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In forgetting you, there is no defence. But I may have been a little off my face.
A little off my face on cocaine, I hasten to add. I’m not a habitual user, but it’s not often a person turns thirty. It was a watershed day, and I was trying to forget. Pressures of aging, achievement, and questions of the existential and ridiculous kind, however;
There is no excuse for not recognising you.
There is no excuse for recreational meds.
My choice of companion was probably questionable. She was no Sadie, true. But haven’t you ever made the wrong choice, just because you thought the right person wasn’t available to you?
Forgive me, please. Let me see you again. I’ll walk over broken glass just to be given a second chance—I’m at your disposal. I’m just a boy emailing a girl, asking her to give him a second chance.
Pick a time and a place, and I’m there.
Yours,
Julian.
That’s... an awful lot to take in. And a little close to home.
I’m immediately thinking about what Will would make of this, and that kind of thinking is just wrong. He’s not my boyfriend and barely even a real friend. And I don’t need to wait for dawn to break back home to hear Kallie’s take on the situation.
She’d tell me to listen to my gut. That perhaps I need to see him face to face for closure, if nothing else.
I could ignore his emails. Have the last word before cutting contact. But that seems childish. I am angry, and he was a total douche, but everyone makes mistakes. The bigger thing is trying to correct those mistakes. To heal the hurt.
But on the other hand, I don’t want to be that girl. The fool for love.
But on the other, other hand, he was the reason I came to London—didn’t I travel all the way here for the chance of love?
I hope I don’t hate myself...
FROM: Sadie Evans
SUBJECT: A time and a date.
Julian.
I’ll be in Café Cordoba on Marylebone High Street in an hour. I’ll be getting my coffee to go.
Best,
Sadie.
As I power down my tablet, just hope I’m not making a huge mistake.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SADIE
The knot of anxiety in my stomach feels like a lead weight of doom.
Why the hell did I say I’d meet him here for? Or at all, come to think of it?
I join the short line at Café Cordoba’s counter, telling myself Julian has the exact amount of time it takes for the dreadlocked Australian barista to take my order and for the skater girl to make my drink before I’m out of here. Dust. Blocking his email. And I feel sort of sick when I think about explaining my motivations to Will.
‘What can I get you, darl?’ The tan Aussie leans on the high ledged counter, giving methe look. You know the one—where they,theybeing men, guess your dress, bra, and shoe size all within the space of a couple of blinks.
I place my order, forgiving him his non-leer and his crappy ironic t-shirt, which reads;What the frappe!
