Happy Hour (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter 17

So my suspicions were correct.

My anonymous follower was Chris.

I'm still caught off-guard though. I look at the photo again. Although his face is mostly in profile there's no doubting it's him. And as I've never had any photos of him in my possession, I'm struck again by just how good looking he actually is. Especially smiling.

Thankfully, the conundrum of who the toddler belongs to is cleared up pretty quickly too as the caption reads "She loves her Uncle Chris." So that would be Kirsty's kid then, I surmise, taken aback by how relieved I feel.

It obviously doesn't mean he's single, and doesn't mean he doesn't have a toddler or two of his own stashed away somewhere, I try to remind myself. But I can't help but feel a warmth rushing through my body as I remind myself that this confirms my suspicion that he'd went out of his way to find me on Instagram.

It's weird, but I find myself not telling Paige about this the next day. It's almost like if I tell someone, it'll somehow not be true?

I can't really explain it.

Instead, I throw myself into the task in hand, travelling around Skye and getting some dramatic shots of both the amazingly beautiful scenery, and Paige posing in front of them. The magical Fairy Glen, the stunning coral beach, the ruin of Dunscaith Castle, the cute little fairy bridge at the edge of the Waternish Peninsula.

We drive to dramatic Neist Point and walk down (and up again and down again and up again - that was one deceptive walk) to the lighthouse there. We wander around the Quiraing, a dramatic landslip near the top of the island, and probably my favourite part of Skye. I'm particularly happy with the photos I get there.

We pack a lot into that day and a half and then on Wednesday afternoon head back towards Fort William. After taking a takeaway back to our trusty old Travelodge, Paige drifts off to sleep early again, but I stay awake and pour myself a glass of wine from the bottle I didn't finish on my first night in Skye.

As I'm browsing Insta again, a private message notification appears in the top right hand corner of my screen and I jump, spilling some of my wine, as I realise it's came from Chris' account.

I've been rumbled, haven't I?

I look at the message in confusion, send back a question mark in response.

I just noticed Kirsty had tagged me in a picture . . . And I noticed that you liked it even though you don't follow her.

Fuck. I hadn't even realised I'd hit like on the picture. I'd just been so overcome to realise it was definitely him behind the account. And relieved that the little kid wasn't his.

It was a nice photo.

I can't leave it at that though.

So why all the secrecy? Why didn't you want me to know it was you?

There's a really long pause after I send those questions. I sip at my wine, my heart thudding in my chest, and I go into his account and look at that tagged photo again.

It's about five minutes before a reply comes through.

Honestly? I'm not sure. I went looking for you on here after I saw you in the park that day. You'd rushed away so fast and I'd wanted to see how you were doing. But I didn't know if you would even want to talk to me or not so I thought it would be better to remain anonymous?

Another message appeared before I'd finished reading the first one.

I thought you might be onto me though when you requested to follow me - am I right?

I had my suspicions I reply.

I'll leave it at that, I decide. But I also can't resist because there's something so freeing about being able to hide behind a phone screen, about being able to think about how to word the things I want to say.

Why did you want to see how I was doing? What did it matter? I ask.

I tap my fingers against the bedside table. I stand up and pace the length of the room, quietly so as to not wake Paige. I wonder what sort of response I'll get; what type of answer I even want.

Because I've thought about you a lot over the past 18 years.

That I was not expecting.

18? I think your maths is off. We've known each other for 16 years, maybe 17 tops.

I knew you for longer than that.

I'm confused.

Is my maths off?

That can keep for another day. If I'm going to be brutally honest here - and, weirdly, I feel like I can be when I don't have to say it to your face - I wanted to see if I could work out if you were single or not.

Oh. I'm flummoxed.

Was that wrong of me? If it's any consolation, I couldn't work it out from your page so I failed dismally on that front.

I genuinely don't know what to say to this.

I've freaked you out, haven't I?

Not at all. I'm just surprised you cared.

Like I said, I've thought about you a lot.

Another message follows that.

Fuck it, I like you a lot. Really like you.

I drop my phone in shock. I mean, from what he had said the other night, I'd assumed he'd liked me at some point around about the kiss that barely happened, but it's not like I thought he had been thinking about me all these years, that he actually fancied me now.

But you always acted like you hated me, I type back. You always acted like it was a pain I was around. We never even actually had a civil conversation until last Saturday night.

That's all on me he replies. And that's partially why I'm telling you this because I've always been a bit of a dick because I fancied you so bloody much, and I was raging about it because you didn't notice me. Which I'm sorry about because it wasn't your fault, it was me and my insecurities and I took it out on you.

I bite my lip. Type slowly.

But I've always noticed you, Chris. I noticed you from the first time we met.

I noticed you long before that is his reply.

A nod back to what he said earlier in the conversation. So he has known me longer than I knew him. Why did I never notice him before that day he picked me up? I don't remember him from school.

Another message appears.

I'm not expecting anything from you btw. You asked me why I'd started following you on here and I was just being honest. I spent so long trying to hide my feelings and it turned me into an arsehole around you; I'd rather just have it out in the open. Sorry if I've made this awkward, it was just so much easier to say it this way.

I smile. Take a deep breath. Time to lay my own cards on the table.

Look, it probably would be awkward if I didn't have feelings myself. But . . . I do. I feel a bit blindsided by all of this, granted, but I like you too. A lot.

Part of me is still expecting to get a message back saying something like "haha, fooled you. I don't actually like you at all." Which is a horrible feeling but I just can't get my head around the fact that Christopher O'Brien, the former love of my life, my unrequited crush, had apparently liked me all along too. My brain can't catch up with my heart on this one, and my heart is still terrified of being crushed.

I don't realise I've been holding my breath until he responds and hot air rushes from my mouth in one massive gush.

Are you back tomorrow?

Yes.

Do you fancy meeting for a drink?

Teenage Em would be so jealous of me right now . . .