Page 28 of The Worst Guy Ever
Lukeisoneluckyguy. Not only was he blessed with the gift that was Heather, but now he’s getting a second chance at marriage with another angel. In the wake of her death, I thought it was over for him. He didn’t leave the house for weeks, I had to help him shave his beard at one point. To see him thriving is incredible, but bittersweet. We both know what it took for him to get here. I genuinely couldn’t be happier for my friend, but I’ve woken up with an ache to match my hangover that I can’t explain.
I’m not jealous, and I’m definitely not bitter, but I am feelingsomething. Their love is a beautiful thing to witness, but that life has never been for me. Commitment, love, all that jazz.
I’ve always seen sex and love as separate things. Sex is something you can have with pretty much anyone, consenting, of course, but I’ve never felt like I needed to be in love before I got into bed with someone. Love is a rare beast. You’re lucky if you find it once in your life, and even luckier if they love you back.
Look at my mum. She had her great love, he didn’t feel the same way, and she’s spent the rest of her life suffering because of it. I can’t imagine a greater punishment for putting your heart out there, holding it aloft, and giving it to someone who has the power to break it.
Fortunately, I’ve never been struck by a cupid’s arrow, except maybe that time young Rob saw Britney Spears on TV in tiny shorts with a snake around her shoulders.
Maybe there’s a small part of me that wants what Luke has. A beautiful home and someone to share it with. Someone to laugh with, someone to curl up in my lap and watch the flames dance in the firepit like the two of them last night.
And even though I’ve never been able to find that for myself, I don’t think I was lying when I told Hattie I want kids. What I didn’t expect was to have her point out the major flaw in my plan. How will I ever have a family when there’s a different woman in my bed every night?
Well, not every night, but the point still stands.
She said something similar the day we first met. Something about me being like Leo DiCaprio, getting older while the women stay young. I guess I’d never really thought of myself that way. I’m in my thirties, it’s perfectly reasonable to have fun. Nobody is getting hurt, but how will I ever bridge the gap between where I am now, and the life I’ve imagined for myself if I keep acting this way?
Truthfully, I haven’t really felt like it much lately. I haven’t been going out to bars. Matches and message requests go unread.
And as they do far too often, my thoughts turn to Hattie, who, despite my intentions, it will be impossible to avoid each other now there’s a wedding on the horizon. Planning a stag do with her will probably be a nightmare, but part of me hopes it will help us get past this bickering and move us into a proper friendship, which means I need to make an effort.
Me:Want to grab breakfast tomorrow and start stag/hen planning.
Hottie:Maggie’s at 10.
Sunday morning is mild, and I take a stroll to Maggie’s cafe so we can plan the fastest stag and hen do known to man. I have a slight inkling we’d be accused of cheating on Sunshine Coffee if we were spotted here, but I’m not pushing my luck with Hattie when she’s feeling amenable. Seeing me twice in one weekend will already have her acting twitchy and argumentative, as if it’s my fault we’ve been thrown together for this mission.
Plus, Sunshine doesn’t serve French toast sticks with maple butter, so who can really blame us for eating here?
Maggie’s is a classic greasy spoon affair, red vinyl booths along one wall and the rest of the space filled with laminate covered tables and metal chairs. Framed certificates declaring it‘Hertfordshire’s best cafe’adorn the walls but every single one is at least a decade old. I’m pretty sure the black and white checked floors have been slightly sticky since 1995, but you don’t come here for fine dining, you come for cheap, delicious food, cooked well and served fast. Besides, I’ve never seen the place empty, so whatever they’re doing clearly works.
I nab a booth and sit facing the door, buying me time to clock Hattie’s mood before she sits down. Usually I’m the one running late, but today I’m twiddling my thumbs, leafing through the Sunday paper, my head popping up like a meerkat every time the door opens. This had better not be a stitch up, or I’m going ahead with my plans and she can just put up with it.
10am was her suggestion, so where the hell is she?
Fifteen minutes later, she saunters in, her lower half wrapped in tight, black leggings, the rest of her hidden underneath an oversized, mint green hoodie. Her hair is pushed back, messy, like she’s just rolled out of bed. And still she takes my breath away.
“You’re late,” I say, as she slides herself into the bench across from me without even a hint of an apology.
“Sorry,Dad. Had kind of a late one.” My blood heats at her insolence, bile rising from my stomach at the thought of why she had a late night.Don’t ask, don’t fucking ask.“Then I slept in and missed the gym. All I want to do is kick the shit out of a heavy bag, and clock up enough miles on the treadmill that I pass out as soon as I get home.”
“Sounds healthy.”
“Don’t start, dickhead,” she says, slouching in her seat and hiding her face behind the menu.Oh, I’ll start, you rude little wench.
“Morning folks.” Our waitress greets us with a far cheerier disposition. Her name badge says ‘Maggie’ and I wonder if she’stheMaggie, or if it’s part of the uniform that they all play the role. “What can I get for you today?”
“Black coffee and the French toast sticks please,” Hattie says, turning on the charm for our Maggie and handing over her menu.So it’s just me who’s getting the attitude today, is it?
“And for you, Sir?”
“I’ll have the same, thank you.”
“Coming right up,” she says, leaving us to it.
“Are you doing that to wind me up?” Hattie leans back, her arms folded across her chest.
“Doing what?”
