The Ex

I duck into a café, my heart in my throat, my breath coming in laboured little gasps. Why can’t my stupid brain give me a stupid break? It’s exhausting. I wish I could be one of those people who doesn’t care. Who just breezes through life with their normal everyday worries. But, no. I have to be this neurotic mess, always imagining the worst. Always terrified that my secret is about to be exposed. What was the point of doing what I did, if I’m still walking on eggshells? No point. No point at all. I may as well have walked off a cliff. I take deep, calming breaths and try to get my bearings as the scent of freshly brewed coffee, vanilla and cinnamon makes my stomach gurgle. I’ve found myself in one of those cute, artsy cafés that has squashy sofas and paintings by local artists that you can buy. The sounds of chatter and laughter and the clink of crockery and cutlery are a welcome antidote to my anxiety, but it’s not enough to dispel it altogether. It’s the kind of place where it would be nice to meet up with friends or family . . . if I had any friends or family. I shove away a wave of self-pity and square my shoulders. 4There’s no need for any of that. I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need anybody. I don’t want anybody. I was on my way home from finishing off a bathroom tiling job – a long morning spent on my knees, grouting – when I thought I felt someone walking behind me. Following me. I panicked and slipped down a side street – which is probably the worst thing I could have done – when, luckily, I spotted this café. I’ve never noticed it before. Wasn’t even sure it was open at first. But now that I’ve found myself inside, I might as well make the most of it and order a coffee, even though the caffeine is more likely to add to my jitters than calm my nerves. I join the snaking queue and stand behind a woman wearing a bright red coat, a couple of yellow leaves stuck to the back of her hood. I resist the urge to pluck them off. The menu is handwritten and hard to read, but I know what I want. When I reach the counter, the girl taking orders looks about twelve, with an oversized apron and a bored expression. ‘Cappuccino to go, please,’ I say, tapping my card. The girl nods. ‘Can I take a name?’ she asks. ‘Willow.’ The red coat lady takes her coffee and leaves, letting in a gust of cool September air when she opens the door. I keep glancing at the window, but there’s no sign of the person I thought it might be. I think it was just me being paranoid. It’s hard to shake it off. While I wait for my order, my eyes skim the tables. A mothers’ group has spread out across two sofas and an armchair, their babies asleep in their buggies as the mums chatter together and sip lattes. Retired couples enjoy their tea and pastries. A mother and daughter sit in a sea of shopping bags. And the rest are students or workers concentrating on laptop screens, earbuds in to block out the chatter. The road outside is still quiet. Nobody sinister is peering in. No 5faces I’d rather not see. I force myself to relax, to chant the mantra that calms me: I’m safe. I’m unknown. I’m safe. I’m unknown. My coffee arrives with my name scrawled across the cardboard in blue pen. I take off the lid and turn to go, walking smack-bang into someone, my coffee cup smooshing between us as its contents erupt down both our fronts. I yelp as some of the liquid splashes on to the back of my hand. Luckily, it’s not too hot. I’m in my thick work overalls, which soak up most of it. But it’s soaked through the T-shirt of the guy I knocked into. ‘Jeez!’ he cries. I realise the café has gone quiet as everyone’s attention momentarily turns towards us – the drama. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I turn to yank some napkins from the dispenser and start dabbing the man’s top. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Just a few third-degree burns,’ he gasps. ‘Oh no! Are you really hurt?’ I have visions of blistered skin and a trip to A & E. But as I stare up into a pair of really blue eyes, framed by dirty-blond hair, I’m relieved to see a teasing smile. ‘I’ll survive,’ he replies. ‘Not sure about my favourite T-shirt though. Thankfully the coffee’s not too hot. Although I usually can’t stand it lukewarm.’ I vaguely recognise the cartoon characters on his top. ‘That’s your favourite T-shirt?’ I lift an eyebrow. ‘Rude,’ he quips. ‘Yes, it’s Rick and Morty, bought for me by my nephew, which is why I like it so much.’ ‘Are you guys okay?’ one of the waitresses asks. ‘Fine,’ we reply in unison. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ I add, noticing the small puddle on the floor. ‘I can mop it up.’ I grab a few napkins from the counter behind me and start to crouch. 6 ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll do it, and I’ll get you another coffee on the house. Cappuccino, right?’ ‘Are you sure? That’s really kind. Thanks.’ ‘Get it to drink in,’ the guy says to me. ‘I’m sitting here.’ He gestures to the table behind us. There’s a laptop open on it next to a notebook. I give him a quizzical look, not sure what he means. ‘Join me,’ he clarifies. ‘Oh, no, that’s okay. Looks like you’re busy.’ ‘I need a break,’ he replies. My hesitancy must show on my face because he says, ‘Just one coffee with me to relieve the boredom of my day and to make up for wrecking my favourite T-shirt.’ ‘You’re guilt-tripping me into having a coffee with you?’ ‘Is it working?’ he asks. I roll my eyes. ‘Okay. One coffee.’ ‘Great . . .’ He tilts his head to read the smudged writing on my flattened coffee cup. ‘Willow?’ I nod and turn to dump the cup in the bin. ‘I’m Gabe Walker, by the way.’ He holds out his hand but I don’t take it. ‘Willow McAllister. I’m just going to wash my hands.’ I hold them out for him to see. ‘Sticky.’ There’s a fresh coffee waiting for me on my return and I take it over to Gabe’s table, blocking out the inner voice that tells me this is a bad idea. Annoyingly, his smile makes my stomach flip, something that hasn’t happened in a long, long while. I look away quickly, taking a seat. I sip my coffee, its rich taste providing a brief distraction from my conflicting thoughts. Any awkwardness soon melts away and the next ten minutes fly by as we start chatting. I learn that he’s twenty-nine – a year older 7than me – and a graphic designer who’s lived here in Highcliffe all his life. ‘And what about you?’ he asks. ‘You’ve let me waffle on for ages. Where are you from? You’re not local, or I would have seen you around.’ ‘London,’ I reply. ‘Oh? Whereabouts?’ I drain the last of my coffee and get to my feet. ‘It’s been nice chatting, but I have to get back.’ ‘You can’t go already?’ Gabe stands too, sliding his laptop into a sports rucksack. ‘We haven’t finished our conversation.’ ‘Sorry.’ I almost trip over the chair in my haste to leave. ‘I have a thing,’ I lie. I don’t have ‘a thing’. I never have ‘things’. I don’t know how I could have let myself get so caught up in the moment. As though I’m living an ordinary life where I can meet cute guys and start to form attachments. What was I even thinking? I drop a pound coin on the table for a tip, and give Gabe a polite wave and smile without any eye contact. ‘At least let me take your number,’ he says, hastily zipping up his bag and following me as I head to the door. I try not to imagine him taking my number