Page 3 of Hate You to Love You

Dave waves to a woman in a striking red dress. She makes her way to us, leaning over to give Dave a kiss. Their lips part and they press their foreheads together, their eyes interlocked intensely.

‘I missed you,’ Giselle says with a giggle.

‘I missed you more,’ Dave says back, breathing heavily.

And then there’s me. On the other side of the table. Glaring at them both.

‘I’m off,’ I interject.

Giselle turns towards me, practically pouting. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, how rude of me. I’m Giselle. You must be Carlos.’

‘Oh, we don’t have to do this,’ I reply.

Giselle moves to my side of the table, grabs both my hands and brings them up to her chest. ‘Please, don’t go,’ she says. ‘Can you feel that? That’s the beat of my heart. The beat of the connection that has brought the three of us together in this very room.’

‘Mmhmm.’ Dave nods in agreement. ‘I told you he’d be perfect, didn’t I?’

I extract myself from Giselle’s hands, frowning at her attempt to look deeply into my eyes, as if she’s trying to hypnotise me. ‘Perfect for what?’ I ask.

‘A perfect candidate to be the third person in our relationship,’ Dave continues.

Giselle grabs my hand again, then reaches out to Dave with her other arm. ‘This,’ she says with a sigh of pleasure, ‘this is the connection we’ve been searching for.’

My eyes widen. I drop Giselle’s hand again, desperately wishing there was a nearby window or door I could throw myself out of. Instead, I take another step back and crash into someone behind me; a waiter cries out as glasses clank against a metal tray and smash to the ground.

Embarrassed, I consider making a mad dash out of the bar. But it’s too late. The alcohol hits me and the room tilts again. In fact, it begins to spin. And I proceed to hurl pink vomit all over the table, most of it landing on Dave’s pants and shoes.

Giselle lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

A dizzy spell hits me but I’m still coherent enough to draw my attention back to Dave and Giselle, who are looking at me in disgust and frustration. Giselle cries out again as she runs towards the bathroom, Dave following closely behind her. I settle back down in my seat and bury my head in my hands. A disappointed sigh escapes me, just in time for me to hear someone clearing their throat. I look up as the waiter slides the bill to my side of the table. They make a careful attempt to avoid the vomit.

After paying the bill, I head for the exit and struggle through the ridiculously heavy speakeasy door. That’s it. No more dates. No more romance. And definitely no more ridiculous hidden bars.

In the Uber home, I can’t make up my mind about what’s more embarrassing: accidentally landing yourself in a throuple, or vomiting all over your Bumble date?

chapter two

‘So, if you had to pick one guy, would it be the guy from the surprise throuple, the guy who turned out to be a criminal on the run, or the guy who left you crying at the bar?’ Addie asks from across the meeting room table. Last night’s abysmal date is now a cosmopolitan-flavoured memory.

‘Shhh!’ I hiss, as the last two of this morning’s meeting attendees leave the room.

‘What’s the big deal?’ Addie asks, opening a packet of peanut M&M’s.

I frown. ‘I’d rather not have our colleagues hear about my dating life.’

Addie places a handful of M&M’s in her mouth, then takes one out of the packet and throws it in my direction. ‘Oh honey, please. What are coworkers for if not trauma dumping? I’m basically your therapist.’

Time always seems to be suspended at Sparked, a digital media company that covers everything from news and entertainment to quizzes that tell you what kind of pasta you are, with each day finding a weird balance between chaotically fast-paced and horrendously slow. It doesn’t help that it’s February and still unbearably hot. The meeting that has just ended was our usual pitch-day workshop, which seemed to be no issue for any of the other writers. While I struggled to fake some enthusiasm, Addie had been buzzing with ideas, pitching an article about the rise of staying off social media as a luxury status symbol with an accompanying feature on how to actively live an analogue lifestyle. ‘Inspired’ is what our managing editor had called it.

‘Well, I can safely say that I will be deleting all my dating apps,’ I tell Addie as we make our way back to our desks.

‘What! Why?’ she exclaims too loudly, twirling the locks of her chestnut coloured hair in one hand.

‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe because all my dates end in humiliation or with me getting ghosted?’ I try to smile at my own joke, but it’s like the ache of my heart takes over, and it falls flat. It’s getting harder and harder to laugh off the state of my love life. Sure, entertaining Addie with tales of my terrible dates is fun, but what are all these disappointing nights telling me about myself? That I’m unlovable?

‘Did I ever tell you about my friends Peter and Peter?’ Addie asks as she takes a seat and spins around in her chair.

‘Who?’