Fuck, she’s nice too.Bitch.
“Hi,” I say as my palm gets squeezed into a warm grip.
“Great to finally meet you after hearing so much from Hannah and Aisha,” she says and she does seem to mean it but still it’s no surprise when Hannah pulls away from my sister to interrupt.
“Before you curl your upper lip at me, it was all good,” my ex says to me and I know it would be in my interest to believe her, but I don’t.
“Hi Hannah,” I say instead and I’m overwhelmed with relief when she doesn’t step closer and try to hug me too. The only downside of that is that I have to keep looking at her, and fuck, why does she have to look so good too? A semi-professional football player, Hannah has the kind of lean, sculpted body that still looks feminine in clothes like what she’s wearing now – a navy shift dress – but you still get hints of the muscles in her biceps and pronounced calves. Her brown hair is pulled back like it always is, but rather than her usual messy bun, she has a long, sophisticated ponytail. My stomach flips when I think about how this must be Sally’s influence and how maybe they spent the evening straightening each other’s hair.
But the thing is, I’m not jealous. I’m not standing here thinking I want to style Hannah’s hair or play dress up withher. I’m not jealous of the way their hands now find each other. I’m not missing Hannah.
I’m missing something else. Something much scarier and more daunting.
That closeness. That intimacy. That special bond with someone who cares enough to help you get ready for a night out.
Fuck this shit. What’s wrong with me? Am I due on my period or something?
A second later more noise and more people enter the room as Nick and my parents march in carrying several Tupperware boxes of food.
“Party’s here!” Nick calls out, as upbeat as ever. My sister beams upon seeing him, and she rushes up to take the top box from the pile he’s carrying, giving him a lingering kiss on the lips as she does. When I see them both mouth the words ‘I love you’ to each other, I turn and look away.
No, this is not me missing Hannah or feeling jealous of Sally.
This is me just missing having someone. This is me feeling jealous that my sister has found her person. This is me missing having somebody who cares enough that they sit behind me and comb my hair into a beautiful high ponytail. This is me missing somebody who wants to interlock their fingers with mine because their hand was missing my touch after just a few minutes apart. This is me missing having somebody to mouth ‘I love you’ to. This is me missing having somebody who comes to my sister’s engagement party because they want to be with me, not because we made a silly deal at work.
And I hate it. It makes me feel weak. That wanting somebody feels so strong it almost feels like a need. But I know it isn’t. I don’tneedanybody. I never have and I never will. The messy break-up with Hannah only proved this to me. I take care of myself. I don’t need anyone but me. And the wanting someone will pass. Likely, once my period comes next week…
Lost in my thoughts, I somehow end up being the only one standing back from the table as everyone else starts laying out trays of food and taking foil off serving trays. I am about to walk up and help them all but then my mother approaches me.
“Mina, this colour on you,” she looks me up and down, a smile growing on her face, “I love it.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Mum presses a warm kiss to my cheek. “You look sad,” she says as she leans in, then whispers, “Is it Hannah?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. It’s really not. But I’m also not about to tell her why I’m feeling momentarily sad, because I know this pang is very, very momentary. At least, I’m determined to make it so.
“Aisha says you have a date. Amandate.”
“Jesus.” I roll my eyes and look away. “It’s a colleague from work, a friend.”
“But it is a man?” my mother asks and actually, she doesn’t seem excited, more curious.
“Yes, he identifies as a man,” I admit.
Mum’s arched eyebrow and sceptical look is scarily reminiscent of my own.
“And how is work?” She changes the subject and softens her expression.
“Good. Busy. We have a pitch on Monday. I’m hoping to get the project lead for the campaign if it comes in.”
Mum nods. “As you should. You work very hard, too hard,” she says knowingly.
“You have no idea how hard I work,” I tell her dismissively.
“I knowyou,” she reminds me and I feel a warm rush of love for her. I should call her more often. I should be a better daughter.
“Still happy in your new place?” Mum asks.
