—William Blake
SHE HAS GOT to be kidding me.
I stare at the screen one last time, checking that the Tweet actually exists. And there it is. One hundred and forty characters reaching through time and space to slam me hard over the head.
I’m getting married! @_TheRealTomBanks asked and obv I said yes!!! Couldn’t be happier! #soinlove #dreamsdocometrue #happyeverafter
I curl my fingers around my phone, tempted to pitch the damned thing into the street. Only the thought of the personal information I keep stored in it stops me from being so reckless. The press would have a field-day if they found my phone lying in the gutter.
How can she still screw with me even now, three months after we ‘took a break’?
Then again, isn’t this so like Sienna? Sienna who’s had six years of my life. Sienna whom I thought I loved. Sienna who is now engaged to another man.
Fractured memories of our last months together assault me from all angles; they are blades of mirrored glass, shards through my mind, tormenting me every which way, pricking me with exquisite ecstasy.
It was a nightmare.
And yet it was my life.
The nightmare has ended and I don’t know if I remember how to live.
I need a drink. And I need to get Sienna the hell out of my head once and for all. And I can think of a really good way to kill two birds with one stone.
The bar is hardly my usual scene. It’s retro, but in an authentic way, which I guess means the décor hasn’t been updated since the early nineties. There’s peeling linoleum in the corner of the bar, where I prop my arms and hunch down, not wanting to attract attention to myself.
#happyeverafter, my ass.
I order a beer, barely noticing the recognition that flickers across the guy’s face. I’m used to being recognised. So is Sienna. Which makes it even harder to believe she’s been able to keep this relationship secret. Not just from me, but the world.
A frown gravels across my jaw. No, she didn’t keep the whole thing secret. They’re friends. Just friends. She’s told me that a dozen times. And I bought it.
Was she fucking him at the same time she was me? Jesus. Was that why she ended it? She told me she needed space to figure herself out and I bought it. Space? Space?
After six years together she doesn’t even have the fucking decency to give me a heads-up that she’s with someone else?
Nausea rolls in my gut.
I don’t particularly ascribe to the rock and roll lifestyle, but tonight I want to write myself off. I want to get hammered. I want to get drunk. I want to get fall-down pissed.
I need to forget about Sienna somehow.
‘COME ON! IT’S the perfect opportunity to put Jeremy behind you.’
I send Eliza a look of impatience but can’t fight the ever-present swoop of shame that accompanies any mention of his name. ‘He is behind me.’
‘If that were true you wouldn’t have spent the past eight months wallowing!’
‘I am not wallowing,’ I deny, turning to Cassie pleadingly.
‘I can see why you think I’d back you up, but seriously, Ally, you have to get back out there.’
My stomach flops and my gaze wanders towards the man at the bar.
Ethan ‘rock star’ Ash. And so much hotter in real life than I could ever have imagined.
I shake my head. ‘No way. I’m not going to talk to him.’
‘Why not?’ Cassie throws a look over her shoulder, and when she looks back at us she has a pretty flush in her cheeks.
‘Because.’ I shoot them both a look they know better than to argue with. ‘Now, can we please talk about something else?’
I sip my drink, crossing my legs in the other direction, and most definitely not looking towards the bar again.
‘What’s new?’
I listen to their responses, relieved as all hell that they’ve let the matter of the smoking hot rock god drop. At least for now...
‘Drinks are empty. It’s your turn, Ally.’
I blink, drawn back into the conversation by Eliza, who is handing her glass to me. I frown. ‘Isn’t it table service?’
‘Nah. Not on a Friday.’
I grimace. ‘Remind me why we chose this place again?’
Cassie points to the sign overhead and I know what it says without even reading it: Happy Hour—9-9!
As the only one of our little trio who can afford full-price drinks in decent bars with professional wait staff, I resist the urge to complain. Besides, the place is obviously good enough for Ethan Ash. Which begs the question: what’s he doing here? He’s alone, and has been since I got here an hour earlier. Is he waiting for someone? Has he been stood up? That doesn’t make sense. Who’d stand him up?
I’m two cocktails in, so I know I have a bit of an alcohol-confident swagger as I make my way to the bar. But I’m immune to tall, dark and handsome men now—Jeremy cured me of that habit for life—so I determinedly move past him—way past, like other-planet past—choosing to prop my elbows on a spot that’s practically in the kitchen it’s so far away from him.
Despite the fact there are at least seven people serving behind the bar, I’m kept waiting for several minutes. Slowing down is probably a good thing, so I don’t make a fuss. I pull my phone out instead, flicking through Instagram and checking my emails, humming along without realising to the song overhead. It’s only when the song begins to surround, envelop and roll over me, with an oddly perfect surround-sound quality, that I look up and realise he’s right beside me.
He.
He of the thick brown hair and ocean-green eyes. He of the tanned skin and gazillion-pack abs. He of the torn jeans and loose grey shirt—designer dishevelled. And the way he smells—delicious. My gut twists in enthusiastic acknowledgement of all of the above and my knees tremble as if they’re conspiring to pull me closer to him.
But my face is still following orders and thankfully stays resolutely unimpressed.
A smile flicks his lips as he continues to croon—yes, he’s actually crooning—the words to a pop song, for God’s sake—and I desperately don’t want him to stop.
‘How’s it going?’
It’s so completely not what I expect he of the stubbled jaw to say that I laugh softly. ‘How’s what going?’
His grin is disarming and he obviously knows it. How could he not? His accent is huskier in real life—broad British that is more Midlands than Eton. It’s sexy AF.
‘Life. The universe. Your place in it.’
‘Ah. That sounds like a conversation more suited to Neil deGrasse Tyson’s living room.’
‘Want me to give him a call? See if he’s free?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Sure. You got him on speed dial or something?’
He lifts his phone out of his pocket. It’s an iPhone, I think, but it looks to be pure gold. Catching me looking, he seems almost embarrassed as he clarifies, ‘I get given them.’
At that moment,