I'd convinced myself that I'd grown out of being easily influenced, but last night proved me wrong in every way imaginable. I didn't want to kiss Preston, and I stand by that. It's just that when forced into a drinking game-induced corner, and then my best friend since forever insisting that I do want that, it's only natural that it messed with my head. I was confused. Plain and simple. It means nothing, and in the spirit of it meaning nothing, I've not uttered a word to Aiden–or anyone else–about it.
Last night also has absolutely nothing to do with the lunch date I've arranged with Nick, a guy on Hinge I matched with a few days back.
Okay, maybe it does a little.
I've not exactly been making waves on the London dating scene since moving here, and if last night's kiss tells me anything, it's that I'm desperate for non-platonic human connection. I'm confident that if I had something resembling a love life going on, all of this weird stuff–this tension–with Preston wouldn't even exist. This Hinge date will no doubt fizzle into nothing, but it's a start.
Before the date, though, I've got to deal with the letter. I've not left my bed yet this morning, and I'm not allowing myself to until I open it. I don't know what I'm afraid of; Preston's dad is hardly going to have written to say he has no interest in him whatsoever. I repeat that assumption in my head over and over again, and I continue repeating it as I unseal the letter and pull out an A4 sheet of paper.
With a deep breath, I begin to read, and I don't exhale until I've reached the bottom of the page. When I do, it's a huge sigh of relief.
'Okay,' I mutter to myself. 'Okay. Good. This is good.'
It goes without saying that Rhys wants to meet Preston. He doesn't give masses away, but he says enough to make it all seem real. He grew up in West Wales but now lives in Richmond, a fact Anwen must've already told Preston, and it was during a trip to Ynys Môn as teenagers that they met. He had no idea Preston existed until last year–shortly before he wrote this letter, by the sound of it. I'm less clear on if that's a fact Preston already knows. He doesn't have a family, nor is he married, but he has two dogs. At the bottom of the letter are his contact details.
I carefully fold the paper, then return it to its envelope before rummaging through my bed for my phone.
Hey, are you free this eve? I've read your letter (all good, don't worry!!)
He replies within minutes.
Next week? I'm in Cardiff.
Of course he'd wait until he was out of the country to ask me to read something he's been putting off reading himself for a whole year. I roll my eyes. I toy with suggesting I give him a call instead, but figure in person is best. I agree to next week, tuck the letter away into the drawers beside my bed, then refocus on the task ahead. My date.
I meet Nick, a second year History student, at Dolly's cafe. He's already there when I arrive, or at least I think it's him. That's the real peril of online dating: approaching someone you're deliberating fucking, marrying, or ideally both, only for them to tell you they have no clue who the hell you are. Thankfully, I get it right. Better yet, he's alarmingly attractive with neat, dark hair, striking brown eyes, and impeccable bone structure hidden underneath a cluster of freckles.
'I'm always scared I've got the wrong person!' I joke as I pull out the chair opposite his, then play ignorant when it makes an awful screeching sound across the floor.
Great start.
He laughs, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he does so. 'Same. I've been burned before.'
'Really? Oof, I bet that was fucking horrific.'
As any normal nineteen-year-old woman's reaction to swearing at her date within ten second of meeting him would be, my next thought is whether I should follow up with a warning that I'm a virgin. Thankfully, I have the sense not to let my intrusive thoughts win.
'Yep. Fucking horrific,' he confirms, to my great relief.
Shortly after our introductions, Nick leaves our small table to place our order and I watch him quietly as he stands in the queue, inching forward every few minutes. Seriously, he's really good looking. He's dressed in a slick, pale blue shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the stubble that lines his jaw is trimmed with forensic precision, his hair parted so perfectly that I suspect it would survive a hurricane. He looks nothing like Preston, not that I'm comparing the two.
I go into the date with no expectations. If anything, I assume it'll be a disaster, and so when I realise we've been sitting and chatting for nearly two hours, I have to pop to the bathroom to confirm I'm not in the middle of some grand delusion. I like him. I think I actually like him. His only flaw so far is that he's English, and hey, it's not like he can help that.
'Sorry,' I say as I return to our table. 'I didn't realise the time.'
'It's alright,' Nick replies, a small smile on his lips. 'Honestly, every date I've had since downloading dating apps has been painful, so this is a really positive change.'
A positive change. I press my lips together to hide a grin.
'Same! I don't know if it's a London thing or an app-specific thing, but it's so chaotic.'
'Well, I've always lived in London, and it's honestly always been pretty awful. The issue with dating apps is that people either want a quick fuck, or they're plain fucking weird.' He pauses, stammering a little. 'Nothing against people who want that, it's–We've all been there, right?'
I force down a cringe, just as more I'm a virgin intrusive thoughts barrel into my head.
'Just not what I'm looking for,' Nick finishes.
I mean, I wouldn't be against casual sex, I think, at least once that first time is out of the way.
Mine and Nick's date ends up lasting another thirty minutes, and it only ends because I've got a mate date with Margot that I need to go home and get ready for. Happy hour at the pub I'm meeting her at is from four until six, so it's crucial I'm not a minute late. Besides, I'm desperate to talk to someone about the miracle of this date not being a total disaster.
Once home, I quickly change out of my chunky turtleneck and into a classic jeans and a nice top combo, then pair that with my oversized faux leather jacket. I arrive at the pub dead on four o'clock, and I've not even sat down when Margot demands I spill all about my date.
I laugh as I say, 'can I at least order a drink first?'
'Already done. You've got two mojitos coming.'
'God, I want to marry you sometimes.'
Margot winces. 'Was the date that bad?'
'Actually, no,' I reply as I spot a waitress heading in our direction. 'It was weirdly good.'
A grin bursts onto her face, and the waitress must think she fucking loves rum-based cocktails as she places our drinks on our table. After thanking the waitress, Margot tucks her blue hair behind her ears as if she's prepping to listen as intently as possible to my incredibly boring story. I run through said incredibly boring story, and by the end of it, she's smiling so hard that it's amazing her cheeks haven't split open.
'And he's fit? A miracle,' is her conclusion to my tale as she looks at his dating profile on my phone.
As she swipes through his pictures, I pick at the nuts and olives Margot had ordered alongside our drinks. I quickly discover I hate olives.
'Should I have told him I'm wildly inexperienced, or is that more of a third date vibe?' I question as she hands my phone back to me.
'You tell him when you're ready, if you even want to tell him in the first place,' she says pointedly. 'Besides, you've done everything but the big deed, right?'
I lift my hand in a so-so gesture. 'Most things, yeah.'
I neglect to mention that these most things required hours of positive encouragement from Aiden beforehand, whose side hustle while we were travelling was convincing me that the world wouldn't implode if I gave into my NSFW thoughts about the occasional hot guy we met along the way. If it wasn't for him, I sincerely think the most experience I'd have to date would be a few kisses with Robbie Morrissey, my first boyfriend turned disaster.
'You're overthinking this whole sex thing, gal,' Margot declares. 'Honestly, if I were you, I'd just shag the next guy who gives you the opportunity, and trust me, they'll be queuing up.'
'Tempting,' I grumble. 'I'm not even, like, saving it or some archaic shit like that, I'm just... awkward.' I sigh. 'I get way too into my own head, don't feel comfortable enough with the guy, then end up not enjoying anything enough to let things go all the way.'
Margot responds by pursing her lips, then tilting her head before concluding, 'you should masturbate more.'
'Noted.'
'Or,' she tries. 'Find a boyfriend, or not even that–just someone you like enough for the whole not comfortable with the guy issue to not be a thing–and let it happen because you want to. Not because you feel like you have to.'
'What happened to shagging the next guy who gives me the opportunity?' I argue.
She brushes the air as she throws back what's left of her second drink. 'That's plan B.'
Margot's right–the finding a guy I like enough thing, not the one-off shag and masturbating thing–but it feels impossible. If I've gone nearly twenty years without liking anyone enough to make them my boyfriend, what hope do I have? The one time I did agree to the label, it was a shit show. It's like agreeing to date Robbie in college despite my blatant indifference towards him has scarred me for life. Now it's all or nothing.
I'm not far behind Margot in finishing my second mojito, and so I'm soon buying our second round. I'm standing at the bar, mesmerised by the braman going at it with a cocktail shaker when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. As if it's a sign for the gods themselves, I peek at it to see a message from Nick.
Today was fun, would love to do it again. Dinner next time, maybe? x
I'm grinning into my phone in a totally unsubtle way. Dinner. That's some serious shit. It's also less terrifying than the alternative of drinks because drinks alludes to alcohol, which alludes to end of night expectation. I don't think he was playing with me when he said he wasn't looking for a one-time thing.
The smile is still on my face as I place our order, and it doesn't waver as I return to our table.
'Looks like there's a second date on the cards,' I say as I plop back into the small booth Margot and I have occupied. 'Nick's asked me to dinner.'
'Can I be maid of honour?' she replies.
'Nah, Aiden's already bagsied that, sorry. Put in his bid years ago,' I say. 'You can take chief bridesmaid, though. My only other option is Preston, so you're the obvious choice, really. Might offend my sister, though.'
She snorts a laugh. 'I told him off for being a dick about the whole kissing dare thing before he left this morning.'
I flash a coy smile. 'You didn't need to, honestly, we talked it through. It would've been weird–we both would've found it super weird if we'd kissed–so it was just him being weirded out. Just a misunderstanding, really. A big, dumb misunderstanding.'
Was that overexplaining? It felt like overexplaining.
'You didn't go to town on him or anything, did you?' I ask.
She brushes the air. 'Nah, I was just honest about you confiding in me and saying you felt mega awkward after the whole thing. I told him it's obvious you guys are super close, so you were just worried about your friendship getting fucked up over something so insignificant.' She shrugs. 'And I told him not to pull that kind of shit again, obviously.'
I nod slowly. 'Well, thanks for defending my honour.'
'You and him are definitely okay now, right?'
I raise my hand to my chest. 'I promise. Trust me; we've been through worse.'
'Well, that sounds juicy. Is this where you finally reveal Preston's darkest secrets?'
'He has no secrets, I swear,' I lie, ignoring the guilt pressing at my chest. 'To be totally honest, I once landed him in hospital, so if anything, I'm the problem one.'
Margot's mouth drops open as her brown eyes widen. 'You can't leave me hanging like that!'
'I crashed a car he was in,' I explain as I pick at my paper straw. 'Not horribly, but enough to make seventeen-year-old me realise I needed to get my shit together.'
Margot draws a long whistle through her red lips. 'Shit, Mia. Although, that does explain the driving jokes Aiden makes in your presence.'
'He's the real arsehole,' I mutter. 'You should focus your scoldings on him.'
I return to my flat on a high, one that's only partly alcohol-induced. I should know better by now, though; nothing can stay too good for too long. I'm wolfing down a share-size packet of sweet chilli crisps when Dad's caller ID flashes on my phone screen. There are only two reasons Dad ever calls me: on my birthday, and when he's drunk. My birthday isn't until March.
Not answering doesn't pass through my mind as an option until after I've hit the green button, and even when it does, I'm only kidding myself. I'd be too anxious with what ifs if I didn't.
'Mia?' he slurs, and yep. Drunk. 'Mia? Hello?'
'Hi, Dad,' I say through gritted teeth as I sit up in bed.
'Mia?'
'Yep. Hi.'
'The boys down the pub said you don't have uni this week,' he begins, and what? How the fuck do the boys down the pub know my academic schedule? 'Dave has a son–No, a girl–a girl who goes to uni in London, and she has a week off.'
I try, and fail, to ignore his accusatory tone.
'I thought you'd come home. Why are you there if you've got a week off?'
Because the thought of spending any free time at home with you makes me want to rip off both my eyelids.
'I've got lots of work to do,' I try.
Dad scoffs. 'No, you've got a week off!'
'It's reading week. There aren't any lectures, but I've still got work to do–lots of work, actually,' I explain with a deep breath to calm myself. 'I'm using the time to get it all done. I'm working on some editorial stuff for a uni magazine too, so keeping myself bus–'
'You don't want to see me,' he slurs, ignoring everything I just said.
He's not wrong. I can't accuse him of that.
'I was home a few weeks ago, Dad,' I say, nearly pleading.
He scoffs again. 'You're as bad as your sister. At least she's not moved hundreds of miles away from me, even if she never visits. You moved there to spite me, didn't you? Like with your gallivanting around the world; all to make me feel...'
I can't deal with this bullshit right now. I refuse to. So I don't. I tear my phone from my ear, then hang up midway through Dad's rant. I shouldn't have answered. I knew I shouldn't have, but I let the worry flood in. What if something bad has happened? What if he's gotten into trouble? What if he's gotten drunk and hurt himself?
I'm starting to wish for what ifs.