Page 11 of I Know How This Ends

Because there it is: a Red Flag , waving as hard as it can.

It had to be something, didn’t it? Henry was being so nice, then he orders for me off a menu without asking and says, Don’t worry, I know what you like, trust me, no, you won’t be getting the red wine, I’ve ordered you a salad and vodka soda,

fewer calories.

I glare at him, ready to start destroying.

“We have a secret menu.” Henry’s nose twitches at my stony expression. “Consisting of special dishes the Italian chef, Emilio,

makes while he’s experimenting. They’re insanely good. So I ordered a little bit of all of them to see if you like any. If

you don’t, you can get the tagliatelle again. Obviously. Don’t kill me.”

My anger drains away as I stare at the food. Burrata topped with plums; Parma ham with figs; sea bream with orange and rosemary; mussel bruschetta; roasted beetroot with endives. It’s a bit of an overreach—a slightly pink flag, at best—but it’s also a genuinely sweet gesture.

“Thanks,” I say reluctantly. “That was thoughtful of you.”

“Hang on.” Henry frowns, searching the dishes. “I swear I saw a black truffle in the larder yesterday. I’m going to see if

I can find it.”

He gets up from the table and I watch him walk away, consciously pulling his shoulder blades together. He lifts his chin just

a fraction, and something in my chest squeezes slightly. It’s a tiny gesture, but it says so much—nerves, anxiety, a desire

to impress—and suddenly I feel another swell of softness toward him: he really wants me to like him.

And—with just that little movement—the ice inside me begins to melt a little.

Jules is absolutely right: it’s time to let go.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my burner phone out of my pocket.

Stupid bitch

Noted, Other Henry. You’re not entirely wrong.

Smiling slightly, I click on Lucy Jones’s social media page. Keeping tabs on Lily is not going to make the loss of her—of

us—any easier. I’m not going to repair the pieces of something dropped just by staring at them on the floor.

Glancing up quickly—Henry’s still in the kitchen—I hover over the screen.

Then I go to Delete account and pause.

A photo has popped up on my timeline, entirely unbidden.

It’s the final grenade, casually lobbed.

On the white sand are pink petals, laid out in the shape of a perfect heart.

Around it are dozens of candles wedged into the sand.

In the middle of this romantic mess are pale shells—carefully selected, the same size—spelling out. ..

I feel my ears go numb, my cheeks cold; my stomach rolls.

MARRY ME

The restaurant and everyone in it splinters.

Unable to breathe, I swipe to the left: Lily is now laughing. Her hair is wind-coaxed, her face lit by the candles. Pointless

candles, useless and “unnecessary” candles; a waste of money, a cliché, a fire hazard. The room tips. There’s a loud clatter

and my chair falls backward as I stand. Ears ringing, I swipe again. There’s a photo of a delicate, tanned hand with a dainty

diamond ring. White gold. Unbearably trendy.

Underneath, the caption simply says: I said yes. 3 3 3

But all I can think is: no .

Blind, I reach for my handbag, knock the wine over, stagger into the table, send a tray of food flying. The room is too small,

too airless, too close, I can’t breathe, can’t stay here, can’t wait, can’t—

“Margot?”

I push past Henry and run out into the street.

The question wasn’t even a question. It was just Marry Me , as if the answer was so inevitable that punctuation was unnecessary. Night air smacks my face like a hand and my stomach spins

urgently. I run to a nearby shop, bend over and vomit a semi-digested pot noodle into the doorway.

“Margot!” Henry is behind me. “Are you OK?”

Blinking, I wipe my mouth on my cardigan sleeve.

“Was it the food?” His face is blank but lined, like a piece of paper. “I should have checked for allergies, I didn’t even

think—”

A hand touches my shoulder and I feel like a lightning rod in the middle of a storm: as if electricity is channeling through

me in one brutal line.

“ Get off me ,” I hiss, flinching.

“Sorry.” Henry puts his hands up like a traffic warden. “I just—”

“Just back the fuck off .” My eyes are wet and I wipe them with my other sleeve: two thin trails of mucus now lining both arms. “I don’t want it .”

Breathing hard, I gesture at the world in general.

“You don’t want... what?” Henry’s eyes follow my hands. “Sorry, Margot. I’m not sure I understand exactly what’s going

on.”

“I don’t want this .”

Now I point at him, then at me, then at him again.

Because I don’t want romantic meals and getting to know each other better and how many siblings do you have and are you close

to your parents and what are your hopes and dreams and your deepest fears and all the things you hate about yourself and oh

you have beautiful eyes and goodnight texts and good-morning texts and emojis and in-jokes and pot plants and DIY trips and

shower singing and I love you and you love me and our lives entangled together like hair in the wind .

I don’t want the etching of ourselves into each other, the carvings in places that won’t heal over, the growing before pulling

ourselves out at the roots. I don’t want the you and me and the us versus them. I don’t want someone to invade my head until they’re all I think about; invade my life until it revolves around them.

I don’t want it.

Henry stares at me for a few seconds, frowning.

I glare back, breathing hard. My teeth are gritted, and any softness in me is gone. I just want him out of here. I want me

out of here. I want everyone, everything, put somewhere far away, behind a wall nobody can ever, ever climb.

“Margot,” Henry says slowly as my phone starts buzzing. “This is our first date. We’ve known each other about ten minutes.”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Henry is looking at me with new eyes. All the warmth has disappeared.

Gone is the cute, acerbic, slightly guarded woman he asked out, and in her place is a vicious monster with spit on her sleeve.

I am the problem, he’s finally realized.

Not the men I date, and not the infinite flaws I find. Me. It always was.

I am the Red Flag, and I am the one who will burn everything .

At least now he knows.

At least this way we reached the end faster.

“Ten minutes,” I snap, turning my back on him as my phone buzzes again. “Ten fucking years. What difference does it make.”