Page 22 of How To Not Need You

Ben is back in his seat, propping his boots on the table again. “You’re overthinking. She likes you. You like her. The end.”

I shake my head, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You guys are something else.”

Luca beams, already prepping the next round. “Let us know how it goes.”

The din of the café resumes like nothing happened. I take my coffee, join Ben at the table and collapse into the chair. I stare into the mug, willing it to tell me what to do.

After a while, I look up. Ben gives me a thumbs up. Noah just smiles, steady as ever. Luca is already chatting up the next customer, but he catches my eye and nods, as if to say, you got this.

I’m not sure I do.

There are a thousand reasons to walk out of a coffee shop. Even more to stay put. The morning crowd at Page & Grounds is slowly thinning, and my friends seem determined to stick around until every last drop of caffeine is wrung out of the air. Ben is on his second croissant. Noah’s laptop is back open, but the bloke can literally read emails while planning someone else’s wedding. Luca, well, he’s made a show of watching the clock above the counter, like he’s waiting for the world’s most anticipated drop.

“She usually comes in around now,” he says, not looking at me.

I don’t ask who “she” is. I just scowl at the mug in front of me, try to remember what it was like to go a day without my entire social life being run for me.

Ben licks a smudge of jam off his thumb. “You nervous?”

“About what?”

He rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother answering.

Noah glances up, mouth quirking. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Jake.”

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it, but then Luca cuts in with, “He does, actually. We took a vote. It was unanimous.”

I sigh. “I have to get to the station. Check the truck over.”

Ben consults his watch, the cheapest digital thing that he could find, and doesn’t even look up. “No you don’t. We finished those yesterday.”

“I’ve got paperwork.”

Luca’s arms are folded, not budging. “Your excuses are getting weaker.”

I drain the last of my coffee. “You guys are insane.”

Noah shrugs, genuinely philosophical. “Maybe.”

Ben tips his chair back on two legs and says, “Look, man. You can run. Or you can face it.”

I run.

Not literally. But I do stand, mutter something about errands, and walk out into the parking lot. The air is cold, with that salt-and-bread smell that means the bakery is firing up for lunchtime. I cross the lot, pacing between the truck and the other cars, willing my colleagues to finish their damn coffees and come outside. Sadly they all seem to be on the same ‘Get Jake dating’ page.

So, I end up sitting on the bonnet of the truck, arms folded with my jaw working. I check my phone. Five minutes have passed. I check again. Now it’s seven.

The spiral starts. Every argument I’ve used for the last three years cycles through my head: You barely know her. She’s out of your league. You have a kid, remember? She’ll say no, and you’ll have to come back here tomorrow, and Ben will never, ever let it go.

I think about Ben, telling me it’s not a big deal. I snort, shake my head. He’s an idiot, but he’s not wrong. I start to get up, then stop, then get up again. I lean against the truck.

Finally, I just go back inside. Not because I made a decision, but because the prospect of another five minutes with my own brain is worse than facing the firing squad.

This time, the café is quieter. The window tables are occupied by laptop zombies. The only people at the counter are two old ladies in matching purple cardigans, deep in debate over the best way to smuggle liquor into a movie theatre. The spot where Ben and Noah were sitting is empty, but they’re both still there, loitering near the bookshelf as if they might blend in with the décor. They don’t.

And there’s Liv, at a small table by the window. She must have come in whilst I was having my mental breakdown. Her laptop’s open but she’s not looking at it. Instead, she’s stirring her coffee. Harper is across from her with a baby in the pram beside the table, and at first I think maybe they’re in deep conversation. But Harper glances up, sees me, and then very deliberately looks down at her own cup. A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

Liv notices the movement and turns. For a split second, she looks surprised. Then she smiles. That little half-smile she’d given me the other morning. Making every excuse I just gave myself fade away.