But by the time our desserts arrive, underneath all the wine and dairy in my stomach is a low feeling of dread. I can’t stop thinking about what Ms. Ashley said. Listen to your instincts. And even though Louis is totally the right sort of guy on paper, and even though I’m sure my mum and dad would’ve loved how much of a gentleman he is . . . there is just something telling me this isn’t right.
It should be right. But it’s not.
“Louis . . .”
“You’re not feeling it?”
His voice is light and casual, the same tone he was just using a moment ago to discuss his love of golf.
“I’m so sorry. You’re a really lovely guy . . .”
He waves that away. “I get it, I get why you’re hesitant this time around.”
I frown slightly. I told him about my last couple of relationships, but now I wonder if I’ve overplayed the general rubbishness of Tristan and Dean, because otherwise this comment seems a bit odd.
“I put too much pressure on things with the flowers and all that,” Louis says, reaching to top up my wine as the waitress delivers our chocolate puddings. “Let’s just ease off the gas.”
“I’m not sure we’re a good fit,” I try.
He shakes his head. “Come on, don’t shut this down before you’ve even got to know me, Izzy. Let me take you out again in a few days. We can just go for a walk with a coffee, maybe—something low-key. Let’s hang out a bit, see how it feels, see where it goes . . .” He takes a spoonful of pudding and closes his eyes with a moan. “Try that, oh my God.”
“I mean, we can go out again if you want,” I find myself saying, “but I need to be honest and say I don’t think I’m going to change my mind. Sorry. I don’t want you wasting your time with me when . . .”
“My choice what I do with my time. I can handle myself, Izzy,” he says with a wink. “Just have fun and relax, OK? There’s no pressure from me.”
I’m not sure how to argue with that. And this date has been lovely, technically speaking. Was it actually any lovelier than this with Tristan or Dean? I don’t remember being particularly swept away by either of their first dates, and both of them became my boyfriends.
So why not Louis?
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
I text Jem when I’m home to fill her in on how I’m feeling, and she replies with a voice note.
Pigeon, I hear what you’re saying, but . . . Your parents wanted you to date a guy who seemed sweet and kind—eight years ago. You were so young when they said that to you, Izz. You’re an adult now. You’re wiser. I know it hurts so bad that your mum and dad aren’t here to give you advice, but for what it’s worth, I think they’d tell you that you know best now. If something in your heart says this guy’s not quite right for you, they’d want you to listen to that.
It makes me cry. I play it twice more. She’s right: it does hurt that Mum and Dad aren’t here to advise me on what to do. It hurts that I’m having to figure out how to be an adult on my own, and that all the wisdom they’ve given me is at least eight years out of date. I’ll never be able to bring a guy back to the house I grew up in and close the kitchen door to say, So, guys? What do you think of him? Be honest!
Louis has messaged me while I’ve been listening to Jem: Fancy a stroll around Winchester Christmas market on Friday eve? he’s written. Don’t think too hard about it No pressure, just give it a shot!
Hmm. Now it’s an evening stroll, and will probably involve food—that seems like a step up from a walk with coffee.
I make a decision then and there: I’ll go to the Christmas market with Louis, and if it’s still not feeling right, I’ll draw a line under things with him. He may say he doesn’t mind wasting his time, but life’s too short for me to waste mine.
Another message pops up from Jem. Here for you always, it says.
I clutch the phone. It’s been hard not to feel a little abandoned over the last year, as each of my favourite people have left to another part of the world. I know it’s not about me, but I can’t help wishing that we could still be here for each other in the way we were before.
But there are different ways of being here. I play Jem’s voice note one more time and feel so grateful for the friends who still make space for me in their whirlwind lives; the people who know exactly why something will hurt, and who know just what to say to make it better.
Thank you. And you—always, I reply, and then I choose my favourite pyjamas, boil the kettle for my hot water bottle, and curl up in bed. I’ve got an unusually quiet few days ahead, and I think I might just spend them on the sofa. It’s been such a mad week, even by my standards—I need to re-anchor myself. By the time I’m back at work, I’m sure I’ll be full-on Izzy again, ready to face anything.