m heading through the crowd towards the door, reaching for my phone, checking the time . . . I trip, almost hit the floor but catch myself just before impact. I straighten, look up and around, a little embarrassed, but nobody noticed, except for one set of eyes. That man.
He’s still watching me. Glaring is probably a better word for it.
What the hell is his problem?
Then comes the paranoia: Does he somehow know what I am?
But no, I tell myself as I rush past the hostess and out the door, into the icy night air.
Of course not. I’m too careful for that.
It’s just my imagination. This feeling isn’t new.
Hypervigilance, a certain level of paranoia, the constant feeling that maybe I’m being watched while simultaneously feeling totally invisible?
That just comes with the territory. So, I push it aside.
And as I look at the sparkling wet streets, Christmas lights reflected in the puddles, all I can think about is Jonathan and us and it’s as if that little cord connecting us is pulling me towards him.