And then her phone rings. Loud. Jarring.
We both flinch, snapping back into our seats. The poor Uber driver clears his throat up front, reminding me he’s been an unwilling witness to the world’s most awkward almost-kiss.
Matilda fumbles for her phone, cheeks flushed, and all I can do is stare straight ahead, heart pounding, wondering how the hell this woman keeps undoing me with just a look.
Seventeen
Matilda
“Matty.”
My sister’s voice crackles through the speaker as I pace the living room, clutching my phone like it’s a lifeline.
“Rachel, I’m in trouble.” My voice wobbles, and I immediately hear the frantic jingling of keys on her end.
“What? What happened—?”
“No! I mean— I’m okay. I mean myheartis in trouble.”
There’s a pause. “What, like I need to call an ambulance, or you need a tub of ice cream and a Matthew McConaughey marathon?”
“Like a tub of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a Hugh Grant marathon,” I say, collapsing onto the sofa.
Rachel sighs. “Okay, I’m coming. Give me twenty minutes.”
“I have work in the morning, I should really—”
“Sod that,” she cuts in. “Tell your dickhead boss we’ve got boy troubles to discuss, and I’ve got a fabulous bottle of Sauvignon waiting to solve them.”
Despite the chaos swirling in my chest, I can’t help but smile. My sister’s no-bullshit tone has always been one of my favourite things about her. That, and the fact that she’s a hurricane of loyalty — though it’s also why she hasn’t kept a steady job for three years.
“He’s not a dickhead,” I mutter.
“Sorry, what was that?” Her voice sharpens. “If Voldemort and Darth Vader had a love child, it would be Henry bloody Chase.”
A laugh bursts out of me — partly because she’s ridiculous, partly because she’s not entirely wrong — but the sound still dies somewhere inside me.
“Well, Darth Vader did turn good in the end. Kind of. Anyway, you’ve never even seenStar Wars,how do you know who’s bad?”
“I don’t live under a rock,” she huffs. “Anyway! Who’s this man who’s breaking my sister’s heart? It better not be that twat from Tinder again. I swear to God, if you end up onCatfish—”
“Rachel!”
Her car door slams, and I know there’s no point trying to talk her out of it. “I’ll tell you everything when you get here,” I say, giving in.
Fifteen minutes later, her keys jingle in the lock and she bursts through the door like a storm — wine in one hand, ice cream in the other. She’s the physical embodiment of a romcom best friend, and I love her for it.
“Big or little spoon?” she asks, already heading for the kitchen.
“Big!” I call, pulling my fluffiest pyjamas tighter around me.
She joins me on the sofa, handing me a glass of wine before tucking her legs beneath her. “Talk.”
I take a deep breath, a big gulp of Sauvignon, and begin. “Do you remember that work dinner I had last Friday?”
“Yes. The one where you bailed on speed dating because of the devil’s offspring.”
I roll my eyes. “Right, well… something happened, and now my brain’s a mess.”
