Page 176 of Falling for You
‘Oh yeah?’
‘It doesn’t exist,’ I say, before Remy can get any ideas. ‘So, yeah, I’m not writing anything at the moment. But I’m meant to be. I don’t know how long they’ll keep me here when I’m not writing anything.’
Remy slaps his hand on my shoulder and gives it a shake. ‘Well, you’re in luck, my boy.’
I glance at him, trying to stop my pint from tipping all over the floor.
‘Remy, I’m flattered, but you aren’t my type.’
He chuckles. ‘It’s speed dating tonight. I signed you up after squash last week.’
I’m about to argue when I see the mischievous glint in Remy’s eyes. This will be the third time he’s taken me somewhere since we’ve met, and each time it’s been fun.
Also, I desperately need to meet someone else so I can stop thinking about Bat Girl. It’s pathetic.
‘Well, there go my Saturday night plans!’ I laugh, giving his shoulder a shake back. ‘What about you, then?’
He looks up from his pint. ‘What about me?’
‘Have you got a girlfriend? Wife?’
That small smile comes back again, but it vanishes almost as soon as it appears.
‘Nah, not for me,’ he says. ‘Not for a long time.’
I stare down at my phone, battling the feelings of self-loathing as I scroll through the list of women (and men) that Brian has sent through in response to the embarrassing ‘Have you seen this man?’ advert.
I wasn’t lying when I said that I wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. But when I got back to the flat after the game, Stevie was out and so, after an hour of mindlessly plodding around, I couldn’t resist any longer. Just in case she was there, somewhere on that list. Which, of course, I knew she wouldn’t be. And even if she was, would I recognise her? All I remember about her now is her deep, dark eyes and how she made me feel.
How she made me feel? Urgh, get a grip, man. You met her once.
I turn my phone over decisively. Remy advised me to book a taxi to tonight’s speed-dating event in Clapham. Initially, he tried to explain how to get the train there, which I thought I’d manage, but when I asked him to repeat the directions I’d obviously pushed him over the edge and my incompetent, lost-male New Yorker charm had well and truly worn off.
On my journey back to the flat, I did think about messaging Aunt Tell, just to follow up on our conversation about her reaching out to Mom. But as I regained signal upon leaving the subway station, I saw she had messaged me first.
Darling Nathaniel, I am so sorry I ended our meeting so quickly, it was lovely to see you. I’ve put two tickets aside for my show, any night of the week! Would love to see you there. Big kisses.
I’d thought she was desperate to get me out of the house and never have to face me again, but now she wanted me to go and see her show. Why?
I’ve ignored the message for now. God only knows what Stevie will say if I ask him to schlep across London to see Aunt Tell in a show.
I’m about to get in the shower when my phone starts to vibrate. At first I think it’ll be Brian with a fresh batch of single women for me to scroll through, but then I see Mom’s name appear on the screen.
‘Hi, Mom,’ I say, as her sunny face pops up. Her dark hair is twisted above her head and she’s wearing a thick jumper.
‘Hello, Nate,’ she beams. ‘It’s snowing in New York!’
She turns the camera round so that I can see out of the kitchen window, and I feel a sudden pang of longing as I spot white florets of snow spiral down from the sky. It’s Thanksgiving next weekend and I had planned on going home, but then Mom had her fall and I spent all the money I’d saved on the emergency flights, so now I can’t afford to go back until Christmas. It’s the first Thanksgiving I’ve spent withoutmy parents, and Stevie is working all weekend as usual. I’m trying not to think too much about it.
‘So it is,’ I say. ‘Is it settling?’
‘Oh yeah!’ She turns the camera back to her face. ‘How are you doing? How’s Stevie?’
I feel an instant frisson of annoyance. I guess Stevie hasn’t called her this week, then. Again.
‘All good here,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
‘All fine,’ she nods. ‘Your dad and I are just prepping for Thanksgiving. What are you going to do with yourself?’
