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“Well, that’s just cheating!” I laugh.
The crowd gets into it, and soon, everyone’s taking a turn belting out their best numbers. Another couple of drinks, and I’m singing right along with them, dancing up a storm with Hazel in the middle of the room—
—when, as the crowd parts, I see Fraser loitering by the bar. He’s still dressed in one of his stick-up-the-ass suits, and his only nod to Friday night is that he’s removed his tie, wearing his white button-down open at the throat. It’s like he’s at a fancy cocktail bar somewhere, not a scruffy pub with ale on tap.
When did he get here? And please, let it beafterI took to the stage for “Goodbye Earl”.
Our eyes lock, and dammit, I remember the brush of his hand against my cheek this morning, and the way his gaze seemed to darken with heat.
Then the music changes to an upbeat pop hit. “Call Me Maybe”.
Fuck.
Memories hit me in a rush, and I can tell from the way Fraser’s expression changes that he remembers it, too.
Our song.
The first time we had sex, this was playing. He’d made a romantic, soulful, perfect playlist for that evening, and then out of nowhere this track popped up, right when we were naked and lustful and ready to go. He was mortified, and wanted to get up to go change it, but I refused to let him move an inch. It was too hilarious, and exactly right all at once, and so he lay back down beside me, and proceeded to kiss every inch of me to the dulcet tones of Carly Rae Jepson.
I came laughing.
I stay frozen there in the middle of the dance floor, my eyes locked on Fraser. Everyone around us is still hollering and laughing along, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and bittersweet nostalgia, and the ache of all the years I spent changing the radio station every time this track came on.
Here, now, it’s too much.
I flee. Pushing my way through the rowdy crowd, desperate for air. I just need to get away, so I manage to hurtle down a hallway and out the back door. I stumble outside, gulping the fresh breeze into my lungs as my heart races.
Why does he still have this effect on me?
I got over the man! Sure, I wept and raged and consumed my body weight in ice cream and flaming hot chips, but then I picked myself up and moved on. Time passed, and I threw myself into new adventures, doing my best to drown out the memories. And it worked. Eventually, the heartbreak turned to a dull ache, and then just an echo of the pain. Fraser became a cautionary tale about young love, a witty anecdote to toss off in bad breakup contests (‘You think yours was bad? Let me tell you…’); the kind of memory that only bubbles to life when a certain song comes on the radio, or you see a flash of London on the TV screen, or a Scottish guy tries hitting on you in the bar, not knowing he’s already all out of luck.
In other words, I haven’t spent the past ten years pining over him. Quite the opposite. I’ve lived, I’ve—well, if not loved, then certainly had my share of passionate exploits.
So why can’t I just shrug off this unexpected reunion, chalk it up to bad timing or karma, and move right along with my (amazing) life?
Don’t let him get to you.
I take another few breaths, steadying myself. I’m in a rundown back patio area, with a few broken tables and boxes shoved up against the ivy-covered wall, so I pace back and forth, trying to pull it together.
The door opens behind me.
It’s him. I already know it’s him. And sure enough, when I turn, Fraser is standing there in the doorway, raking one hand through his hair. “Jolene…”
“Leave me alone,” I snap.
He takes a couple of steps closer, instead.
“I mean it, why are you even here at all tonight?” I demand, my emotions still storming in my chest. “You said you weren’t coming.”
“I changed my mind,” Fraser answers evenly.
“Yeah, well you do that a lot, don’t you?” I shoot back bitterly.
“Jolene,” he starts again, low and soft andScottish, and dammit, something twists in my chest.
“It’s JJ!” I explode. “My fucking name is JJ, so would you please stop saying it like that?”
“Like what?” Fraser looks confused.
