Page 7 of If We Were Young

“That is nowhere even close, and please don’t objectify Fred. I have a gender-neutral office.”

Ange laughed. “Remember when you explained to your mother that you were only having one set of toilets for the staff to share?”

“Yep.” I shook my head. “I still don’t think she’s recovered.”

“Sooooo we are doing this. You are going to be in the same room as Matthew Carling, discover he is bald and fat and then all of this will be over.”

I cringed but didn’t let it show on the outside. If I so much as flinched, I’d reveal the truth. The truth was too brutal and disgusting for me to tell anyone.

Most times I didn’t want to acknowledge it myself.

I held firm while her sharp pale-blues’ bored into my brain. “If this is a disaster, I will blame you,” I said.

Not a sound came from her. Then her shoulders began to shake with repressed laughter. “Ronnie, I hate to be the one to tell you, but A) he won’t be there. B) if he is there, he will be bald and fat, and C) I don’t think he will make himself puke with fifteen years’ worth of pent-up anticipation.”

My eyes flitted over my reflection, scowling at what I saw. “I know.” And I did. I knew it more than I wanted to. It hurt me. But my stupidity hurt me more. Fifteen years, including a marriage, bereavement, and parenthood, was a long time to hold a torch (totally sounded like my mother there) for someone who the last time you saw them was offensive and rude to you. It was stupid, reckless, and frankly pathetic.

Bald and fat. Bald and fat.

“Good. Let’s do this then.”

I stared with panic at the door to the hotel room. The only thing I could hope for now was that Angela would have a sneaky cigarette and burn the whole place down.

“Do you want a smoke?”

* * *

Ange was raising her hand to rap on the bathroom door, her nose almost against the wood, when I pulled it open. Her eyes appraised my outfit. “Nice choice.”

“Thanks.” I offered a tight smile. “I need wine.”

“I know. I thought of getting us a bottle to share while we got dressed.”

We glanced at one another and then both began to laugh. The giggle in my chest broke through the tightness; light and airy, oxygen on my tongue. “We want to make it out though, right?”

Hooking her arm through mine, she grinned. “Remember the Christmas Ball second year?”

“The Christmas Ball that cost us fifty quid each and we never made it to the door?”

“What a night though, hey?”

Shaking my head, I squeezed her arm. “Thanks for making me do this, Ange. You’re right. I need to let this go. There’s so much of my life left to live. It would be a waste to spend it thinking about a man who didn’t have the decency to even wish me goodbye.”

“Chick, that’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“I know. Come on. Let’s get some wine.”

“And tequila!”

Oh God.

Grabbing our purses and pushing all our stuff off the bed—old habits die hard, this way we could land face first when we got back—we double checked Ange’s straighteners were off and then headed for the door.

As we walked down the hallways towards the green exit sign, my legs shook so bad my tights burned my knees.

“You look beautiful,” Ange whispered as the doors to the lift pinged.

“Thanks. Why are we whispering?”