Page 134 of The Wedding Forecast

‘I think it’s still better than your way.’

‘Mac, this is fucked up.’

‘It’s fucked up that I’m in love with you?’

‘No. That you came here and told me now. In a toilet cubicle.’

‘The setting isn’t ideal.’

‘With my boyfriend sitting at the table out there.’

‘The timing isn’t ideal either.’

‘I, just, I can’t deal with this right now, okay?’ I say. I move him out of my way and unlock the door. I peer out, make sure no one is around and then step out.

I sit back down at the table, and Patrick puts his hand on my knee. My face feels incredibly hot and I’m worried about how red my cheeks are. I need to slow my heart rate down.

We order, and Mac returns, just in time to add his order, and the conversation carries on cheerfully.

We talk about the launch, and my book, and Luke’s work, and the upcoming wedding Patrick is photographing, and the role Mac has just auditioned for in a TV show about a group of teenage girls in a small town who are dabbling in witchcraft. Mac auditioned to play one of their fathers.

‘Father,’ Hayley says in horror. ‘Surely you’re not old enough to be playing the dad of a teenager!’

‘Well, the plotline involves me getting her mother pregnant in high school, but I move away and never know about the pregnancy, and now that she’s a teenage witch, she casts a spell to bring me back into her life.’

‘Oh, I like that,’ I say.

‘Yeah, the script is pretty decent,’ he says. ‘I wanted to show it to you when I read it,’ he says, making brief eye contact with me. And then the conversation continues.

That’s the only direct interaction we have for the rest of the meal. I am eating, smiling, chatting.

Patrick gently rubs my neck at one point. Is he always this touchy, or is it just tonight? Is he marking his territory in front of Mac, or is he just sensing my stress and trying to calm me down?

I hate that I am second-guessing everything.

It’s just this particular circumstance, I tell myself. It’s just because Mac is here. And in a week, he’ll be gone and you won’t feel this way anymore. Just get through this night, this week. Don’t think about what he said in the bathroom. Never think about that. Ever.

I push my fingernails into my palms. The waiters are taking away the plates. Everyone is saying how full they are. No dessert. The night is almost over.

‘We’re going to get going,’ Mum says, leaning down to kiss my cheek. I know she has a hundred questions—about Mac, about Patrick—and she’s barely holding them all in. ‘Your father has eaten too much, he needs to unbuckle his pants.’

‘I didn’t need that visual.’

‘Talk tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Thank you for coming.’

‘I’m so proud of you.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Earlier, the waiter commented on the matching T-shirts she and Dad are wearing, and she sold him a copy of the book, an interaction I do not have the emotional capacity to even acknowledge right now.

Bobbi hugs me next.

‘How many books did we sell?’ I ask her.

‘No shop talk.’

‘Just tell me, quick.’