Readin', writin' and cryin'

The heavy rumble of the train isn't loud enough to drown out the static fuzzing across the grooves on my brain. I flit between closing my eyes against the stimuli — the laughing families, the groups of friends… the couples, and taking in the beautiful countryside. For a Tuesday, the train is relatively busy, which is irksome since the only reason I am travelling on a weekday is to avoid these annoying crowds. There aren’t any bank holidays, as far as I am aware, so why are all of these people here? Why am I here?

I lean my head against the window, extend my legs out, going as far as to sneak my foot up onto the empty seat facing me. I’m not supposed to. Societal custom dictates it. The train conductor dictates it. But society has pissed me off today by being on this train, which I was sure was going to be empty. I can just take my foot away if the conductor comes along. I keep my headphones on, even though I’m not listening to anything. I want to give off an air of mystery because even though I don’t want to admit to myself, I want someone to notice me today. Someone to flirt with me and I want to act coy in response. It’s not a newly single thing, because I wanted that to happen even when I was with Matt.

I shift in my seat at the thought. I don’t want to think about how Matt should have broken off things with me rather than the other way around. I don’t want to be in love. I want to be in the idea of love. I don’t know. I just want to get there now. This is taking too long.

Keeping my head against the glass, I watch the countryside morph into a small dwelling with cute houses. I spot their Main Street where all the shops are, the one pub that probably closes at 11. I let myself smile at the domesticity of it. This will be good for me, I think. Living in the city has made me angrier. Numb to all things good. Maybe the simple life with the one street with all the shops, the designated pub, the one decent restaurant is exactly what I need. Somewhere nobody knows me and there aren’t any places for me to be found.

The train ambles onto another stop in its route to its destination. I don’t bother looking for any signs that indicate where we are. I counted the number of stations between where I started and where I need to get off and after this one, there are four stops left. I look beyond the people lining up at the doors into the station itself.

It’s small. One of those where there are only two platforms. Small town, small station, small houses. Small life? Surely not. I bet it’s one of those places where the kids graduate school, go out to uni in the nearest city thinking it’s the start of their lives only to find out that they miss their one cafe where they hung out with their friends. Or where those kids came back, meet someone they went to school with but never spoke to them until right then, fell in love and stayed. Because at their core, people want to love and be loved. Everyone has their version of the ideal domestic life and almost always, it involves another person who prioritises them and loves them. What the hell is wrong with me that I can have all of that and not want it?

I don’t have time to dwell on it, because there is a massive hand waving in front of my face, wrenching me away from my thoughts. Couldn’t have come sooner, I was ready to spiral out completely. Without looking up, I take my foot off the seat in front of me, thinking the man just needs a place to sit. I sit up straighter in my seat to give him more space for his own legs.

From the corner of my eye, I see a large figure settle in the spot where my foot had been. I sneak a glance at his face to see if he’s looking at me. He isn’t. What he is, is fucking handsome and built like brick shithouse.

He is also Henry goddamned Cavill. My knee starts bouncing, and I know he sees it. Without looking directly at him, I place a hand on it to get it to stop. He used to do that when I’d rest my legs on his lap and they’d start shaking. I shake off the memory.

Should I say something? Would it be cute if I gave him a smile? Or would he think I’m some stalker?

From what I apprize of him with a quick look, the years have caught up to him. He still looks great. But there is a… tiredness that has settled under his eyes. Has he seen me? Silly question, of course, he has. Does he recognize me? He probably does, and he isn’t saying anything because he doesn’t want to stir up the past. Or he doesn’t want to get caught up in the whirlwind of neediness that was the nineteen-year-old me. I’d laugh if that thought didn’t make me want to cry. I’d move if the train wasn’t filling up. Or if it didn’t seem like I was moving because of him.

God, I wish he’d look at me and smile. He knows he’s pretty so I can’t be coy with him. I avert my eyes again. It feels like a cruel joke. It’s not like I don’t know what he looks like naked. But here he is, sat right in front of me, close enough that I could touch his foot with mine, if that wasn’t the creepiest move in the world, and I can’t even look at him. If I do, then he’ll eventually look at me and see another fan. Worse, he’ll recognize me as the undergrad he once slept with ages ago. If I look at him, I might actually try to flirt with him. I put a hand on my knee to make stop bouncing, uncontrollably. If it wasn’t super obvious, I would have pressed two fingers on my pulse to check my heart rate to confirm that it’s beating so hard that it makes my ribs hurt.

Fuck, is this punishment?

The next hour goes by much in the same way as the rest of the trip. The only exception is that more and more people stop at my seat, either to ogle at the movie star in front of me (who wouldn’t) or to just go up to him to ask for a picture or an autograph. I keep my headphones on and pretend to sleep, so nobody would ask me to take the picture for them. God, why am I like this? Just say hi. Or I could tell him that I get it. I’m a lot to deal with and it’s okay. That would be weird if I said that. I keep quiet.

Matt always said that I always psyched myself out of a good thing. I tried doing it when I had been writing my first book and god knows, I’d done it before I started querying agents. Much like this situation, I had asked myself, do you really think this is going to work? It’s not a story. I have no control, here. I have no control anywhere. What’s the point? It had been Matt to convince me to do it. And despite all of that, I couldn’t bring myself to love him the way he loved me.

My eyes snap open, and I bristle in my seat for a moment. I don’t think it’s big enough to disturb anyone around me, but my sudden movement catches his attention. I can tell that I have eyes on me, in my peripheral vision. I’m probably making it up. My brain doing its brain things. I don’t turn. I barely breathe. After what feels like eternity, the train begins to amble to a halt at my destination.

I get up before it stops completely. I feel the heat of someone’s attention at the back of my neck. I shake my head, convincing myself to get out of la la land. He’s not looking at me. It’s a struggle to get to the baggage hold, weaving through people. Living in a major megapolis for the better part of ten years has made it easier to shirk off the guilt of being rude. So, I gently place my palm on strange shoulders to signal them out of my way. I feel their annoyance directed at me when they have to squeeze in the limited space to let me pass. I wish I could tell them I feel it too. But they’re strangers, and they’re probably going to the countryside for a relaxing holiday rather than tucking tail and scrambling for a fresh start somewhere nobody knows them. So I keep it to myself.

Luggage secured, I’m ready to make a break for it once these doors finally open. City life has made it so that my nerve endings feel like they’re on fire. There are no deadlines, no opening hours or appointments that I am late for. I’m still bouncing on the ball of my toes. I’m going to need to take a cab. I’m going to have to get a car, eventually. I don’t like driving. Maybe a motorbike. Can I afford one? Is it feasible to just have a motorbike? What about groceries?

The train doors opening interrupt the beginning of my spiral. I hope out on the platform, lugging my huge suitcase. Everything is a tick box exercise. Eyes forward, ticket scanned, cab stand located. The air is cleaner, but I don’t take the time to appreciate it. I hope into a can, rattle of the post code and sit back. The driver asks where I’m coming from. Have I been here before. I keep my answers short. People are chatty here. I’ll need to remember that. Maybe I can buy a motor-bike instead of a car.

When the driver catches on that I am not one of the chatty ones, he quiets down and rolls down his window. The cleaner air stings against my skin, laying goosebumps in its wake. The view is more of the same from the train. Grass, houses, some cows. I see horses, too. I smile and give them a little wave. The houses make me think about what’s inside them. Years of memories and care, probably. Everything carefully placed, every space with a purpose. My own house, purchased in a hurry, not to mention, exorbitantly marked up than asking price, is blank. Do I have the same care to fill it in these ways? Matt did most of the decorating at the flat in London.

He bought flowers for the balconies. Petunias, because I had asked for something colourful. I never asked him what flowers he wanted. Did he take them with him when he left? I never checked. Maybe I should have taken the sofa. Or the bed, but he bought that too. He cared. So much. Why couldn’t I? Fuck.

There’s a loud buzz and I lose my train of thought again. I’m glad to, but it takes me a second to remember where I am. It’s a text from Margo. She’s checking in. Because she cares too.

Margs: Are you there yet?

Me: Almost. In cab.

Margs: Decent journey?

I start to type out the words to tell her about how Henry fucking Cavill was sat right in front of me. But I delete it halfway. I lived on this woman’s sofa for over two months while I sorted out this move. My escape, more like. I want to tell her about our history, and that I wanted to flirt with him. That I feel so silly for wanting to flirt with him. But she’s probably had enough of my boy drama for a while, I think.

Me: Not too bad. Slept most of the way.

I put my phone away and don’t check when it buzzes again. My minds too fuzzy to comprehend anything right now. Maybe when I actually feel something, I’ll respond to her. To the number of friends who found out about the break-up and have been checking in. Asking if I’m okay. Asking if I need anything.

Silence. That’s what I want to tell them I require. Quiet and peace. But it’s rude. I also don’t know how I need to be right now. I know I should be sad about it, but I am decidedly not sad. Not about not being with him, any more. That part is a bit of a relief actually, but they’re expecting sadness. A broken me that they can help put back together. It’s too complicated to tell them that I am broken in a different way to what they’re expecting. That more than anything, I feel nothing, and I am scared that it’s all I will ever feel.

Margo gets it. Sort of. She gave me space when I stayed with her. Talked to me about books and food and only brought up Matt when she saw me looking out into space, thinking I was thinking of him.

I had been thinking of him, actually. But not in the way that she thought. I had been thinking about whether I should tell him the truth. That I could have lived with the drinking, which is why I told him that I was breaking up with him, but I couldn’t live with the feeling that this whole thing was wrong. That every time I thought about my life ten years from now, he was nowhere near that picture. That would be cruel. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, I had told her. She had gone quiet, then. I knew she didn’t know what to say to that. Maybe Margo started looking at me differently, then. For now though, she still cares enough to check in.

I take my phone out to check her last text.

Margs: Let me know if you want to have a call later

I smile a little.

Me: I will

By the time I look up, the cab has pulled into a cul-de-sac, and it stops at the little mews house that I recognize as my own. I have a house now. It’s not massive, which I like. It actually has a back and front garden. There aren’t any neighbours in the strictest of sense. No houses beside my property, but a few scattered about, so it’s not abandoned. When I step out of the cab, I see another car pull up to another house on the street.

The cabbie has pulled out my heavy suitcases from the boot by the time I have turned around. I hand him the cash, the man smiles politely, tells me to have a pleasant evening. I say thank you and smile back. He’s back in his car before he can see it though. It’s fine. Maybe I should have chatted to him a bit more. Asked him his name or something. But he’s reversing out of the driveway now.

I hear another car door slam shut, and I know it’s my neighbour. I could say hello. It would be the polite thing to do. Only, the person who steps out of the vehicle is him. Blood rushes down my legs, and my spine stiffens. There he bloody is. He definitely sees me, because he’s looking right at me. No pretending I don’t see him now, frozen as I am in place. Ice water is spilling across my back, and I’m not sure whether I’m not breathing enough or too much.

Shakily, I raise an arm and lift up a hand in a silent wave. That’s… polite. Right? When he does the same, his eyes are wide and eyebrows upturned, as though caught by surprise.

Does he think I’m here for him?

Shit. He probably does. That’s what this looks like.

It looks like I am not over our little fling from way back when, and that I have followed him here. Wait. I couldn’t have followed him because I got here first. He followed me. No, he definitely lives here. His front garden is all done up, unlike the mews house behind me. I’ve only come up here once for a quick walk around before I put in my offer. It had been the middle of the day. There had been people on the streets, none of them had been him.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

He takes a step towards my direction. I move. Without looking at him, I pull the handles on my suitcase and roughly pull them. The gravel under our feet gives me some resistance, but I yank, needing to get away from this. Usually, Matt would have taken the heavy bags, but he isn’t here. Because I left him. Henry is here. After I tucked his memory away in a box and shoved it into the back corner of my mind. And now it’s crawling out. The memory’s cold tendrils are beginning to fog my mind, slowing my thoughts, causing chills along my arms, my legs, my chest.

I hear another crunch of the gravel. It isn’t me or my bags. I’ve turned away from him to pull the suitcases towards the house, but he’s behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again.

“You need help?” His voice is so deep. I remember thinking that when we first met. I think it every time I see him in something. I remember telling him that night when he had taken my earlobe between his lips. He’d chuckled a bit, and he’d continued to kiss down my throat. His voice changes when he moans. I’d told him that, too. He’d smirked. He’d probably thought of me as naive, little thing who was somewhat amusing.

My jaw stiffens.

“Hey.” I say, not responding to his question. Finally, looking at him, his expression doesn’t give away anything. “Just need to get these in there. I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” Voice like honey, it sets my teeth on edge and my blood on fire, “they look heavy. Are you moving in?”

“Yep.” A response to both questions. Good. Small responses. Anything more and he will know that I am a mess in front of him. Be strong, carefree, unbothered, I tell myself. Did I seem unbothered on the train though, or did I shuffle too much? If I did, did he notice? Did he think it was because of him?

“Welcome to the neighbourhood.” He says with his usual ease, slips his hands in his pockets and just… stands there. I wait for him to say something else, because it looks like there is something else he wants to say. I could break the tension by asking him something or say anything else, but I don’t want to. I sort of want him to stew in this feeling. Like I had on the train or when I used to check my phone incessantly, waiting for his next text, “How have you been?”

There is both tension and relief that flood through me and I can’t decide which one I should focus on. I was convinced that he didn’t remember me. Is it relief? Or some elation of the validation that I was a decent enough lay that he at least remembers my face. But I can’t tell him the truth to answer his question. Not if I want to seem unbothered. I am, of course, extremely bothered. I am nothing if not just so, so bothered.

“Been fine.” I’ve ceased yanking on my suitcase and the lack of movement is making me want to break into a sprint away from him, “Bought my first house.” I gesture with my head, to the house behind me.

“Wow. Congratulations.”

I nod. I should ask him how he’s been. I don’t want to know, though.

“How about you?” I ask, anyway. My forefinger’s nail starts to scratch at the plastic handle that is still in my death-grip, “how’s all the acting and stuff going?”

He chuckles lightly. The same one as before. My toes curl in my shabby sneakers.

“It’s going well.” He says, “I just wrapped a project.”

“I’ll be sure to catch it when it comes out.” I say without thinking. I want to hide my face in my now-sweating palms. He just nods. I wait for him to turn around and leave. He doesn’t.

“Well, I’d better…” I trail off as means to end the conversation. When he only smiles wider in response, I turn, beginning to yank my suitcase again. When it barely budges, I curse under my breath. Can I at least exude some semblance of coolness? Please?

Another chuckle. If I hadn’t had the last few months I had, or if my brain was someone else’s brain, I would have found it cute. But right now, it makes me want to scream into a pillow. Or take a bat to something big and expensive. Like his car.

“Are you sure, I cannot help you?” I hear him say behind me. I sigh. Unbothered. Calm. Collected.

You are an author. You have a four-book deal. You bought this house with your own money. You are independent. You are not less than him just because he is older, better-looking, or more suave than you.

A moment of consideration.

But these bags are fucking heavy, and you’ll be here all night if you do this by yourself. My internal voice concedes. Traitor.

Another sigh. One of resignation.

“If you could grab the other end there and help me get it up to the porch, that would be very appreciated.” My voice is squeaky. I hate this.

He nods and gets to work. Grabbing the other end of the bag I was just fighting with. He lifts it up with nothing more than a slight oof sound. The other bag abandoned, we both begin to lug the one we’re carrying towards the front porch. I put in as much effort as I can. The train journey, despite being seated for most of it, has taken a lot out of me. The summer day is nowhere near ending and the sky is as blue as it can be, but the earlier heft I felt in my body hasn’t left me. If anything, my bones feel heavier now.

We get to my front door, eventually. I turn to get my other bag too, but he’s beat me to it. He’s already jogged to where it is, and is now picking it up with one hand, muscles flexing and veins popping.

“I would have helped!” I scold when he plops it down on its wheels in front of me, “what about your leg?”

He has a bum knee. He’d told me that during one of our text-conversations. We’d been flirting, or I think we had been. I thought I had been flirting. Ribbing playfully by calling him old, and he had probably thought it was rude and annoying. It was probably the latter. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.

“Eh, it’s fine.” He says, “I’ve had lots of physical therapy.”

I hum in response. Right. What now? He’s still standing there. Does he want me to invite him inside? No, right? Because why would he want that? Unless he wants another ‘casual thing’, as he had called it then. Surely not. We can’t do the casual thing, now that we’re neighbours. Unless we can? No, that doesn’t work for me. I know that. Why would I even consider it?

“So, I’ll let you—” He starts to say.

“I would —” I say at the same time.

We both stop. He gives me an embarrassed smile. I return it. He nods at me to silently tell me to say my thing, first. Now, I don’t want to.

“Oh, I was just going to say — um — I’d invite you in for coffee or something, but I have no furniture or appliances or anything.”

“Oh,” he shuffles on his feet. It’s the first sign of any discomfort he has shown in this entire interaction. Which is odd. I don’t think I’ve said anything to put him off-ease. Unless… Wait, shit, does he think I want to invite him inside as in… invite him inside? But I’ve just said I can’t invite him inside. But it’s in his head now, isn’t it? Also, is he uncomfortable because he wanted to be invited inside, and I’ve told him no, or because he wasn’t even thinking about it and I’ve —

“No, that’s okay.” He cuts off my spiralling. Still not clear about whether he wanted or explicitly didn’t want an invitation into my house, “You probably want to rest after a long journey, I suppose.”

I guess that’s true too. I don’t say that. Instead, I repeat the lie I texted to Margo, earlier, “The journey was fine. I slept most of the way.”

“No, you didn’t.” His response is instant, and it makes my stomach drop, “Your eyes might have been closed, but you weren’t sleeping.”

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

“How would you know?” I challenge.

He’s back to smirking. He doesn’t respond to my question, though. He succeeds in making every nerve-ending in my body snap and bolt in a seething rage. My back teeth grind together a bit more. I should get inside, but he’s making no moves to leave.

Instead, he asks, “You moving in with someone then or just you?”

What the hell do you mean by that? Is what I want to ask him as I take a hold of his collar to either shake him or kiss him. Instead, I just ball my hands into fists behind my back, and focus on the feeling of my nails biting into my palm.

“Just me. I moved down for work. Thought it was time to stop living in flats.”

I don’t tell him that I was living with a boyfriend for the last three years. That we were discussing getting married, what our wedding would look like, who we’d invite. I don’t tell him that I probably dropped the surprise of a lifetime on my almost-fiance when I told him that I wanted to break up. That I am more cruel than he remembers me being. Or that I’ve grown up and won’t be chasing him like I used to. The words feel like they’re seared into my scalp, but they don’t materialize on my tongue.

“Oh yeah?” He continues like this is just a friendly, neighbourly chat. Like I haven’t had his thumb and other appendages in my mouth. Like he hasn’t seen me on my knees, “what do you do now? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”

It’s an effort not to bite back, You haven’t. “I was working in public relations. Nothing fancy, just corporate reputation stuff. But I’m doing something else now.”

He looks at me, expectantly, silently asking me to go on.

With a small smile I say, “I just got a book deal, so I quit my old job -” and my old life, I don’t say, “ - and I’m working as a resident author and adjunct professor at the local university.”

He nods, looking impressed. I ignore the feeling of pride that blooms right at the centre of my chest, erasing the anger that I had felt a moment ago.

“So you’re an author now?”

“I guess you can say that now, yes” I let myself sound a bit smug.

“Congratulations… again.”

Another hum. I swing my backpack off a shoulder for two reasons. The first, to dig around and find the keys that had been mailed to me. The second, is to put something in between my body and his. As I dig through the contents of my backpack, grateful that I have something to do with my hands and hinting towards an end to this whole interaction (hey, three reasons!), he still makes no move to get the hell off my porch.

“So, what are you going to do for food?” He asks.

“Hm?” I’m not looking at him. I have my keys in my hand, but I make it look like I’m still looking for them.

“You said you have no furniture or appliances or anything,” He explains, “what are you doing for food?”

“Oh, the movers should be here sometime tomorrow morning, but I think tonight is just going to a take away night.”

“Yum.”

“Yum, indeed.”

Who the fuck talks like this? Carefree. Unbothered. Why is it so hard?

“Any good places around here?” I ask, finally pulling my keys out, “for take away, I mean?”

“What are you in the mood for?” Isn’t he getting tired of this? This is the longest conversation we have had without it getting dirty, or one of us, usually him, having to step away from their phone. It is also the first conversation we have had in a goddamned decade.

“Pizza, probably” I can find somewhere on the internet. His recommendation does not matter. Why am I still standing here talking about this. Why is he?

“Ooh, there is actually this place I always get pizza from, they aren’t online, so —“ He looks at me for half a second before he pulls his phone out, “I’ll give you the number.”

“Oh. Um, sure. Thanks” Is he about to pull up our old text thread? Or has he deleted them? Heat blooms at the back of my neck as I struggle to remember the last text I sent him. I know it was me who sent the last text. He never responded.

“I have new number now,” he says as he extends his phone out to me, giving me a sheepish smile, “I’m afraid I didn’t move your contact details over.”

Asshole. Of course, you didn’t. I give him a tight-lipped smile as I take his phone from him and feed my number in. I could have just pulled my phone out and asked him to dictate this pizza place’s number to me. That would have been the coquettish thing to do. Might have intrigued him more to keep trying. Damn.

I hand the phone back to him.

A moment later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I make no move to pull it out.

“Thanks.” I say, “It better be good, Cavill”

He chuckles, “It will be, they don’t do jalapeños on their pizza, though.”

“So, you’re saying it’s bad?” I say with a smile.

“No,” He’s raking a hand through his curls, “they’re just Italian and real Italian pizza doesn’t have jalapeños on it.”

“Yeah, that still sounds like ‘not good’ to me.” Am I being too annoying with this? Is it going too far? Where does it stop being banter, and where does it become plain rude? He just gave me the name of his favourite pizza place. Why can’t I just say thank you? Why can’t I just invite him for a slice?

“Just because you like to burn your mouth off every time you eat something, doesn’t mean the rest of us do.” His tone is still playful. He doesn’t sound pissed off. He doesn’t even sound like he wants to leave. But he should.

“Well, not everyone has my spice tolerance.” I say, turning around and sliding the key into the door, “cause everyone else is a wuss.”

I hear him laugh a little louder at that one. As nice as this is, I can’t let myself get too comfortable here. It’s too fucking easy to slip back into old habits, especially with Cavill. And now he’s going to be so close. All the time. I get the door unlocked, but don’t open it.

“Well…” I say with a finality, “it was nice to see you.”

“Right, yeah.” He looks down at his feet, “I’ll see you around.”

“Yep.”

He nods. Again, not moving. He’s actually not looking at me at all. I used to do that with Matt, especially at those times when I wanted space from him, and he would just be there. I’d speak with him about whatever he wanted to speak to me about, but I couldn’t look at him, because I couldn’t find the right words to tell him to leave me alone for an hour or two, without sounding like a bitch. Cavill’s doing the same thing. Only if he wanted space from me, he’d fucking leave.

“What?” I finally ask, “What is it?”

“Oh —” He looks like a deer caught in headlights. Good. “Nothing, I just—fuck—I wanted to see if you wanted to come around for dinner, cause of the—erm, the appliances and things. But you’re getting pizza, so —”

“You want to cook for me?” I ask. Is he nervous because this sounds like a date or is he nervous because asking me might give me the wrong impression?

“Not like —” He clears his throat, “Just that, if you want a home cooked meal, I’d be — erm — happy to share some of mine.”

“Are you okay?” I ask because that sounded like he was going to vomit. Also because I am usually the flustered one in these situations, and it’s nice to be on the other end of it. It definitely is a bit cruel, but seeing as he led me on for almost two years, I think I am somewhat entitled to seeing him a bit flustered.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He rakes another hand through his hair. He used to do that when we were in bed, talking and joking. I always thought he was tired of me, and that he wanted me to stop talking. But he’s done it twice now, and he’s the one who isn’t moving off my front porch, “So… how about it?”

“You cooking for me?” I check.

He nods. He’s still not looking at me. I wait until he does.

“What are you making?” I can’t say yes off the bat. I really want to. But he can’t know that yet.

“I was going to make some linguine with a garlic confit butter. I don’t have any meat, otherwise I would have smoked some steaks on The egg.”

“The egg?” I know what he’s talking about. Of course, I do. I’ve seen his instagram.

“Oh it’s just a fancy grill.”

“Ah.” I simply say. This is fun. “Fancy.”

“I can run out and get some steaks if you want?”

How has this happened? How have I become the person who makes Cavill nervous?

“That’s okay.” I say, feeling a bit bad about how I’ve been toying with him, “the pasta sounds delicious. I can have bland pizza another time.”

“Hey, they have good pizza.” He says. I might have been nervous that I have offended him, but he’s smiling, so I know he’s being playful, “You don’t have to make everything spicy.”

I grin. He looks away again.

“I need to take a shower, though.” I tell him, finally turning the door handle “I’ll come over in a few hours?”

“Sure.”

“Great.” I’ve swung the door open.

“Okay then.” I wheel one of the bags into the house.

“Right.”

“Wonderful.” The other bag is in.

“Magnificent.” That one makes me giggle. He laughs too.

“I’m closing the door now, Cavill.” I tell him, peaking through the narrowing creek of my front door.

“Okay.” He’s still standing there.

“Get off my porch and get cooking.” I tell him before I finally close the door.

I hear another laugh from the other side. I smile.

I have a warm, fuzzy feeling inside my chest. It lasts for about a minute or so before my smile drops. Is this a date? Another hook up? Should I shave my legs?

Fuck.

I pull out my phone to send Margo a quick text. I see the text that Cavill sent with the phone number of the pizza place. I’m saving his number as a new contact when another text from him pops up.

Cavill: Do you have any allergies? Sorry, should have asked before you kicked me off your porch!

Me: Shellfish.

I try not to smile by using my thumb and forefinger to physically squeeze the sides of my lips. It doesn’t work.

I want to respond to the ribbing too but I refrain. I could say something without being flirty. I am lying to myself — one doesn’t just rib Henry Cavill without a sexual undertone.

Cavill: Damn, there goes my prawn cake.

I don’t even try containing my smile at that one.

This is familiar. This texting banter. This warm, fuzzy feeling. I have deluded myself into thinking this means something more than it is, before. And coming back down to earth was a crash landing. I can’t do casual. I know this. He knows this. I catch feelings, he doesn’t, and then I end up feeling like ass. That’s how it goes, every fucking time. So why is he doing this now?

Matt pops into my head again. Turns out, I can’t do relationships either. Even when they love me like I wanted Cavill to love me. We were in touch for over two years, and he doesn’t even know that I have a shellfish allergy. What does that say about this whole thing? It says that I was nineteen and naive. He was this older, sexier, unattainable person. Not even a person, an idea. Just like I was an idea of a person to Matt.

Matt knew all about my allergy though. He knew everything there was to know about me. Except the fact that I didn’t love him. What does that say about me?

Another text.

Cavill: I’m looking forward to seeing you.

Cavill: Again.