Page 58 of The Wake-Up Call

He shakes his head. “Come on, don’t shut this down before you’ve even got to know me, Izzy. Let me take you out again in a few days. We can just go for a walk with a coffee, maybe—something low-key. Let’s hang out a bit, see how it feels, see where it goes...” He takes a spoonful of pudding and closes his eyes with a moan. “Try that, oh my God.”

“I mean, we can go out again if you want,” I find myself saying, “but I need to be honest and say I don’t think I’m going to change my mind. Sorry. I don’t want you wasting your time with me when...”

“My choice what I do with my time. I can handle myself, Izzy,” he says with a wink. “Just have fun and relax, OK? There’s no pressure from me.”

I’m not sure how to argue with that. And this date has been lovely, technically speaking. Was it actually any lovelier than this with Tristan or Dean? I don’t remember being particularly swept away by either of their first dates, and both of them became my boyfriends.

So why not Louis?

•••••

I text Jem when I’m home to fill her in on how I’m feeling, and she replies with a voice note.

Pigeon, I hear what you’re saying, but... Your parents wanted you to date a guy who seemed sweet and kind—eight years ago. You were so young when they said that to you, Izz. You’re an adult now. You’re wiser. I know it hurts so bad that your mum and dad aren’t here to give you advice, but for what it’s worth, I think they’d tell you that you knowbest now. If something in your heart says this guy’s not quite right for you, they’d want you to listen to that.

It makes me cry. I play it twice more. She’s right: itdoeshurt that Mum and Dad aren’t here to advise me on what to do. It hurts that I’m having to figure out how to be an adult on my own, and that all the wisdom they’ve given me is at least eight years out of date. I’ll never be able to bring a guy back to the house I grew up in and close the kitchen door to say,So, guys? What do you think of him? Be honest!

Louis has messaged me while I’ve been listening to Jem:Fancy a stroll around Winchester Christmas market on Friday eve?he’s written.Don’t think too hard about itNo pressure, just give it a shot!

Hmm. Now it’s aneveningstroll, and will probably involve food—that seems like a step up from a walk with coffee.

I make a decision then and there: I’ll go to the Christmas market with Louis, and if it’s still not feeling right, I’ll draw a line under things with him. He may say he doesn’t mind wasting his time, but life’s too short for me to waste mine.

Another message pops up from Jem.Here for you always, it says.

I clutch the phone. It’s been hard not to feel a little abandoned over the last year, as each of my favourite people have left to another part of the world. I know it’s not about me, but I can’t help wishing that we could still be here for each other in the way we were before.

But there are different ways of beinghere. I play Jem’s voice note one more time and feel so grateful for the friends who still make space for me in their whirlwind lives; the people who know exactly why something will hurt, and who know just what to say to make it better.

Thank you. And you—always, I reply, and then I choose my favourite pyjamas, boil the kettle for my hot water bottle, and curl upin bed. I’ve got an unusually quiet few days ahead, and I think I might just spend them on the sofa. It’s been such a mad week, even by my standards—I need to re-anchor myself. By the time I’m back at work, I’m sure I’ll be full-on Izzy again, ready to face anything.

Even though right now that idea feels kind of exhausting.

Lucas

It’s Thursday—my day. Lucas Day. My chance to change izzy’s mind.

I arrive at her flat at six a.m. It takes her quite some time to open the door.

“Oh my God, what is wrong with you,” she says, already walking back inside.

I take this as an invitation to follow, but she turns on her heels and holds out a hand.

“No crossing the threshold,” she says.

“It’s Thursday,” I tell her, stopping in the doorway, holding the door open with one arm.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

She’s in pyjamas—pink ones with spots. Her hair is pulled up in a topknot and she has the same adorably ruffled look she had that morning in Woking. She fetches herself a bowl of cereal and starts eating, standing in the middle of her flat in a lost sort of way, as if she can’t figure out how she’s ended up there.

“My day,” I prompt her. “Because I won.”

“But why are you here so early?” Her tone is slightly plaintive.

“We’re going to the gym.”

“Thegym?” She spins. “Why?”

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