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And so it goes, through the twenty something hours it takes me to land in Los Angeles and stumble, bleary eyed, from the plane. With shaking hands, I yank my phone from my purse and check it, but there’s no reply. He hasn’t even read the message, which only makes the awful knot in my belly tighten and tears sting my eyes.

There are two messages from Mom, though.

Mom: what time is your flight arriving?

Mom: nevermind, I checked and it says 9:30. We’ll be waiting in arrivals when you get in. love you

I swallow hard, needing to let Mom and Trish wrap me up in the big hug I know is coming and embarrassed about the way I’m basically crying at the baggage claim already.

There’s no way I can hold the tears back when I see Mom actually open her arms, and I rush toward her towing my bag the second I get out into the bright arrivals hall. Trish wraps herarm around both of us and kisses my head, and for a moment I’m back to being my fourteen-year-old self the first time a boy rejected me and I had to go to the spring dance by myself. “Hi.” I sniff.

“Oh, sweetheart. We’re so glad you’re home.” Mom brushes my cheek with her hand and Trish takes my bag.

“Come on, pumpkin. The car is in the multi-story parking garage, so it’s a bit of a hike. I bet you’re tired.”

I just nod and let them lead me away, cosseting me in their love, feeding me and putting me to bed in my old room.

I emerge once in the next twenty-four hours to use the bathroom, only to discover a patch of red on my panties which erases the need for the pregnancy test I still have stuffed at the bottom of my luggage.

If only I’d kept my cool. Kept my mouth shut.

But in the end, maybe it was for the best. If I’d stayed longer, who knows how deep I would have fallen. This feels bad enough already. In the end, Noah Wilson is not the guy I’m looking for. He can’t be. Better to have ripped the Band-Aid off sooner rather than later.

It takes me a few weeks to build up the strength to start filming new content. I’m proud of what I achieve in those few weeks, though. I move my things out from my old apartment and even speak to Justin. It’s an experience I feel oddly numb about, even looking back later.

I really am grateful to Noah for that.

Justin is polite and even a bit apologetic, which I didn’t expect from him. He offers to send me the whole of the deposit we putdown together, but I decline, asking for only my half. Since I don’t have an apartment to move into right away, he offers to pay me for the furniture we bought together, and I agree to let him do that.

On my blog and socials, I recycle throwback content and set comments to restricted so I don’t have to face the questions about my love life I know are coming when I finally re-emerge from the fog of misery I’m wallowing in right now.

Toward the end of the week, though, a post pops up on my social media advertising a new restaurant opening downtown. It’s Peruvian Japanese fusion, and of course I’m fascinated. I love unusual combinations and food that speaks of a chef’s heritage. When I message and ask if I can book a table for one of their earliest dinner services, I’m met with enthusiasm and excitement which is flattering. Half an hour later we’ve settled on a date and time and I’m researching their menu and the chef’s background, trying to decide on what angle I’ll take when I write it up. I post a teaser and get a few comments from people excited to see me making new content.

Overall I feel positive about it. I even spend time choosing a nice outfit and extra time taming my curls so when I step into the restaurant, I’m feeling beautiful and confident. Which makes a nice change from frumpy and barely put together like I’ve been feeling since getting home.

The young man at the door has an eyebrow ring and a tattoo sneaking up above the collar of his shirt and looks hauntingly like Noah from the corner of my eye. For a moment I can’t reply when he asks me if I have a booking.

Finally, I clear my throat. “Ah, yeah. I do. It’s under Olivia. Would you let the chef know I’m here?”

His eyes widen a little and he straightens. “Yes, I sure will. Let me show you to your table.”

I smile as he makes a fuss, fetching me water, a wine list, asking if I have everything I need. The restaurant is softly lit and furnished with rich red velvet seats. A mosaic pattern in deep earthy colors decorates the walls and multicolored lights hang from the ceiling. It’s lovely.

My table is by the window, near the door, which I ordinarily wouldn’t love, but from here I have a good view into the open kitchen and at the rest of the diners and out at the city lights. And the entry has a double door arrangement which means I’m not chilled by the early spring breeze every time someone comes in or out. I’m already missing the hot Australian autumn I left behind. The long warm days and evenings. The beautiful coastline.

The locals.

With a sigh, I turn my attention to the menu and I’m just trying to decide what to start with when a familiar voice makes me cock my head to the side and listen.

“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?”

The Australian accent strikes me instantly as the new arrival replies, “Nah, I’m meeting someone, and I think I’ve spotted her.”

I shake my head sadly. I’m facing toward the window, so I can’t see, but it’s obvious it’s not Noah. It’s not possible.

I look back at my menu wishing I could let it go. Wishing I could somehow convince myself to stop thinking about him.

The chair opposite me at the table is drawn out and someone sits. I look up in surprise, wondering who has mistaken my table for their own. This will make a funny story and might be a good place to start my next blog post.