CHAPTER SEVEN #2
I’ve always hated the term “dumped.” Dumping a thing implies a sort of quick, careless offloading.
It doesn’t fully capture what it was like for me to end things with Calvin.
It was slow. Almost surgical. Despite everything he’d done, I spent weeks doodling a pro–con list, and I’m ashamed to admit that my list of reasons to stay with him was almost as long as the reasons to leave.
I had to methodically snip apart all the pieces of me that had tangled around his.
I lost some bits of myself in the process, and I’m not sure they’ll ever grow back.
And do I even want them to? Maybe those bits should stay on the cutting-room floor forever.
“Unpopular opinion—I think it’s actually harder to be the one who ends a relationship.
Because not only do you have to deal with the heartbreak of losing it, you have to dwell on whether you made the right choice.
” My laugh is brittle. “You’re the one who ended it, so it’s your fault you’re alone, you know? ”
“Christ, Evie, it’s not. It’s your ex’s fault for being a cheating wanker.”
“Well, OK. But I was the one who ended it. Calvin actually wanted to stay together.” My laugh is so sharp, a few men at the bar turn to glance at me. “He said things like, But I love you—they don’t mean anything to me, and, You know you’re the one I always come home to.”
Jake’s jaw muscles tic at his temples. “Sounds like a proper twat.”
“It’s not entirely on him, though. Right? I’m a journalist, Jake. It’s literally my job to gather information and interpret meaning from it. But I was completely clueless for most of two years. I didn’t even know this person I shared my heart and my body and my life with.”
“It’s not your fault he wasn’t equipped to give you what you deserve.”
I laugh. “Who gets to decide what we deserve, Jake Frost, supreme authority on love and life?”
“I guess we decide that for ourselves, yeah?”
“Please.” It’s an auditory eyeroll.
“Evie.” He waits to say more until I meet his gaze. “What made you decide that you deserved less?”
I look away, suddenly fascinated with a tinsel star at the bar. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You say interesting things I want to know more about.”
My innate skepticism and curiosity have always made me an unapologetic noticer and question-asker, even before I made it a career as a journalist. But until this moment, I never realized how little curiosity Calvin had about me.
Our conversations always started with me showing interest in him—in his day, in his stresses, his joys.
But whenever we talked about me, it was because I initiated.
I’d always opened myself to Calvin like a book, but he never learned the language I’m written in.
Jake Frost is learning me. And it feels so, so good.
“I see what you’ve been doing tonight, by the way,” I tease. “You’ve been asking a bunch of questions about me instead of giving me a chance to learn more about you. It’s my turn.”
“What else do you want to know?”
“Is dating in London as awful as it seems to be in New York?”
“I wouldn’t know, really. I had a girlfriend for a few years at uni, nothing serious since then. I, ah, knew someone through work, and we were nudged together because of that, but it was obvious we made better friends. She’s American, actually. I think you’d like her.”
He asks me why dating in New York is awful, and I tell him about the Lower East Side musician from Hinge.
I can’t remember if his name was Jim or Tim.
What I do remember is the first thing Jimothy said to me when we met.
“Wow, you’re exactly my type—I’ve never been into conventionally attractive women.
” So, I responded, “Wow, same. I’ve never been into conventionally intelligent men. ” He thought it was a compliment.
Another guy from Hinge asked me what my “goals” were before our drinks even arrived, and when I started telling him my freelancing dreams, he interrupted with, “No, I mean, goals for this relationship.” We’d only been chatting for three days.
A chef I met on Bumble texted me after what was actually a really nice date.
It started like a standard after-date check-in, but then he began asking very specific questions about what I had enjoyed the most. Later, I found out that he had a Tinder profile where most of his profile pics were screenshots of complimentary texts from dates.
I knew restaurant bros were obsessed with positive reviews, but this was ridiculous.
“So,” I say, “I think it’s obvious that the proverbial dating pool in New York City is more of an abyss, and I’ve decided I’m better off not dipping a toe in at all.”
A small smile hooks Jake’s mouth sideways. “Have I mentioned I’m an excellent swimmer?”
* * *
It’s nearly midnight by the time we leave The Cross Keys. Since it’s a weeknight, we get to stroll through a calmer Covent Garden. At least, I think I’m calmly strolling. The Guinness nudged me over the line between gently buzzed and a wee bit impaired.
In the piazza, a lone busker sits silhouetted with an acoustic guitar. He sings a cover of “Christmas Is the Time to Say I Love You” for a couple slow-dancing in a streak of light reflected on damp cobblestones.
Jake walks me to the usual spot, where we say goodnight next to the giant Christmas tree. Our spot. When I walk away, I hear him say my name behind me.
“Evie.”
My imagination takes over my rational mind, and as I turn to face him, the moment unfolds like a screenplay in my head. He’ll approach and say he forgot something, then he’ll cup my face in his hands and kiss me like his life depends on it.
“Your flat,” he says instead, looking almost apologetic. “It’s that way.” He points in the opposite direction I’d been heading.
I respond with a sheepish smile. “Oops.”
He takes a few steps towards me. “Let me walk you home.”
So I do.
Outside Paperwhite, Jake stands behind me as I key in.
When I turn to him to say goodnight, I sway into him like a sapling in a storm.
He lets me use his body to steady myself, hands hovering at the dip of my waist. Our bellies and hips connect, and when Jake’s palm settles against my lower back, it’s slow, deliberate.
He looks me in the eyes as he does it. The touch is light enough that I could move away if I wanted to.
He breathes so deep his chest and shoulders visibly rise.
The heat of his exhale floods my temples, my cheeks, my mouth.
“I got some fond glances from you tonight, Jake.”
“Makes sense. I’m quite fond of you.”
My heart pounds so hard my pulse bangs against the underside of my jaw. “And there was some handholding.”
Jake doesn’t budge when I trace the tip of my nose up the side of his neck.
“Christ, woman—that’s a cold nose.” His body tenses against mine. He runs his fingertips up my arms and cups his hands on my shoulders.
“Almost a proper date, wouldn’t you say?” I let my nose bump against his jaw.
His big exhale clouds the cold night air. “You’re a bit, ah … elevated at the moment, love.”
I rest my forehead against his sternum. I’m surrounded by the heat and scent of him.
Body heat and fine wool and the homey, mingled scents of the pubs.
I know it doesn’t make sense, but he’s familiar.
Safe. It’s like my body recognizes something my logical mind isn’t capable of yet.
A seventh sense, and it’s tuned exclusively to Jake Frost.
I raise my head to reach up and fiddle with his collar. “I bet that bartender would’ve kissed me goodnight.”
“I think that bloke wanted a bit more than a kiss from you.” Jake’s throat clenches in a painful-looking swallow. “But you don’t want him, Evie.”
“How do you know?”
With his finger bent, he nudges my chin up so I meet his eyes. Then he straightens to his full height and takes a step back, putting his mouth well out of range of mine. But he has to grit his teeth to do it. “Because I’ve seen the way you look at someone you do want.”