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And that was when I started hating people. Hating conversation. Hating life in general. I stopped wanting to sit in the staffroom and listen to Andrea go on about her grandkids and how well they were doing with their swimming lessons, and I stopped wanting to attend staff parties where Hank would inevitably show everyone photos of his kids on their first day of school.

That’s why I walk around with a scowl on my face and the aura that says don’t even think about talking to me, because some days I genuinely can’t bear listening to how perfect everyone else’s lives seem when mine is a complete car crash.

And even though it’s been three years, I’m still not back on the path, and I don’t think I ever will be. I roam an uncharted territory now, one that’s off the beaten track, where I won’t meet anyone.

It’s easier to ignore people and not talk to them at all, which suits most of my work colleagues. That is, everyone except Alice.

It took the rest of the staff a matter of days to realise I wasn’t a talker.

Alice is different. I know where I am with her.

Leaving the staffroom, I’m met with a swarm of people.

I manage to not turn up my nose as I stay focused on the safety of my small office. Nothing compares to closing the door on the madness of the shop floor littered with families, couples, pushchairs, and toddlers. I shudder to think of all the sticky fingers on the highly polished gloss cabinets that Ralph spent hours buffing this morning with microfibre cloths.

My body relaxes as I sink into my chair. I fire up my computer screen and place my tea on the coaster. I’m relieved to be alone again, where I can think clearly about Alice, what she’s doing right now, and what she might be wearing.

6

Alice

On the train home, my head is still full of Sydney, scones, and wedding talk. The carriage is packed with weekend shoppers, bags at their feet and exhaustion on their faces. Normally, I love people-watching, analysing the strange array of characters who walk this earth and wondering where they’re going, who they’re going home to, and what kind of day they’ve had.

Not even the pull of the eclectic strangers can distract me from the drama in my head, though.

What the hell am I going to do about the wedding?

Sydney had been so excited when I told her that Owen would be my plus-one.

Owen.

Why the hell did I say his name?

Why didn’t I invent some completely fictional man? Why didn’t I tell her he was legally changing his name by deed poll because his parents had called him Basil and he couldn’t live with the shame anymore? Or that he had amnesia and we were slowly piecing together his identity from the clues on him after he was found wandering the streets barefoot?

Or why didn’t I just tell her the truth?

That I’m single. Still single. Perpetually single. Possibly cursed to be single for the rest of my life.

And there’s my answer right there.

I’m sick of being alone.

I’m tired of doing things by myself.

I’m fed up with constantly searching for the right man, the one I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with, only to finally realise he probably doesn’t exist.

It was fun in my twenties. The world was my oyster then, and I enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of a first date, and the buzz of meeting someone new.

And honestly? I was rarely devastated when things didn’t work out because it just meant I could do the whole shebang again—the eye contact, the possibility hidden inside a smile, the delicious idea that any random man out there could be him.

But when I hit thirty, something cracked inside me. The excitement and drama were replaced with worry and doubt.

What if he’s out there and our paths never cross? What if he’s already met someone else and thinks he’s in love with them when really he was destined for me?

Or worse—and this is what really frightens me—what if he isn’t out there at all?

And that’s what it comes down to.