I left the wedding reception early to have a self-pity party over the phone, binging on ice cream and makeshift chocolate martinis—which means eating Lindt chocolate and chasing it down with vodka.
“No thanks.” For once, I know Jillie is suggesting the mature course of action but I’m too late.
The last time I saw Keats, he was slow dancing with Sofie when the dance floor was opened at the reception. I didn’t stick around after that. He’s probably with Sofie now—at her apartment in the city, all arms and legs entwined in her bed sheets with the view of high rises and blue skies outside her windows. And they’ll get married in a week, have perfect children, a boy and a girl, and all because she caught the bouquet at the reception. It’s totally unfair, of course. She’s built like a beach volleyballer. The rest of us had no chance of catching that baby.
“Anyway, I’m over it. I’m over him,” I tell her. If I say this enough to myself, I’ll eventually believe it. I hope. “I’m moving on. I’m off to the nearest real estate agent as soon as they open tomorrow. The bank’s already pre-approved my home loan, now that I have enough for a deposit.”
“Oh, good for you, Jess. Yes, great plan. Forget about Keats.”
I flinch at the sound of his name right against my ear. Closing my eyes, I try to dislodge the image of him in my head. But instead, I just see his face more clearly. He’s smiling. His stupid plan has sort of actually worked—he’s got his decent, properly-raised woman. Meanwhile, he now knows I own and run Miz Peggy. What does he think of that?
I shouldn’t really care.
“Do you know what kind of house you’d like?” Jillie asks.
I already have some properties in mind—little townhouses perfect for a future cat lady. But that rambling four-bedroom house in Cannon Hill comes to mind. Keats’ house. In that neighbourhood, it seems like a great place to raise a family one day.
“I’m keeping an open mind,” I tell her. I suddenly need to get off the phone before the conversation turns to Keats again. “I’ll talk to you later, Jillie. I want to get out of my bridesmaid gear and take a long bath.”
As soon as I hang up, I walk over to the TV and turn it on for company. Grabbing the remote control, I turn on the Blu-ray player, and press Play. Season 1 of Sex and the City comes on. It’s soothing and familiar. But it also allows my mind to wander.
And it goes straight to Keats. God. I was silly to think he’d change his ways. How many times did I believe things would be different with my dad—that he’d miraculously choose his children over alcohol? It took me years to learn to stop believing in people. What did I actually expect was going to happen with Keats? That there would be a happily ever after for me?
I take a deep breath and try to silence the pessimistic voice telling me I’m not good enough. I hope it just takes a few days for my head to convince my heart to forget about Keats McAllister.
I drag myself to the bathroom to draw the bath. While the bubbles rise, I light scented candles and pour myself a glass of wine. I grab a chick lit from my big pile of “To be read” books, something upbeat with a happy ending.
A few minutes later, soaking in lukewarm water, I cry tears of frustration over Keats. Ugly crying. Dammit. I want to get over him faster because this pain in my chest radiates to the rest of my body. I have to stop thinking about him. I have to accept that he didn’t choose me, and I must consider it as a flaw in his character that he didn’t recognise a good thing when he saw one.
There’s someone out there who will appreciate me for me. Someone who wouldn’t have sex with me and then not really talk to me again. Someone who would know all my dark secrets and still stick around. I need to believe that.
I’m half-dressed when my doorbell suddenly rings.
It’s probably a drunk, or someone for my neighbours. Everyone else I know is at Isabella’s wedding reception. While I’m looking for a smaller pair of sleep shorts, my door’s buzzer sounds again.
I step out of my loose garment, and walk down the hall in just my knickers and a towel. I take a deep breath in, channelling an inner calm before I tell them as politely as possible to go away. But I jump a little when the doorbell sounds again.
Okay, now I’m pissed off. Pressing the speaker button, I lean into it. “Go away! You have the wrong apartment”
“Jess, it’s Keats.”
My knees give beneath me at the sound of his voice, but I catch myself before I fall on my arse. “Oh. In that case, bugger off.” The Band-Aid approach is best.
What is he doing here? Does it matter?
The sooner I stop seeing him, the sooner I can forget him. I will not be that girl who lets herself get strung along. Or be someone’s consolation prize. I don’t want to be friends with Keats—it would hurt too much. And it’s easier to be strong when he’s not in front of me.
“Jess, wait!”
I go back to my room to finish dressing even though I am curious why he’s come. I turn up Sex and the City to drown out the doorbell. I wonder if he’ll still be waiting on the front steps of my building by the time I finish dressing.
The incessant buzzing continues while I slip on a dress and brush my hair. But then it stops, and I am left to the sound of Samantha having another orgasm blaring from the TV. I rush to the living room to turn down the volume before I offend my neighbours upstairs.
“Jess!” The
