Love Hurts

I awake from another restless sleep. My eyes open to the ceiling, and that familiar, dull sinking returns—an ache in my chest. Then his face. Always his face.

What if he were here? Fingers in my hair, smiling, leaning in—warm lips, a soft good morning. But he isn’t. He’s waking up somewhere else, smiling for someone else.

I stifle a sob as I pour water into the kettle. My eyes land on pictures of him smiling, still tacked to the fridge. Why did it have to be this way?

I know I shouldn’t, but as I think about the day ahead, I start plotting. I sip my coffee.

Is there any way I could – bump into him? I know that sometimes he works from the office on Wednesdays. That would be too obvious though. Perhaps he’ll have a business lunch at L’Etoile, he does that sometimes. It’s far enough from work for him not to suspect. A little walk-by say around 2pm? It can’t hurt – it certainly can’t hurt like he has hurt me.

The hurt builds. I am resolved.

I glance up at the clock. Three hours. Enough time to get ready. Logically, I know this is wrong. But logic evaporates. I know he loves me. I know he wants to change his mind. If he could just see me—just—

—

“Patrick—”

A hundred engines. Impatient horns. I hope he hears me. “—I’m running late. I’ll be there at 1:50. Don’t go anywhere. Order lunch, it’s on us. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

I hang up, stuffing my phone into my jacket. Sure, in an ideal world, I wouldn’t be late. But I know I can hook him. Confidence surges through me. Damn, I’m good. Nearly there now. The surge builds—until—

Fuck.

It’s her. Again.

The one obstacle between me and a £30,000 deal is the one I have absolutely no idea how to handle. Police? This is stalking, right?

She looks manic. A nice dress, sure. But she’s twitching, on the edge of something breaking. How did one coffee date six months ago lead to this?

Patrick Williams is probably sitting at the table, fingering his cutlery, staring at the empty seat opposite, growing agitated.

She’s coming closer. I have to make a decision. Engage or run?

“Hey,” I say, forcing my voice to be steady. “You can’t keep doing this.”

Her eyes flicker. “I just… I just need to talk to you.”

“We talked. Once.”

She flinches. “But we were—”

“No. We weren’t.”

Her face crumbles. For a second, I almost feel sorry for her. Then I remember the late-night messages, the way she always seems to appear in my space, the nagging worry that one day this will escalate.

I step back, pulling out my phone. “You need to leave. Or I’ll call the police.”

Her breathing is ragged, her hands clenched. Then, without another word, she turns and walks away.

I exhale. Relief.

Patrick is waiting.

Fuck.

I am definitely deleting Tinder.