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I told Lloyd I can’t afford distractions, and I meant it. But maybe I don’t have to sacrifice having a lifecompletely.
Just one that involves covert dates, and stolen kisses, and him.
NEW EMAIL DRAFT
Dear Lloyd,
When we met, you asked me to tell you something true. I told you I didn’t believe in love.
I meant it then, but I think it’s become a lie, now.
Here’s something true: you’ve made me believe in love. It’s a cruel joke, considering I can’t accept it. A horrible twist of fate. I must have scorned someone in another life, I think.
This isn’t what the movies promised. Summer romances are supposed to be a montage of fun dates and carefree afternoons and whispering secrets in the dark. We did that last part, but instead of carefree afternoons we’ve tiptoed around each other, and instead of fun dates you’ve just sent me feedback I didn’t ask for on my research reports.
I wasn’t wrong, when I told you I think love is overrated. It is. Nobody tells you it’s supposed to hurt this much. And it doesn’t automatically make everything fall into place, either. Relationships are something you have to put work into, like I said that first night. I can’t give you that kind of effort and attention this summer, and I don’t think you’d know how to.
I wish things were different. That you weren’t you, maybe.
But then, I don’t think I’d love you if you weren’t you.
So instead all I’ll say is: I’m sorry, that I’m me, and that this is how it has to be.
Sincerely Yours,
Anna Sherwood
In an attempt to distance myself from how things imploded with Lloyd, I use some of my precious few days of leave to take a long weekend, visiting my family at Gina’s parents’ place in Devon. As cathartic as it is, the weekend is over too quickly in a blur of good food, card games, long walks and baking.
I feel an unfamiliar twinge of regret when I’m back in London and setting my alarm for the morning, but it’s not because I’m worried about running into Lloyd – it’s because I realizehow muchI needed that time with my family, away from any and all thoughts of work. It’s unnerving to see how quickly I’ve let Arrowmile consume my life, and I think: is this really what I’ve spent my whole life waiting for, barrelling towards head-first? Is this really what I want the rest of my life to be like?
I do, at least, get a small reprieve when Tasha isabsent from our usual little commuting group the next morning. Monty and Dylan ask about my weekend with my family, in peals of laughter when I tell them how I helped Gina’s mum bake a cake for her book club. They’re readingTwilight, and she insisted that she couldn’t make the very-predictable red velvet cake …
‘Because, she said, and I quote,there’s a vanilla man if ever I saw one.’
I don’t think they fully believe me until they see the photos on my phone of our sparkly, broody Edward Cullen portrait painted in icing onto a vanilla sponge.
Dylan’s laughing so hard he’s nursing a stitch in his side. ‘I can’t believe your gran’s readingTwilight. Has she watched the films?’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t ask. I haven’t seen them. I haven’t read the books either – although I don’t really feel I need to, now. She practically gave me a TED talk on it.’
‘They’re iconic,’ Dylan declares. ‘The films, at least. I mean, that baseball scene? Amazing. Chef’s kiss.’
I laugh, and put away my phone. Glitter on the back of my hand shimmers in the glare of the lights on the Tube. I don’t know what that stuff was made of, but it’s as stubborn as all hell, and has been stuck there for two days straight now.
Next to me, Monty gives a soft, thoughtful huff.I look up to see him frowning at some far-off point on the train. He’s holding onto the overhead rail for balance, arm stretched up in such a way it pulls his shirt up slightly, baring a sliver of toned, pale skin.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘What, grannies going gaga over vampires?’ Dylan asks. ‘Theyarea similar age. I think Edward’s, like, ninety, technically.’
Monty rolls his eyes. ‘No, like, the romance stuff. The books and rom-coms and that. All the soppy stuff with flowers and chocolates and big gestures. I don’t get the appeal. It’s not like it’s anything like real life, is it? Nobodyactslike that. And I bet if you had someone do all that stuff, you’d get sick of it soon enough.’
‘Wo-o-o-ow,’ says Dylan, pulling a face. He’s on the verge of laughing again. ‘Who broke your heart to make you such a cynic?’
‘I just mean, it’s not a realistic standard. Relationships are about compatibility and cooperation. Not a big dance number or standing outside someone’s window with a boom box.’
Dylan snorts. ‘Oh, man, I’d pay good money to seeyoudo a big dance number to win some girl over. Maybe that’s why you’re single, mate, because you haven’t done that yet!’ He nudges me to laugh along with the joke and join him in the teasing, but …
