Page 83 of The F*ck-It List

When we head back to the café, my jaw nearly hits the floor. It’s really busy, every table full and many standing too. August’s parents are here and the worried look they give me when I settle behind the counter makes my cheeks heat with embarrassment. In fact, the more I look around, the more eyes I see on me. Even the tourists who weren’t here earlier are staring, obviously feeling the drama.

It’s a struggle to ignore the probing stares, but I plaster a smile on my face and go about serving the next customer waiting at the counter. Connor is busy making sandwiches to order, but I feel each time he glances nervously my way. When he passes two wrapped packages to his customer, he comes over to me at the coffee machine.

“Hey, um, you should know—”

“Connor,” I say patiently. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Iknow, it’s just, Uncle August is a good guy and it’s not what it probably looked—”

“Connor.” I place my hands on his cheeks and make sure he’s looking at me. “I appreciate what you’re doing, but I’d really like you to keep working.”

He nods and goes back to his station. I keep working, building up a sweat and serving customers at a speed high enough to keep my mind off the unexpected customer this morning. That is until August’s shadow darkens the doorway, the bell chiming loudly. Once again, the chatter dies, partly because the locals are curious about what will happen next and partly because the tourists are ogling at the giant who just stormed the castle.

August’s honeyed gaze stays fixed on me, wide and worried, chest moving rapidly under the stretch of his plain white t-shirt. His hair is more wild than usual, like maybe he’s been tugging on it, and colour sits high on his cheeks showing his fluster. He clears his throat nervously, the sound ringing loudly through the unnaturally quiet space. Heads swing back and forth between the two of us and my own anxiety bubbles and fizzes under my skin.

With long, considered strides, he comes over to the counter, placing his palms on the surface to lean over. He’s close enough for me to smell his cologne and the woodsy scent of pine, and I can see the spiderweb of red capillaries in the whites of his eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, voice rough but loud in the room. He tries speaking quieter next, but we have effectively taken the stage in this little café production, and everyone has leaned closer to catch every word exchanged. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, but you have to, okay? You said you don’t like miscommunication, so we’re notdoing that. You’re going to listen to my explanation, and we’re going to talk about it like adults because what we have is too important, too—”

“Okay,” I interrupt him calmly and casually with a shrug. His voice had been getting louder and more frantic with every point he was making.

“Okay?” he asks with a jerk, clearly expecting more of a fight.

“Yeah, you’re right, miscommunication sucks arsehole, so we should talk.”

He blinks at me. “Okay, um, can we go somewhere?”

“No,” I say cheerily. “It’s busy, I’m needed here.”

His eyes flick around, taking stock of the audience. “Okay, can we meet later?”

“Nah, I’m probably going to be really tired later, just say what you want to say now.” I’m being purposefully difficult, enjoying his squirming discomfort a little too much. It’s true, I’m more than happy to hear him out, I want answers more than anything and I wasn’t lying when I told Cas something didn’t feel right. That doesn’t mean I’m not feeling blindsided and want to make him suffer just a little.

“Uh,” he stutters, looking around. Anyone who had been polite enough to pretend they weren’t listening has given up the façade and everyone now openly gawks. “Here?”

“Yep,” I enunciate, polishing up the counter with the cloth I had tucked into the pocket of my apron.

Seeming to catch on to the fact I want him to suffer, he hangs his head in defeat. With a deep inhale he stands to his full height and nods, muttering, “Okay.”

He takes a step back from the counter and my heart drops to the floor thinking he’s going to step out completely, but he doesn’t. With one more nervous glance around the room—in which he sees Eli and Joanie sat at a table glaring at him like disappointed parents and he responds by rolling his eyes at them—he takes a deep breath and speaks a little louder this time, like he’s letting the whole village hear.

“Meghan was my girlfriend from when we were sixteen until about two, or probably more like three years ago. It was off and on—”

“And off and on and off and on,” Joanie mumbles from her table, earning herself a silent stare that definitely tells her to shut up from August.

“It was—” He shakes his head, looking up to the ceiling like he’ll find the right words hiding amongst the light fittings. “Immature, even when it had been going on for years. We were never right for each other.”

“But you proposed?” I ask, more curious than bitter. “Why?”

He flings his arms out to the side before dropping them with an audible slap against the denim of his jeans. “Because, Bea,” he says frustrated, although I’m taking it as frustration at himself or the situation more than me. “Because I’m comfortable with what I know and Meghan was what I knew. Because I love my family and loud Sunday dinners and having people around who I love and who love me and I wanted to expand on that. Because I watch videos of people proposing at Taylor Swift concerts and get emotional!”

“Cries like a baby,” Connor says behind me, and August gives him a flat glare.

Bringing his eyes back to me, softer and pleading now, August sighs. “I proposed because it just felt like the next thing I shoulddo, and she said yes because she liked the idea of being the centre of attention for a while.”

Joanie snorts but tries to hide it by taking a sip of coffee.

“Meghan wanted to move out of Port Doone, which she’d been talking about since she was a kid and I ignored it because I didn’t want to go anywhere. When she got offered a job in London, she was really excited to go, and we argued…a lot. In the end, she said she’d go for a year, get the experience she wanted and then come back. We did long distance; I never went to visit her because I’m kind of an arsehole and I was angry she’d left. We called and texted until it started dying out and then two years ago, she stopped all communication and blocked me from calling, messaging, and on social media. She didn’t come back, she didn’t return the ring, she stopped the monthly payments for the car loan we took out in my name for her.”