I can’t imagine ever being allowed to be me with anybody else, whoever I am these days.
The selfish thoughts that seem to occupy my head space take me back to a dark place yet again. It doesn’t help that he won’t stop calling or begging me for one more night with him.
Izzy, I can’t stop fucking thinking about you.
You never gave us a chance back then. I’m asking you to give us a chance. I’m asking you to forget about what I am now and think about what we could become.
And no matter how much a small part of me wants to say yes, my answer is and always will be no. I will not be the woman who tears a family apart. I refuse to be the Isabella of my life - the one my father named me after in some evil, selfish twist of mental cruelty.
Eight weeks is a long time to swing back and forth, choosing whether to listen to your heart or your head. So by the time Paris walks into my room on a warm, April morning, all it takes is one look at her face and I find myself bursting wide open and shedding tears I so desperately didn’t want to shed in front of her.
She knows all about Matt, of course. I’m not naive enough to think that without her help and support over the last two months, I wouldn’t have given in to him a long time ago. In a way, we’re stopping each other from making the mistakes we know we wouldn’t make if we weren’t so bloody fed up of feeling so alone.
Sliding under the duvet, Paris nuzzles in beside me, pulling me into a comforting hug. We don’t speak for a while. There isn’t really much to say. She knows why I’m crying and I know why her eyes are bloodshot and swollen.
“You know,” she eventually speaks against my hair. “I don’t think we deserve to feel like this much longer.”
“Me either,” I sniff, sliding out of her embrace and sitting up beside her. Running the sleeve of my pyjama top across my eyes, I rest my neck back on the headboard and sigh in the hope that it will release some of my exhaustion.
“What can we do about it?”
“Move to Australia,” I joke quietly.
“Surfer dudes!” she scoffs. “I don’t think so, Mav. Plus, it might not be exotic or have fancy beaches, but Manchester is our home. You and I both know we’d miss it if we left.”
“I just want a new world, Paris.” My head falls down to her shoulder as I fiddle with my sleeves and curl into a ball. “Something that is exclusive to us. Where we make the decisions on what happens and we’re in charge of our own happiness. Does that make sense?”
“I dream about that kind of place a lot.”
“So let’s make it happen. All this…” I scoff, letting my hands rise and fall into the duvet for nothing but effect. “What are we doing here? Moping around will get us nowhere. Chasing after another woman’s reality, instead of our own – when the fuck did we become that desperate?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“I’ve been thinking about that deal we made a lot lately. Do you remember it?”
“Remember it? Mav, I think about it all the time, but I didn’t want to bring it up in case you weren’t ready. You’ve been in such a bad place with Matt and I thought if I brought it up, you’d get upset.”
Lifting my head, I turn to look at her and pull my brows together. “I didn’t talk to you about it because I was scared you’d get upset, too.”
“So much for us working on the communication thing then, huh?” She laughs quietly as she drops her head into her hands and a muffled groan fills the air. “Let’s make it happen. We’re clearly not getting anywhere being in charge of our own love lives, so why not throw caution to the wind and put some trust in each other’s judgement?”
“I trust you,” I answer automatically, not intending to cringe as much as I do when she peeks through her fingers to raise a brow in my direction. “Kinda…”
“For that, I’m setting you up with someone the exact opposite of anyone you would normally go for.”
I know she was intending that as a threat, yet I can't deny the relief that flows through me when she says it. She's right in that what we keep choosing for ourselves clearly isn't working out. Maybe stepping outside of our comfort zones is the last hope we have of finding happiness. I know her better than she knows herself and vice versa. Is it really such a bad thing to put my fate in her hands? I can't help thinking it makes more sense than any other options we have laying at our feet.
“As long as he’s hot, I don’t mind.” I shrug casually, feigning breeziness about the whole thing when deep down, I know the nerves are there. Images of Matt’s hands upon my skin float quietly through my mind and it takes a literal shake of the head to quickly move them along. “Just, please, don’t let him be an arsehole.”
Jumping out of the bed with a new mission on her mind, Paris digs her mobile phone out of her pocket and spins it in her hand. You can practically see the plan formulating in the reflection of her eyes. She has someone picked out for me already, and by the looks of the grin quickly spreading across her face, it’s someone who I wouldn’t choose for myself in a million moonshines.
As she makes her way out of the room with a finger pressed to her nose and her tear-stained eyes wide open, I know I’m in trouble. Her cries of, “Have I ever let you down, yet?” as she starts to walk away, don't do anything to dilute the anxiety that makes my heart race inside my chest.
All I can do at this point is hope - hope beyond all hope that whoever she has lined up can provide me with a temporary reprieve from the thirty one years of self-loathing that are threatening to finally send me under. I feel tired. I’m hanging on by a thread. Whoever this guy is, I feel sorry for him already.
I really, really do.
Thirty-Eight
17th April 2013
It’s the day of the blind date and to say I feel nauseous is an understatement. I know it’s wrong of me to have already written this whole day off, but sometimes deep, deep down in your stomach, you just know the way things are going to go. My instincts are screaming at me to cancel, to act like I’m ill, to call Paris up into my room and perform the whole fake poorly routine to get out of it. Unfortunately for me, my guilt chip has a stronger hold over my ability to make decisions than anything else and, from the way she has been dancing around the house, singing in excitement about my impending ‘hook-up’ with Mr. Mysterious, I know that I'm doomed no matter what.
My phone has been buzzing all morning with messages from Matt. I’m so close to blocking his number, I can barely stand it. Yet, there’s something stopping me from doing exactly that, and, while I’m not a fan of bullshit, I find that lying to myself about my reasons for not wanting to is far easier than facing the truth of what I have become. A woman who needs attention; a woman who, against all odds and previous vows made, secretly enjoys the feeling of being desired and wanted by another man - a man besides Jack bloody Parker.
As it buzzes across the top of my vanity table for the twentieth time this morning, I swipe it up into my hand and silently scream at the thing before tossing it in my bag at the side of the desk. I can’t focus on him right now. I have to get ready for the next few hours. I have to try and look enthusiastic, even though I haven’t dreaded something as much as I’m dreading this date.
“It’s all about the mystery,” she cackles at me whenever I ask.
Mystery, my arse. This is all about control for her and we both know it. The only thing that is diluting my irritability somewhat is the fact that I know I am putting her in the same position, tomorrow night, with her blind date.
Jumping up from the stool, I make my way over to the bed and pick up the nude pair of high heeled shoes Paris has left for me. As I turn them around in my hands, I evaluate and assess all the angles, the risks and the likelihood of me losing a toe to one of these things. The realisation that I’m doing all this more for my best friend than for me is what makes me try to shake off the bad mood that’s taken over my body and slide the pretty little torture devices on to my feet.
Every toe practically screa
ms out in surprise. They’re so used to my trusty converse, or no shoes at all, that this is completely alien to them. Giving myself the once over in the full length mirror, I perform the old twist and turn routine to try and find any fault before my date does. A simple, plain white, floaty vest, a pair of blue, denim jeans and nude shoes - it’s all pretty basic. I don’t feel the need to go all out for this. If he likes me, he’ll like me for who I am, not what I wear.
Nodding once at my own reflection, my shoulders suddenly flinch in reaction to a heavy knock on the front door. My whole stomach seems to do a three hundred and sixty degree spin, triple somersault, bounce, bounce, back-flip, star jump before landing into a painful set of splits that leaves me bending over and clutching it tight.
“Come on, Izzy. Stop being such a pansy. You got this,” I chastise myself, reaching for my oversized slouch bag and throwing it over my shoulder.
Somehow finding my way downstairs, I pull my loosely curled hair around the front of my face and check for the sunglasses on the top of my head. I’ve never been great at eye contact with total strangers, and I’m thankful that today is sunny so I have an excuse to hide behind them should things get awkward.
The second I open the door to see my date stood in front of me, it feels like time has frozen.
The man staring back at me isn’t just easy on the eye, he’s magnificent. I should feel relaxed by the fact that he’s dressed as casually as I am, with a cute, grey checked shirt and his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, but I don’t. In terms of looks, he’s off the one to ten scale and sitting comfortably somewhere around the twenty mark. My eyes search every inch of his face, pausing along the scruff on his jaw. The way he's assessing me in the same way causes my heart to beat incredibly fast and the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. The confident, barely there smirk on his face lets me know that he can see my reaction to him, and somewhere, in a small corner of my mind, I feel a little pissed off about that.
Unable to look away as our gazes cross and lock at the exact same time, I allow myself to get lost in the hazel of his eyes. I’m almost certain they're growling, “If I ever decided to lower my standards and take you to bed, you’d need a week to recover, love.” Yet surprisingly, there’s a gentleness hidden away in them, too. One you wouldn’t expect from a man of such calibre as him. It makes me curious - curious as to what he’s about and who he really is.
It’s been less than thirty seconds and I’m already overanalyzing everything about him. I guess that’s what happens when you feel like you’re punching above your weight. I’m so scared I’m going to make an absolute arse of myself in front of him that I shift gear and fall into instant defence mode without even realising it. In the blink of an eye, I’m sliding my glasses down from the top of my head to hide. I’m crap in heels at the best of times, but the unexpected, nervous trembling of my knees just seems to make it damn near impossible for me to walk with any grace.
The most embarrassing thing about it is that it’s clear he can see the effect he’s having on me. I don’t miss the flexing of his arms and the way he puffs out his chest as I walk by. While I’ve gone to hide behind my internal shields, he’s preparing himself for the game. A flash of arrogance shines from his face and the second I see it, I want to knock it off. The last two men to look at me that way ruined me.
My brows crease together as I hit the pavement in front of our house, and I can’t seem to stop myself from lifting my glasses right back up and giving him a look of disdain - a look that portrays something I’m not entirely convinced I feel.
“Seriously,” I say, smirking sarcastically and pointing to him. “That cheesy charm won’t work with me, so how about we cut that out already?” I clear my throat to try and hide the quiver in my voice before sticking out my shaky hand to introduce myself formally. Why I want to shake my date's hand is beyond even my fucking comprehension, but I’m so wrapped up in not letting him see that he affects me, I figure anything that throws him off course is a point in the game for me. “And it’s Moffy, nice to meet you.”
“Fair point, although it seems to me you’re making quite an assumption there. This cheese, as you so delicately put it, was just appreciation.” He doesn’t give me a second to even snarl at his appreciation comment before his hand squeezes mine in a confident grip and he shakes it once.
I’ve heard people talk about electricity flowing between bodies when they connect for the first time. I’ve read it in books my whole life, always rolling my eyes when it’s written in black and white that someone can touch both your body and your soul in an instant. All it takes is one, small second. I always assumed it was nothing more than glorified fiction, yet here I am, in the grip of a man I’ve only just met, feeling the warmth of his arrogant touch flow through my skin until everywhere comes alive and my heart feels like it’s been hit with an arrow.
Oh shit!
Images of all the arseholes I’ve fallen for in my life float through my mind, taunting me and reminding me of how easily I have allowed myself to become a victim of their games in the past. I can’t let that happen again. I won’t.
I’m just about to retract and pull away when he cuts me off with his name. “It’s nice to meet you, Moffy. Ethan Walker.”
His name sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to place it no matter how much I roll it around on the tip of my tongue and try to remember where I’ve heard it before. I can’t bring myself to look at him when I eventually pull away from him, cling onto the strap of my handbag and look down at the floor with a confused look on my face. Ethan Walker. Ethan… Walker… Even the husky edge to his voice suddenly registers as familiar to me. If only I wasn’t lost in a daze of his looks then maybe I could think more clearly.
“Ethan? Cu... Cute name. I, uh, mean… uh…” I sigh, “It doesn’t matter.” Subtly shaking my head and turning away to roll my eyes, I will myself to get a grip of the situation. “So, where are we going?”
The silence that follows my simple question has me itching to take another look at him. How I manage to keep my head down, I don’t know – self-preservation, perhaps.
“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I kept a couple of options open. Figured I’d surprise you.” My body reacts to the word surprise instantly and, as I look up, I don’t miss the wink he throws me. “But unfortunately, my car is out of action today. How do you feel about public transport? I saw a bus pass by the end of your street.”
Did he just say…?
“The bus,” I repeat, a little too snootily. I wasn’t aware I even had that tone within me, but apparently I do. “Erm, I’d rather walk if that’s okay with you, unless we’re going far? Public transport smells a little bit too much like old men and pee for my liking.”
As soon as I’ve said the words, I give myself a mental kick for letting my filter slip. Pee, Izzy, really? I expect him to turn his own nose up at me for managing to sound both pompous and callous at the same time, so the small laugh and the grin that spreads up into his cheeks throws me off guard that little bit more.
“Are you going to be alright in those heels?” he asks, his voice like fucking velvet, wrapping itself around my chest and squeezing tight.
“Well, I thought we would be driving somewhere, so…” Looking down at my inappropriate footwear, a small smile tugs at my lips before I hold up a hand and dangerously rock back on the delicate heels of my shoes. “Wait there. I’ll be right back.”
I’m in and out of the house like lightening. Having an excuse to escape his gaze was just what I needed in this moment to collect my thoughts. I know Paris will kill me when she finds out I’ve switched the shoes she picked out for my beat up converse, but it’s so hard to care when my feet sigh in relief and I find myself bouncing back outside far more enthusiastically than I could have done five minutes ago. I don’t feel as stiff as I did trying to be someone I’m not, and as I come to a stop in front of him, I’m certain my smile shows him that this is who I really am. “Okay, we’re good to
go. Lead the way, Ethan.”
We turn to walk down the street that leads into the city centre and, while the conversation is awkward at first, it seems we’re both capable of mindless small talk like how bad the weather’s been lately and what happened to his car to put it out of action. It doesn’t take an expert to see that Ethan Walker is a lady's man, nor is it hard to see why. Even dressed in nothing more than everyday clothes, his looks rival those of any man I’ve ever seen in a magazine. His arms are filled with delicate lines that suggest he works out. He isn’t built like a machine, all muscle and no substance, more like his body has been trained to perfection. There’s enough man about him to make you swoon at how he managed to carve himself so beautifully, but not so much so you think he spends more time in the mirror than you do. He’s natural. He’s gorgeous. He’s… currently wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me to his side.
Fuck!
I’m so busy thinking of poetic ways to describe him in my head that I don’t see the lamppost walking straight towards me. I’m no more than an inch away from the thing when Ethan comes to my rescue and slips me out of the way just in time. There are no words to describe my mortification at having shown my clumsy side so soon and, even though he tries to laugh it off and tell me it’s all okay, I can’t help but retract again.
His arm moves lower as he tries to pull me closer to him, probably to reassure me and make me loosen up. Unfortunately for both of us, it has the exact opposite effect. The last man to touch me in that way was Matt - the married man with a daughter at home. The thought of anyone touching me like that again so soon causes me to quickly flinch away from Ethan. And I hate the way I do it, literally yanking myself from his grip and looking up at him in disgust when it’s not how I feel at all, but I can’t seem to help myself.
His instant apology makes the guilt in my stomach spread like wildfire. “It’s okay. It’s my issue,” I whisper pathetically. The conversation comes to a halt almost instantly. In terms of first dates, this is already proving to be nothing short of a disaster. I can feel him guiding me nervously down the main street, yet I can’t seem to take my eyes off the floor as I try to make even more pointless conversation. “How do you know Paris?”
Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1) Page 27
