Page 231 of The Girlfriend Clause
“I … yeah. Thanks.”
“Let me know if you want a ride to the airport,” I added.
She stopped stirring.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay with this, you know,” she said. “It feels weird, Andy. If you want to say something, you can.”
“I am okay with it.” I sipped my Cheshire Chai.
“I know you want to list tropical diseases and accounts of women abducted in Asia over the last ten years,” she said.
“I don’t.” I paused. “Well, maybe just a bit.”
Eliza grinned. “Thanks, Andy.”
“What for?”
“Being cool.”
“I’m not that cool.” I pulled a bag out from under the table.
“What’s this?”
“Universal adapter, oral rehydration salts, and Deet,” I said. “Oh, and a slim power pack.”
She opened the bag and looked at me.
“This isn’t me being your mum,” I said quickly. “I just know that functional sockets don’t always show up where you want them.”
She shook her head. “It’s nice of you, Andy. Thanks.”
I smiled.
“And what about you? Have you sorted stuff out with Liam yet?” she said.
“Ah … no.”
The thought of Liam reading the HR letter still made me feel ill, even now. Correcting it didn’t undo it.
I’d been willing to risk his reputation and spin the facts just to make myself feel safe. That wasn’t a part of myself I wanted to think about. But it wasn’t just the letter. I’d been going over it for days—what Eliza had said.
She’d been right. About all of it. I just hadn’t been ready to hear it.
And even now, I still couldn’t get Liam out of my mind. Stupid memories kept interrupting my thoughts. Him sprawled across my sofa with Mr. Darcy on his lap, flicking through Netflix to find me a show I liked. Running down the street after the lift fell to see if I was okay. The quiet concentration on his face when he’d put together the flat-packed furniture for me even though he could have just bought me something that didn’t require effort. A hand on the small of my back, pulling me into him when he knew I was nervous.
It hurt to think of what I’d lost.
I’d let him get close. Closer than anyone since Dad died. And then I’d found a reason to blow it up.
How was it I’d needed my sister to tell me what seemed so obvious now? I’d been looking for the exit before he could find one first.
“Well,” she said. “Don’t leave it too long. It might not be fixable, but don’t you at least owe him a conversation?”
Was she right about this too?
All I wanted was to make all this go away—falsely accusing him of buying my artwork, the letter I’d filed with HR, the redundancies…
But none of that would go away, and even if it did—if I could wave a magic wand and change it all—would he want to talk to me anyway, after the hurt I caused him?
