“Like . . . when did feelings get so . . . so complicated? When I was a kid, I wanted to play rugby, so I played rugby. I wanted to move to England, so I moved to England. I wanted to get a PS Five, so I bought a PS Five. When did the things I want become so . . . riddlesome?”
“Riddlesome?”
“That’s a word. When did all get so . . . difficult?”
“I believe the actual word—words—you’re looking for are ‘growing up.’”
“I’m sorry,” I say for the millionth time, like it’ll make an iota of difference to either of us.
“Aiden Campbell,” she says in her serious tone again. “I’ve done my crying over you. Months of it, actually. We should have ended this last April, but . . .” She kicks my foot once more. “Idunno, I like you. You’re goofy and fun to be around, and you buy me stuff from Charlotte Tilbury, but I think we’d both be happier if we weren’t lying to ourselves any longer.”
Her statement is so on point, so succinctly made, that I have nothing to say in reply.
Georgia inhales deeply and pushes herself to her feet. “I won’t be long. Megan’s gonna pick me up in about an hour, and then we’ll be gone. I’m going travelling next month. Alone. Czechia, Poland, then Estonia and Finland if I don’t run out of money before that. I’ve already bought my Eurotunnel ticket.”
I don’t want to leave things like this, don’t want these to be our last moments together, but I definitely,definitelycan’t be here when Megan turns up. Swift action’s required. I stand and unhook Trekkie’s collar from the peg, a deliberate and undoubtedly asshole move on my part since the dog misses none of this and starts howling with excitement. He won’t quiet down until I take him outside, adding more urgency to me just getting the fuck out of here.
“I still want to be friends,” Georgia says, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. My dickhead move did not escape her notice, then.
I nod. She hugs me. I hug her in return, breathe in that familiar powdery smell of her perfume, feel her breaths rising and falling against my chest for the last time.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling away from her.
“Bro, shut the fuck up.”
A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. “Take as long as you need. I’ll stay the night at . . .” I leave my sentence hanging open.
We both know whose arms I’m running into. There’s no reason for me to say his name out loud again. Especially when his girlfriend is on her way over to help my ex-girlfriend move out.
“Right, Trekkie, come upstairs with me and I’ll grab a few bits.” I’ve done things in the wrong order. Trekkie jumps up and tries to bite the lead from my hand.
“Here,” Georgia says, grabbing my dog’s special skinny-headed collar from me. Trekkie’s attention, and more upsettingly his loyalty, shift to her. Traitor. But it gives me a few precious moments to gather some spare clothes, my kit for tomorrow’s media day, and a few overnight bits like my toothbrush.
When I get downstairs Georgia’s waiting for me by the open front door. She’s already secured the dog, his bed, and his favourite penguin toy in the back seat of my Honda Civic, and is holding out his lead and a half-full bag of kibbles for me.
“Send me pictures, yeah? From Prague and Warsaw and wherever else you go,” I say, accepting Trekkie’s things from her.
“Will do.”
I walk through the front door, stop, and step into the house again. “I still love you,” I say, not entirely sure why.
“I know,” Georgia replies. She reaches up and pushes a damp curl off my forehead. “Just not as much as you love him.”
“Right.” My voice is a whisper. “See you around.”
“Maybe.” Georgia smiles softly. “When we’re finished here, we’ll lock up and post the key back through the front door.”
“Okay,” I reply. I don’t have anything else to say. I don’t even know if I should give her another hug, a goodbye kiss? Instead, I simply get into my car.
Neither of us has even a glistening of a visible tear.
Georgia stays just inside my porch. She waves as I turn off my drive onto the street, and as I reach the end of the road I spot Megan’s lime-green Jimny parked up under the trees. Through the windshield, Megan is doing a very shit job of pretending to be birdwatching and not waiting for me to get the hell out of there.
“Is that all that’s left of my pizza?” I say walking into Eggo’s kitchen and already regretting my decision not to eat before I’d gone home. Two measly slices of anaemic margherita, and impossibly, one burnt crust wait for me on the baking tray.
“Yeah, sorry, mate. Shall I order us a curry?” Eggo says, looking up from his phone and tossing the device onto the dining table.
“I’d fucking love a curry.”
