Tell him we split before I knew I was pregnant. Lost contact details, etc.
I kept the etc. to a bare minimum. Thankfully, he’s far too nice to pry.
Ask him to keep the “news” to himself to give me time to “break it” to Wilder.
This one is still on my to-do list.
I had no idea Roman would turn up that night.
Kept my fingers crossed here.
Do not mention the sex I had with someone else, with my husband with Roman.
Even though I felt a little like Maria in the sound of music on Sunday morning, I resisted the urge to sing from the mountaintops and down phone lines. First, it’s none of his business. I owe him no explanations. It’s not like we’re dating, and I’ve never had sex with him.
Say you understand it if he no longer wants to have dinner with you.
The prayer I’d sent heavenward didn’t help because he said he still did.
Then I apologised for Roman’s behaviour. I said he probably had a lot of feelings he was dealing with. Maybe I should’ve mentioned that his default mode seems to be asshole.
End the call by thanking him for his understanding and friendship.
What I wasn’t expecting was for him to insist we keep our dinner date Saturday night. I’d stumbled and stuttered as he’d quickly added it seemed like I could do with a friend. How was I supposed to gracefully decline after that?
“I just stopped by for my afternoon pick-me-up,” Drew says, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of Jenner operating the espresso machine that cost more than my car.
“Well, it looks like Jenner has that under control.” My gaze flicks nervously to Roman as though he were a regular customer. As though he could ever be a regular anything, and as if seeing him for the first time since Saturday doesn’t make me think of hot mouths, tangled T-shirts, and the whisper of his words against the arch of my throat. If it doesn’t have to mean anything, then why can’t I get him out of my head? Why are my insides a mass of nervous, tangled knots?
“Also.” My head turns, pulled back at the sound of Drew’s voice, my smile more reflex than anything else. Tumult. That’s the word to describe this mass of feelings. “I wanted to make sure we’re still on for Saturday.”
“Of course.” Smile, do not turn into grimace.
“That’s great. I booked the French place over at Bay Town,” he adds proudly.
No. No! Dinner at a fancy French restaurant does not scream friendship or platonic. It screams pretty dresses and makeup and heels. It means hand holding, doors held open, and the awkward avoidance of his lips at my doorstep. In other words, it leaves us very far away from the place I’d ended our phone call. Given our current audience, there’s nothing I can do to remind Drew of that.
Maybe our audience is the reason for his change of direction.
“Are you sure?” Please say no. Please say you meant to offer this to Melanie, the daytime supervisor over at Freddy’s. “I mean, isn’t that place kind of spendy?”
“I am one-hundred-percent sure. I got to thinking after your call and, well.” His expression turns soft, and he reaches for my hand only to find it filled with a takeaway cup. “You’re worth it.”
“Why, Drew, that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me today!” Jenner pats his highlighted hair. “I suddenly feel like I’m in a L’Oréal commercial.”
I turn to my barista and huff out a sigh, sliding him a look that aims to convey, really? I think I might be dying on the inside. From laughter.
I might be going to hell, but at least it’ll be as Jenner’s sidekick.
I wave away Drew’s attempts to pay for his coffee. It’s the least I can do even when I’d meant him to be my patsy.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he eventually says, sliding away his wallet. “Pick you up at seven?”
“Looking forward to it.” Smile, not grimace, remember? “You have yourself a good afternoon.”
I watch as Drew reluctantly ambles off. I feel kind of sorry for him while also wanting him to hurry the hell up before either of these two say anything else that makes me want to kill them.
“What can I get for you, hon?” Jenner leans against the counter, dialling up the flirty for both Roman’s benefit and my annoyance.
“Nothing for him,” I put in. “He’s not here for coffee.”
“Aren’t I?” Roman rubs his ear, looking reasonably confused, which is all part of the act. “I was kind of thinking that I might go for an affogato.”
“We don’t have any ice cream,” I retort, furtively angling my gaze at the ice cream cabinet. “Not vanilla, anyway.” Because thankfully, that tub is almost empty.
“Oh, I doubt he’s a vanilla kind of guy,” Jenner appraises unhelpfully.