Page 28 of The 21-Day Boyfriend
“What was different this time? Why did you have to pretend to be with someone?”
I didn’t want everyone to know that I’m alone and can’t move on – that I still can’t bear the idea of waking up with someone in my bed who isn’t him. I didn’t want them to know that I’m pathetic and… Distraught. Distraught at the thought of watching him grow old with someone who isn’t me.
Because I was so sure I’d never want to feel anyone else’s breath on my neck at night.
Because I believed in us.
“I just wanted to create some gossip.”
“Is there not enough gossip already?”
To be honest, I don’t think my family ever really talks about me, unless it’s to discuss my mistakes and failures.
“So, what are you going to do?” Miguel asks.
“I think I have to make a phone call.”
I leave Miguel and his disapproving stare in the kitchen and head outside. I step through the door into the restaurant courtyard, pull out my phone and hunt for his number. I take a few deep breaths and, without thinking too much about what I’m doing, press ‘call’. The phone rings out once, twice, three, then four times before sending me to voicemail. I hang up immediately – I don’t really want to leave him a message, so I decide to text him instead. I tell him I need to talk to him, hit ‘send’, then push my phone back into my pocket. Seeing as I’m already outside, I decide to take a quick break, grabbing a cigarette from my pack and balancing it between my lips. I light it and inhale, enjoying the brisk winter air.
I’ve always loved winter. Maybe it’s because, working such long hours in the kitchen, the cold brings me back to life the second I step outside. It’s already way too hot by the stove, so when I leave work, the only thing I want is to take a nice long shower and feel the cold on my face.
What I like least about winter is the atmosphere. Not of the whole season, but one particular month of it. December. The month dedicated to family, loved ones, warmth, embraces. Things I haven’t had for years. All it does is act as a cruel reminder that I’m irrevocably alone.
Before my cigarette is done and I can continue to let my mind wander with these ridiculous thoughts, my phone vibrates in my shirt pocket. I grab it and read his message.
What’s going on?
Given that he’s opted to send a message instead of calling me back, I respond in kind.
I need a favour.
His response arrives immediately.
What kind of favour?
I need you again.
This time he takes a little while to reply; so long, in fact, that I’m forced to light another cigarette.
Who do we need to make jealous this time?
His reply provokes a strange mix of anxiety and irritation in me. I inhale again then type.
My grandmother wants to get to know you. She wants us all to have dinner.
I don’t like pretending.
Is he serious? Was he not the one who kissed me the other night? Actually, no, that was me. But he certainly didn’t just stand there.
You pretended pretty well the other night.
I can tell by his silence that my bitter tone is fooling no one.
Just this one favour. I’ll buy you dinner.
I don’t want dinner.
I take one last drag and exhale nervously. My fingers tremble as I type my question.
