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Chapter Twenty-seven

Francesca

‘I know it’s mad, mate, but you didn’t see her. Nah, nah, I know what Jammy says, but she was all over me. Trust me, this is going to work. She’s not like them other girls … What have I got to lose? She was well into me …’

The speaker bumps into me, half turning to apologise before he carries on, wandering agitatedly around the terminal as he gestures with one hand and clutches his phone to his ear with the other.

It’s the young man with glitter in his hair, from earlier, who dropped all that stuff in duty free.

He sounds so wistful, talking about the girl he must be on his way to see.

I almost want to wish him luck.

Aren’t I here doing the same thing, after all?

And isn’t it so exciting, so romantic, so intoxicating?

A few hours ago, I could hardly contain myself. But now, all I can think about is how disparaging Leon and Gemma have been about Marcus; how all those fond memories I have of the two of us now seem trivial – and tainted.

He’s breadcrumbing you .

Stringing me along, using me, won’t pick me, would never pick me. What they said about him mocking me – calling me sad, pathetic … I didn’t want to believe it, brushed it off, but now it gnaws at me.

I suddenly feel like a prize idiot for spending all that money on a lipstick and underwear. As if that’s going to change anything …

But he did pick me, once, didn’t he? We spent that night together. The way he kissed me … I felt cherished . And then I threw it all away because I panicked …

But there’s Gemma’s voice, again, mentioning that coffee shop he told her he was checking out, how Kayleigh went and met him there. I huddle smaller inside his jacket, the one he left behind that morning.

I don’t want to ask her about it, want to hope that I’m wrong, but the mental image plays out anyway, memory warping into … something else.

I remember the sun pouring in from behind the curtains, how late we’d slept in, and the weight of the bed shifting as Marcus dragged himself out from under the covers.

He smiled when he saw me stir, and leant down to press a kiss to my mouth.

It was feather-light, and left my lips tingling.

I’d have drawn him in for a deeper kiss, but was suddenly terrified of what horrific morning-breath I must have; we’d had a couple of drinks last night at the party, and I’d never brushed my teeth before we fell into bed.

I hadn’t even taken off my makeup! The state I must be in …

I was only too happy to burrow deeper under the covers, pulling the duvet up to try to hide as much of my face as I could – and hopefully smother my morning-breath.

Marcus said, ‘I’m going to step out for a coffee. Maybe grab some breakfast.’

I nodded from inside my little duvet-cocoon, heart racing. ‘Okay. Sounds good.’

It was like a movie, like the sort of thing that happened to other people but never to you, never in real life.

A handsome boy, the one you’d flirted with back and forth for so long at work, staying the night and waking you up with a kiss and going out to get breakfast. I had some bagels and cereal in the kitchen, and I’d gotten a Nespresso machine for my birthday off my parents, but I didn’t tell him any of that.

It was so much more romantic this way. So easy to picture him coming back, letting himself in as if he felt right at home here with me.

How we would sit in the rumpled bedsheets (and I would have had a chance to freshen up and make myself look presentable) and carry on talking like we’d talked all night, sipping our drinks and eating flaky pastries, and then he would lean in for another kiss – to kiss some chocolate off the edge of my mouth, maybe – and we would fall back into bed again but this time it would go further, and we’d spend the entire weekend wrapped up in each other …

Except I kept sitting there, in the bed, half-wondering if I should make it so we didn’t get greasy crumbs of pastry inside the sheets, or if that was going to suggest I didn’t want us to go back to bed and send the wrong message.

I kept sitting there, my hair pulled up into a messy bun, saved with a little dry shampoo, my mouth minty-fresh.

And I kept sitting there .

It was two hours before I had to accept that Marcus wasn’t coming back.

He’d never said he was getting us a coffee, my friends reasoned when I told them about it. He’d never said he was going to grab breakfast to bring it back here , to share.

Maybe I should have asked him to? Maybe it wasn’t clear enough that I wanted him to come back, so he thought I’d rebuffed him and he was supposed to stay away.

He left his jacket, though. It was tossed over the back of my sofa. Was that a sign he would come back, or had he simply forgotten?

I texted him to ask what he was up to the rest of his day; where he’d ended up getting a coffee. I was angling to suggest we could do something together, that maybe I could join him for whatever plans he had that afternoon.

But he never responded.

I texted him later that evening – something blithe and casual, not mentioning our night together or the jacket, but again, silence.

It ate at me. God , how it ate at me.

But Monday, he apologised that his phone had died, and later, I learned that he’d met Kayleigh, and I hated that he didn’t see my messages sooner; that I’d accidentally turned him away by something I’d not said, a cue I’d missed in the course of our brief morning conversation.

So of course he was hurt and was flattered by this new interest.

He was already putting ‘us’ in the past because I’d messed up …

Now, though, my memory twists from him leaving my flat with a dead phone so he never saw my messages, to him wandering down the street on the lookout for a coffee shop and absently swiping on his phone, checking messages and notifications and …

And dating apps.

And messaging Gemma.

And then Kayleigh showing up.

And Marcus, ignoring my messages.

I’m walking in circles around the terminal and my step falters, my eyes blurry with tears. I don’t dare ask Gemma for more details; I can’t bear to hear that it’s true – but it’s so hard to shake the feeling that it is. That it was never me who rejected him .

It hurts. It’s a physical pain, knifing through my heart and shredding it, and it takes all my willpower to swallow down a sob and blink back a fresh wave of tears.

What if it’s really all been in my head this entire time? I know how it felt when he kissed me, I know how he smiles at me and hugs me, but … What if they’re right? What if this is all a game to him?

Is that really the man I know? The man I love ?

Before I know what I’m doing, my phone is in my hands, and I’m texting him.

We don’t FaceTime, don’t phone, because of Kayleigh. The guilt that comes with that thought threatens to rip my heart right out of my chest.

Wish I was there with you. I miss you.

It’s mere moments before the read receipt appears, and my heart somersaults. Both my hands grip the phone tight, and I wait with bated breath as three little dots appear to show he’s typing a reply …

Miss u too

Not the same without you here babe xxx

And I know I shouldn’t say it, but my fingers are already moving across the screen, and the message is sent before I can second-guess it.

Do you ever think about that night after Billy and Ophie’s housewarming party?

Ofc xxx

Was a great party

And a great after-party ;)

My stomach is full of butterflies, I’m seeing stars, my heart is skipping a beat. I am every cliché all at once – because of a winky face . There’s no room for me to feel foolish about that, though, because everything is taken over by the simple fact that he still thinks about it.

He thinks about our night together, that kiss, about us , who we could have been if …

If he hadn’t left to chase other girls.

If I had just invited him to stay for breakfast, if I hadn’t brushed it under the rug.

The phone buzzes and another text pings through, turning my eyes wide.

Shame there can’t be a round two tonight lol

You’re missing one hell of a party xxx

Round two?

Since it’s my last official night as a single man and all

Shouldn’t I be making the most of it? ;)

You could’ve helped me with that

Made it one to remember

The words swim on the screen, the letters suddenly turning to hieroglyphics I can’t untangle. Muscle memory guides my fingers as I force myself to type out a reply – to enjoy the rest of his night, that I’ll see him tomorrow – but my stomach turns, and I have to press a hand to my mouth.

Not to contain an excited squeal because he’s being so outright in flirting with me this time, not to suppress a giddy cry because I’m on his mind and see, he would choose me.

Because right now, in the light of everything Gemma and Leon have said, it just feels …

Cheap. Dirty.

Like I am not ‘the One’, not meant to be. I am just the other woman. One he would, apparently, willingly cheat on his fiancée with. It’s not his last night as a single man, because he’s not single, he’s so very far from it, but if I was there …

If I was there …

Would I stop it? I don’t think so, somehow. If we’d been enjoying ourselves, and I’d peeled away from the rest of the wedding guests to hang out with Marcus and his friends like the original plan was, and if he’d said something like that …

Would I have hesitated to invite him up to my room? To drag his mouth down to mine and let his hands wander?

Would I have felt cheap then, or like this was inevitable and he was finally choosing me?

If this is what him choosing me feels like …

Is this what he would say to another girl, if it was me he was marrying?

I squash that down and bury my phone deep into the large pocket of my jacket. His jacket. It feels chafing, suffocating, now, even if I’ve repurposed it, decorated it with my pins and worn it to death so it smells more like me than it ever did like him.

He thinks about us. That night, that kiss. He’s thinking about me now. He wishes I was there .

As I make my way back to the others, I try to cling to those thoughts, and try not to think about the fact that they taste like ash in my mouth.