Page 90 of The Wake-Up Call

I stare at the TV. The trouble is, last night was just so... memorable. I feel like every inch of it is traced across my skin—as though instead of getting rid of Lucas, I’ve tattooed him there. The rasp of his breath, the solid muscle of his shoulders, the words he whispered in low, quick Portuguese...

I swallow. Maybe the problem is that it was all so rushed.

Maybe it’s not really getting it out of your system if it’s a snatched hour in a car. Maybe I just need a bit... more.

And then, just as I’m about to cave and open WhatsApp, a new message appears. From Lucas. Who has not messaged me since 2021.

How was the market?

I scrunch up my nose. Since when does Lucas ask me how my evening is going?

It was gorgeous, I reply after a moment.So festive.

I pause, and then I do something very bad. I type,I was kind of preoccupied, though.

Preoccupied with what?

Thinking. About last night.

His next reply doesn’t come for fifteen minutes, and I feel as if I am quite possibly about to die of embarrassment. I fidget on the sofa, trying to concentrate on the television. I’ll just quit my job, I think to myself. I’ll just never go back to work, so I never have to see him again after sending that message and not getting a reply.

When he finally writes back, the message is infuriating.

How was Louis?is all it says.

I type my reply before I can think better of it.

Are you jealous?

His response is instantaneous this time.

Yes.

I knew it.

Was it a date?

What’s it to you?

Can you just tell me that he was respectful?

I roll my eyes.

Lucas.

Yes?

Is it any of your business what happens between me and Louis?

There’s a knock on the door. I slurp the last of the cereal on my way to answer it, sliding the empty bowl onto the kitchen counter.

It’s Lucas at my front door, messaging. He must have left his flat the moment I said I was thinking about last night. He doesn’t look up when I open the door; my phone pings in my hand. He’s wearing his usual black coat open over loose, low jogging bottoms and a long-sleeved tee, with a duffel bag by his feet. The idea of him right there in my hallway seems as strange and impossible and exciting as the sight of him tipping his head back against the driver’s seat, muscles pulling taut in his shoulders, eyes piercing mine.

After a long moment facing each other across the threshold, I glance from Lucas to my phone screen.

No. But can it be my business to check you’re OK?

“No,” I say out loud.

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