Page 4 of Wish You Weren't Here
‘Here’s my number,’ he says, grabbing a pen from the desk and scribbling on the back of another one of Jennifer’s motivational Post-it notes that he must have lifted from her office. This one says:
Your intuition knows her shit.
‘Send me a message, so I’ve got your number, we’ll make a plan,’ he says with a smile.
‘Okay,’ I reply, my heart racing – somehow getting faster, I really thought I was at my maximum bpm when Jennifer walked in and almost caught me pretending to be her.
‘See you later,’ he says, his smile lingering as he turns to leave.
‘Yeah, see you later,’ I echo.
And just like that, he’s gone as quickly as he appeared.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I can’t help but kick my legs with glee under the desk. To think, I thought I was going to be spending Valentine’s Day alone – not that I cared, because Valentine’s Day is shit – but, well, perhaps this one might not be quite as shit as usual.
2
I don’t feel well. I’m kind of warm, my heart is beating really fast, my breathing isn’t right, and I’ve got this overwhelming feeling of… oh, God. I’m nervous. I’m not ill, I’m fucking nervous. About a boy. What is going on with me? I don’t get nervous before a date and yet here I am, in the ladies’ loos, checking my outfit, my hair, my make-up – everything, like he didn’t see me at work earlier. The dim lighting in here is more forgiving than the fluorescent lights at the office, and I’ve spent a couple of hours trying to look my best, but I’m still scrutinising every detail.
My blonde hair falls in soft waves, framing my face in a way that almost hides the nerves – or at least I tell myself it does, because I can sort of hide behind it. I move a strand, ensuring it’s perfectly in place.
I’m wearing a black off-the-shoulder minidress that hopefully hugs my curves in all the right places. The idea of a little black dress is a cliché but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad call. It’s the kind of outfit that looks sleek and effortless, without looking like you tried too hard, and it just gives off a cool, confident vibe that you don’t really get from anything else. You can wear it to any occasion (even a funeral although, granted,I would probably go for one that covered both shoulders, and probably my knees, but you take my point) and it’s almost unreadable. Was it four digits from Prada or two digits from Zara? Do you know who can’t answer that question? The kind of guys who go on dates with me (FYI, though, it’s the latter).
My red heels add a few inches to my height, making me feel a bit more powerful, even if they’re not the most comfortable shoes in the world, and my bright red lipstick goes a long way toward that too.
Finally, I smooth down the fabric of my dress one last time and take a deep breath. Why am I so rattled? I’m no stranger to going on dates – I’ve been on more than I would have liked – but there’s something about Ethan that rattles me.
I sent him my number earlier, and he replied almost right away. That never happens. Boys usually keep you waiting, right? Or maybe it’s just the ones I’ve been seeing. But not Ethan. He told me to meet him at Thin Aire, a rooftop bar in the city centre (something else I’m no stranger to). So here I am, nerves and all, to see if seeing him again gives me that funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I step out of the bathroom and make my way through the crowd. It’s Valentine’s Day, so the place is packed with couples, groups of single women sipping cocktails, and men who are out with their mates – no one wants to spend Valentine’s Day alone, do they?
It’s a good atmosphere. If anyone is desperate, no one is letting on. Everyone looks like they’re having a great time laughing, dancing and drinking – well, those who can actually get to the crowded bar are drinking, anyway.
And then I see him. Ethan. He’s standing by the entrance, right on time. Not fashionably late, not even a little bit, just… there. And shit, he looks even better than he did earlier.
He’s wearing a sharp dark blazer over a fitted white shirt, the top few buttons casually undone in that way that makes you want to undo the rest – with your teeth. His trousers are slim and stylish, matching his blazer perfectly. There’s something about the way the dim lighting of the bar catches his dark eyes that makes them smoulder even more intensely. Christ, do you think he’d marry me?
‘Hello,’ he says, a warm smile spreading across his face as he steps forward and greets me with a kiss on the cheek. His lips brush against my skin just lightly enough to send a shiver through my body. ‘Good to see you again, Jennifer.’
‘Har-har,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘And you, IT support guy. So, what were?—’
Before I can finish, the young blonde hostess standing nearby interrupts us.
‘It’s standing room only, unfortunately,’ she tells us with a pout.
‘That’s okay,’ Ethan replies smoothly. He turns to me with a playful look in his eyes. ‘Shall we see if we can get to the bar?’
‘Okay,’ I agree, trying to match his easy confidence and optimism.
We weave through the packed bar. It’s boiling in here, probably from all the people, to the point where I want to pretend I smoke just so that I can step out for (ironically) some air. It’s not exactly romantic, but I imagine the genuinely loved-up couples have gone somewhere more intimate – although it feels quite intimate in here, given how close some people are pressing their bodies against mine as they squeeze past me.
As we reach the bar, I notice a few couples scattered among the crowd, but mostly it’s groups of friends, presumably of single people, who don’t have dates and refuse to stay in alone, even if it is a Monday.
‘So, what were you actually doing at the office?’ I ask, curious about how he ended up there in the first place.
It’s loud in here so my sentence increases in volume with each word.
‘I was there for a job,’ he replies, leaning in a little so I can hear him better.
