Page 7

A strained chuckle rose up my dry throat as I shifted in my seat, but ice still speared into the side of my face.

Ice speared into the side of my face still.

Or maybe it’s the aircon.

Before I could voice my pathetic little deflection, the air itself grew thin, as if it held its breath: conversations extinguished, the soft jazz died out, the only sound cutting through the silence a chair scraping against marble. His chair.

Josh straightened up, buttoned his suit jacket with slow, intentional movements, and prowled towards the exit, eyes locked on mine like he was preparing for round two.

He wouldn’t… would he?

We were seated close to the door, so there was no avoiding him.

My insides stumbled over themselves, and I fought the urge to look away, to engage in conversation with Pri, to call on a passing waiter. Anything to stop the static in my ears. But the idea felt like a defeat of sorts. So I stared right back, though my knee bounced under the table.

The room warped, the very gravity twisting until it pointed to his silhouette, inching closer and closer, and time itself seemed to slow, until he was upon us.

I was holding my breath—and hating it—but he only peered down his nose at me and didn’t stop. Cool air brushed my shoulder as he passed, and the door swung shut, signalling I was safe. For now.

My lungs inflated on a hopeful gulp of oxygen.

I’d forgotten all about Pri, about the pairs of eyes needling into the back of my skull, but it all came back in a dizzying rush, as if someone had turned up the volume again: the chatter, the noise, the whispers, the clinking of metal against ceramic, the smooth jazz clinging thick to the floor.

A headache thrummed into a roar behind my eyelids.

Her honey-brown eyes had lit up, but she said nothing.

I only let out a disgruntled “hmmpf” and didn’t acknowledge it, as if doing so would somehow lend it gravity it didn’t deserve.

“What a conceited little shit,” I grumbled under my breath instead. A split-second later, I wondered if I should’ve kept that to myself as well and fought the urge to bury my burning face in my hands.

The adrenaline of earlier rushed all over, with nowhere to go.

“You’re sooo red,” she needled, her own pale face pink with what I imagined was earlier’s restraint to not burst out laughing.

Mortification flared even hotter in my cheeks.

“Shut up,” I snapped, not unkindly.

She leaned in and dropped her voice, like she was sharing a secret, lips curled into a sheepish grin.

“Don’t worry. I also happen to think Josh’s a bit of a twat.” She winked.

That did it.

The dam broke, and mirth came spilling out. Whatever restraint she’d clung to shattered as well, and our little giggles and huffs curled around us, dispelling the chill.

The clatter of cutlery eased to tinkles few and far between, and still, we lingered, swapping stories, faces growing pinker and pinker with laughter and alcohol.

The knots in my stomach had loosened completely, and I wasn’t sure the reason was someone’s absence, the wine, or just… her and her contagious bubbliness.

My gestures turned more animated as I set the scene for the story of when my roommate and I had enjoyed a late-night talk on a soothing backdrop of rain. “Ah, don’t you love the pitter-patter sound?” she’d said wistfully, in between philosophical discussions and teasing about our crushes at the time. Except it hadn’t been rain, but our old ass fridge defrosting like it had a will of its own and dripping all over the linoleum floor.

“Nooo!” Pri cackled, clutching at her middle.

I nodded grimly.

“Yep. And who do you think stayed up attacking the small lake—with a balding mop, no less—at three in the morning?”