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The three dots appear again, before disappearing and reappearing three more times. Finally, they stop.
Can we talk about last night?
We probably should talk about it. It’s the adult thing to do. Iput on my big girl pants and type out my suitably grown-up response.
nope x
To my unimaginable horror, when a notification for a FaceTime appears on my screen, my clumsy, hungover fingers accept it. Finn’s face fills the frame and I pull my duvet up so that only my eyes are visible, peeking out from the bottom of the box. He, on the other hand, looks fresh as a daisy; crisp white t-shirt, hair damp from the shower. Wasn’t he drinking as much as me all night? Life isn’t fair.
‘Why not?’ he says straight away, no time for pleasantries, leaning his phone against something on his kitchen counter. I watch him move around to make a coffee, opening cupboards and taking milk from the fridge.
‘I’m embarrassed.’ My reluctance to admit it coats every syllable.
‘Why?’ he persists, before muting the microphone as his coffee machine extracts.
I take the time to think of a response. I’m not used to people wanting to get to know me, or me wanting to get to know them. He listened to me and showed me he cared, and I don’t have much experience of a good friendship that isn’t Josie, so I misinterpreted the signals.AndI was drunk.
Besides, I can’t afford to take risks. I can’t tempt fate when it’s already given me so much. I refuse to let this set me off course.
He unmutes himself, picking up his phone and mug and bringing them both over to what must be the living area, which gives me a pixellated glimpse at the upper half of his flat as he walks. It occurs to me that seeing Finn in his own space is strangely jarring.Until now, it had never crossed my mind to imagine him existing anywhere other than the work-bucket-list bubble I’d placed him in. Schrödinger’s flat, if you will.
‘Because,’ I begin, choosing my words delicately, ‘we’re friends. I’d never act like that sober, I promise. I’m not about to start throwing myself all over you at every opportunity.’
A strange expression crosses his face but it’s gone before I can decode it, and then he says, ‘Okay. Let’s just forget about it. But before we do, I just wanted you to know that it wasn’t like I didn’t— it’s not that I don’t think you’re—’ he pauses and a cleft forms between his brows as he tries and fails to come up with an ending to his sentence.
I didn’t know he was capable of being this awkward and I can’t help but laugh. ‘Finn, I was drunk. So were you. Nothing happened. I do things like that when I’m drunk. And worse. It’s really not a big deal.’
Because imagine we’d kissed. Imagine we’d done more than kiss. And then imagine still seeing him every day at work. Messy, problematic, difficult.
‘Right. I know that. But I want to tell you something. You know I mentioned I’d got a job interview? The one my mum kept trying to call me about? It’s for the job in San Francisco.’
My heart seems to skip a beat, but my brain convinces my mouth to say, ‘That’s amazing. Are you excited?’
At my enthusiasm, his cautious expression is overtaken by the easy smile I’m familiar with. He tells me about how much he wants this job; the company, the role itself, the fact he’s only ever been to San Francisco once on a short trip and really liked it but didn’t have the chance to explore properly.
Suddenly I’m even more glad he had the sense to pull away last night. I’d almost forgotten he’s intending to leave in a few months.And I could’ve ruined this tenuous friendship we have, all because he flirts with everyone and I was feeling weird and drunk and hormonal.
He finishes talking about everything he wants to do in San Francisco and sips his coffee patiently for a few moments before adding, ‘I really like being your friend.’
The comfort of his honesty curls around me, much softer than I expect it to be. And maybe having a screen between us makes me bolder, because I admit, ‘I like being your friend too.’
I don’t think this thing has been fake since the day we decided to form our strange alliance, however much I’ve pretended it was. But the air feels heavy, like there’s too much static lining the airwaves between us, left over from last night’s storm.
I’m grateful when he breaks into a chuckle and says, ‘Was that another compliment? I need to start stacking them up. They’ll be worth something some day.’
‘You deserve it after last night. Hanging out with drunk me is probably the worst thing ever.’
A smile tugs at his mouth when he speaks again, setting his coffee down. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, it’s just as bad when you’re sober. Like when you’re the world’s grumpiest barista at seven-thirty in the morning.’
‘Kick a woman while she’s down, why don’t you?’
‘And obscenely pessimistic in mundane situations that don’t affect you whatsoever.’
‘Been holding that in for a while?’ I ask, eyes wide, and his phone shakes in his hand as he erupts into laughter. As the sound spills through my speaker, it unlocks something inside me and I can’t help but join in. By the time we stop, he takes his glasses off to rub his eyes, and they’re still creased at the sides when he looks at me.
