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It’s been ten months since the gala. Ten months since the break-up, ten months since I last spoke to Evan. We’ve both been good: he’s not contacted me, and I’ve not contacted him. No calls, no texts.

Ten months, no contact. Shouldn’t I be over it by now? Shouldn’t the pain have started to dull by now? Evan said he was the knife in the wound that meant I couldn’t heal, but the knife’s been out for ten months, so why do I still feel like I have a gash the size of a fist in the middle of my chest, pouring blood endlessly?

I try not to think about it, but it’s all I think about on the way to the date. Sol drops me off in her car on her way to spend the night at her boyfriend’s apartment.

“Andrew’s British, just like you,” she’s explaining, “so you two can bond over your disgust of Americans microwaving tea water or the pronunciation of the word scone or whatev—”

“It’s pronounced scone.”

“Ugh, exactly.” Sol rolls her eyes, and I brace myself as her car swerves slightly. “He’s a couple of years older than you, but that should work out perfectly since you’re basically a grumpy old man in the body of a sexy girl.”

“I don’t feel sexy,” I mutter.

“No shit, you must feel like goddamn Nosferatu since you barely see daylight and spend all your time stooped over your desk. Luckily for you, you don’t look it.” She glances at me through the car mirror. “This shade of lipstick really suits you.”

“Elle recommended it.”

“She’s got good taste. Are you gonna kiss Andrew?”

I look away, eyes drifting out the window without really seeing anything.

“Probably not.”

“Why not?”

Because I want to kiss Evan. I want Evan’s mouth and his skin and his hands and his smell and his touch and his heart pressed against mine.

“I’ll kiss him if I fancy him.”

“Alright—fair compromise. You really are a good lawyer, huh.”

I laugh weakly. Sol pulls up in a parking bay in front of a busy street. I can already see a tall figure standing by the glass doorway of a restaurant, hands in his coat pockets.

I turn to whisper at Sol.

“Would it be rude to cancel at this point? I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Get out of my car,” she says flatly. “Before I kick you out on your ass.”

Andrew, to his credit,is a gentleman, self-possessed yet slightly self-deprecating in that uniquely British way. He orders a good bottle of wine without checking the price, and it doesn’t feel like he’s doing it to impress me but rather because that’s what he enjoys—which I like.

He’s more good-looking than I expected, too, with green eyes and dark blond hair, smooth skin and glasses in a gold and tortoiseshell frame.

And he’s a good date: polite, interested, attentive. He asks thoughtful questions about my course, my work, my career plans; he listens to me without interrupting, laughs at the right moments, holds eye contact, and when it’s my turn to ask him questions, he answers with enthusiasm.

“My family’s had horses forever, and I used to ride competitively back home. Show jumping, mostly,” he explains with a modest shrug. “Kept it up for a while when I moved here, but I doubt I’ll have time once firms start fighting over me.”

I arch a brow. “So, a sport that requires discipline, control, and the ability to stay in the saddle no matter how hard you’re thrown?”

He laughs, leaning in slightly. “It’s all about reading your horse, anticipating its next move, keeping it in line without letting it realise.”

“Sounds like law school.”

“And dating,” he adds, throwing me a look over the rim of his glasses.

His style of flirting is understated, obvious without being enough to make me uncomfortable. I smile, I respond,I let my voice mould itself into a warmer, sweeter version of itself. I force myself to flirt back more out of duty than anything else, leaning in when he speaks, playing with the stem of my wine glass, holding his gaze while I take slow sips.

This is good for me, I keep trying to remind myself. It’s been ten months. I should be enjoying this, shouldn’t I?