Page 122 of The Wedding Forecast

‘Yes! I’m good. And Bobbi, I’ve thought about it, and I would love to accept the job.’

Bobbi whoops with delight, her earrings jangling and getting tangled in her hair. She starts talking about the new shop, the fitout, the grand opening, all the fun we’ll have, and I am swept into her good mood. Because there is so much to look forward to, to love, to work on, that has absolutely nothing to do with Mac.

‘I’m getting us large triple-shot coffees and pastries to celebrate,’ she says, sweeping out of the shop. ‘And then I’m going home to sign the papers for the new lease.’

I tell myself it’s going to be a good day.

One of my first customers asks me if I am okay. She doesn’t say why she’s asking, and I assume it’s because of my puffy eyes, but, who knows, there might be all kinds of things wrong with me that are visible to the naked eye. A man walks in right after that and asks if we sell shoes. When I tell him no, we’re a bookshop, he very angrily points out we have socks for sale, and so I concede he has a point, but that, alas, we do not have any shoes. He leaves, and then a woman comes in to ask if I know where she can buy large envelopes and when I suggest the post office, she rolls her eyes and snaps, ‘I’m not going back there again.’ A toddler pees on the rug in the kids section. I find some kind of food stain on one of our expensive coffee-table books and I have no idea how it got there because I’m sure no one has come in holding food or drink. Maybe the toddler is to blame for that too. A young girl comes in asking for a book about Taylor Swift and when I have nothing suitable for her, she gives me a look of such deep disappointment that I feel like I have failed all womenkind. This is the universe testing me, I decide, trying to make me doubt my decision. Well, too bad. I am staying strong. I eat three Tim Tams in a row and feel marginally better.

I nobly refrain from looking at my phone almost all day and when I finally do, there are three messages from Mac.

The first one says: Anna, I’m sorry.

It is followed up with: I don’t know how you feel today but I just want to say that having you in my life means so much to me and I know it’s selfish and I know I shouldn’t ask this of you but please, please don’t stop talking to me, please.

And finally: PS. I’m hoping you still find pathetic to be an appealing trait in a man.

That makes me smile. But none of it changes anything. He’s asking me to keep being his—what—his friend with emotional benefits.

A part of me wants to say, fuck it, and write back: I am falling in love with you and I have been since New York, no, since we lay in the hammock together at the wedding and that’s why I can’t keep talking to you. But there’s no point to that, other than for my sliver of hope that he’ll say it back to me. And what if he did? It doesn’t change anything about our situation. This isn’t the time for mushy declarations. This isn’t the time for surrendering to feelings. I am never surrendering to feelings again. This is the time for numbness, coldness, and ending things on my terms.

I write back.

I’m so sorry, but I really think it’s better for me if we don’t talk anymore. I almost add ‘for now’ or ‘for a month’ or even, in a moment of true weakness, ‘this week’ but I clench my fists to stop myself. No time limits. Just a clean break. I almost add ‘pathetic is still my type’ but no, no jokes either. No emojis. Nothing cute. Be formal, be cold, be polite.

I send the message and then I drag myself home. Hayley is standing in the kitchen, baking, when I walk in. We look at one another, the awkwardness of last night’s fight hanging in the air.

‘Listen, Hayls—’ I start.

‘I’m making you forgiveness muffins,’ she says.

‘Muffins so good that I will beg for your forgiveness?’ I ask.

‘No, muffins so good you’ll forgive me,’ she says. ‘I guess I should call them apology muffins. Look, two different kinds of chocolate chips.’

‘I forgive you,’ I say, taking a chocolate chip out of the packet and eating it.

‘You haven’t had the muffins yet.’

‘I don’t need to.’

‘Anna,’ she says, and walks over and hugs me. ‘I hate fighting with you. I didn’t mean it.’

‘No, you were right,’ I say. ‘You were right about everything. I was waiting for something that is never going to happen. I needed to hear it. I told Mac last night that if we can’t be properly together, then I can’t talk to him anymore. That’s it. We’re over.’

‘Oh my god,’ she says, hugging me harder. ‘I feel awful. I caused this.’

‘No you didn’t. He caused it. Or I caused it. Or life caused it. We are two people destined not to be together.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to be like I was with Joel. I’m not going to have a breakdown and mope everywhere.’

‘This is a pro-breakdown house. You can breakdown. Look I’ve put the good blanket out, we’re totally set up for it.’

We have a blanket hierarchy in the house, and the cream sherpa fleece throw rug is our joint favourite.

She puts the muffins in the oven, and cuddles next to me on the couch, the good blanket over both of us.