I've Got Your Number

Smile. Keep smiling. Don’t meet his eyes.

But somehow I can’t help it, I do.

And my eyes are suddenly hot. Shit. Shit. This hasn’t happened for years. Years.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter fiercely, glaring at the table.

“Like what?” Sam sounds alarmed.

“Like you understand.” I swallow. “Stop it. Just stop it.”

I take a deep breath and a sip of water. Idiot, Poppy. Get a grip. I haven’t let myself be taken off guard like that since … I can’t even remember when.

“I’m sorry,” says Sam, in a low voice. “I didn’t mean—”

“No! It’s fine, but let’s move on. Shall we get the bill?”

“Sure.” He summons a waiter, and I take out my lip gloss, and after about two minutes I feel back to normal.

I try to pay for lunch, but Sam point-blank refuses, so we compromise on going Dutch. After the waiter’s taken our money and wiped away the crumbs, I look at him across the empty table.

“Well.” Slowly, I slide the phone across the table to him. “Here you are. Thanks. Nice knowing you and everything.”

Sam doesn’t even look at it. He’s gazing at me with the sort of kind, concerned expression that makes me prickle all over and want to throw things. If he says anything more about my parents, I’ll just walk. I’ll go.

“I was wondering,” he says at last. “Out of interest, have you ever learned any methods of confrontation?”

“What?” I laugh out loud with surprise. “Of course not. I don’t want to confront anybody.”

Sam spreads his hands. “There you go. There’s your problem.”

“I don’t have a problem! You’re the one with a problem. At least I’m nice,” I can’t help saying pointedly. “You’re … miserable.”

Sam roars with laughter, and I flush. OK, maybe miserable was the wrong word.

“I’m fine.” I reach for my bag. “I don’t need any help.”

“Come on. Don’t be a coward.”

“I’m not a coward!” I retort in outrage.

“If you can give it out, you can take it,” he says cheerfully. “When you read my texts, you saw a curt, miserable git. And you told me so. Maybe you’re right.” He pauses. “But you know what I saw when I read yours?”

“No.” I scowl at him. “And I don’t want to know.”

“I saw a girl who races to help others but doesn’t help herself. And right now you need to help yourself. No one should walk up the aisle feeling inferior or in a different league or trying to be something they’re not. I don’t know exactly who your issues are with, but … ”

He picks up the phone, clicks a button, and turns the screen to face me.

Fuck.

It’s my list. The list I wrote in the church.

THINGS TO DO BEFORE WEDDING

1. Become expert on Greek philosophy.

2. Memorize Robert Burns poems.

3. Learn long Scrabble words.

4. Remember: am HYPOCHONDRIAC.

5. Beef stroganoff. Get to like. (Hypnosis?)

I feel drenched in embarrassment. This is why people shouldn’t share phones.

“’It’s nothing to do with you,” I mutter, staring at the table.

“I know,” he says gently. “I also know that standing up for yourself can be hard. But you have to do it. You have to get it out there. Before the wedding.”

I’m silent a minute or two. I can’t bear him to be right. But deep down inside me, everything he’s saying is feeling true. Like Tetris blocks falling one by one into place.

I let my bag drop down onto the table and rub my nose. Sam patiently waits while I get my thoughts in order.

“It’s all very well you telling me that,” I say finally. “It’s all very well saying ‘get it out there.’ What am I supposed to say to them?”

“ ‘Them’ being …”

“I dunno. His parents, I guess.”