Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours of pretending I didn't let my stepbrother ruin me for all other men.
The café smells like burnt espresso and emotional avoidance. So, basically, my natural habitat these days.
Gemma sits across from me at our usual table, watching me shred a napkin into confetti with the intensity of someone dismantling crime scene evidence. Her patience has been remarkable. Saintly, even. Borderline miraculous.
My coffee grows cold. The napkin becomes snow. Neither of us acknowledges the elephant tap-dancing through the room wearing sequins and demanding immediate attention.
Two weeks of me dodging questions. Changing subjects mid-sentence. Suddenly developing fascinating opinions about weather patterns, tube delays, and the obscene price of avocados.
But patience has limits, even Gemma's legendary supply.
"Right." She sets down her cup with deliberate force. "What happened after the wedding? And don't tell me it's complicated, because I can see complicated written across your forehead in permanent marker."
The napkin disintegrates further. A small pile of paper corpses accumulates beside my saucer like innocent victims of my spiraling anxiety.
"Define 'happened.'"
"Lottie. I've watched you murder three napkins in fifteen minutes. You haven't touched your coffee. You flinch every time your phone buzzes like it contains explosives." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Something happened with Oliver."
The name lands like a grenade in a library. My fingers freeze mid-shred. My heart does something complicated and uncomfortable in my chest.
"He called me." The words emerge before I can stop them. "The night of the reception. Late. After the hallway disaster where he rejected me and walked away."
"Called you to say what exactly?"
"To talk me through an orgasm using only his voice."
Gemma's eyes widen to saucers. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. A goldfish confronting existential revelation would show more composure.
"He guided me through it," I continue, unable to stop now that the dam has cracked completely open. "Told me exactly where to touch myself. How fast. How slow. How much pressure. Listened while I came apart in my hotel room with his voice in my ear."
"Jesus Christ, Lottie."
"It gets worse." I abandon the napkin massacre entirely. My hands need something to do, so they wrap around my cold coffee instead. The ceramic feels grounding. Real. Unlike everything else.
"The next morning, I went to his room. Intending to end things. Draw a firm line. Be rational and adult about everything."
"And?"
"And he kissed me first." The confession tastes like shame and something sweeter I cannot name. "Against the wall. Then the bed. It was the most intense physical experience of my entire miserable existence."
Gemma's jaw has officially disconnected from her skull. She stares at me like I've announced plans to join a circus or emigrate to Mars.
"He made me feel things I didn't know I was capable of feeling. My body responded like it had been waiting twenty-four years for someone patient enough to actually work for it. Like I'd been speaking French badly my entire life and he was finally a native speaker who understood me."
"And then? Please tell me there's an 'and then.'"
"And then I panicked completely." My voice drops to barely audible. "Afterward, lying there in his arms, reality crashed back like a tsunami. I told him it was a mistake. Said we were family now and this needed to be forgotten forever."
"What did he say?"
"I didn't give him a chance to say anything meaningful." The shame intensifies unbearably. "I grabbed my clothes and left without saying goodbye. Took the train home and haven't contacted him since. Two weeks of radio silence."
Silence stretches between us like taffy. Gemma processes with visible difficulty, her expression cycling through shock, sympathy, and exasperated affection.
"Has he contacted you?"
I shake my head miserably. "Radio silence from his end too. Complete. Total. Fourteen days of absolutely nothing from either direction."
"Maybe he's respecting your wishes."
"Maybe he's relieved I made the decision for both of us. Saved him the trouble of being the responsible adult."
"Or maybe he's sitting somewhere doing exactly what you're doing. Staring at his phone like it contains answers it refuses to provide. Wondering if he should reach out first."
The thought hadn't occurred to me. I've been so consumed by my own spiral that I forgot Oliver might have one too. That he might be lying awake at night the same way I am.
"I've drafted approximately forty texts," I admit quietly. "Deleted every single one before sending. My finger has hovered over his contact at two in the morning more times than I can count."
"So call him."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
The question is simple. The answer is anything but simple or straightforward.
"Because calling him means admitting I was wrong to run. And admitting I was wrong means facing the impossible situation head-on without armor." My voice cracks slightly. "I'm not brave enough for that, Gemma. I'm a coward."
"You're not—"
"I'm a coward," I repeat firmly. The truth spills out raw and unfiltered. "I would rather feel empty than risk feeling too much. It's easier. Safer. Less terrifying than admitting I might actually want something I can never properly have."
I stare into my cold coffee like it contains ancient wisdom. It doesn't. Just caffeine and poor life choices reflected back at me.
"I miss how he made me feel." The words emerge quiet. Vulnerable. "Not just physically, though God, that haunts me constantly. Every night. But seen. Understood. Like my body wasn't broken after all."
Gemma reaches across the table. Her hand covers mine, warm and steady against my cold fingers.
"Some situations don't have easy solutions," she says gently. "Maybe this is one of them. Maybe there's no clean answer that makes everyone happy."
"That's not very comforting."
"Comfort isn't always honest. And you deserve honesty." She squeezes my fingers firmly. "Whatever you decide, I'm here. Even if you keep shredding napkins indefinitely."
We pay the bill and gather our things. The café door releases us into grey London afternoon. Pedestrians flow past in the usual urban current.
I pause on the pavement suddenly.
A prickle climbs the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched—specific and unsettling. My skin tightens with unexpected awareness.
I scan the street carefully. Coffee shops and newsagents. A bus stop with bored commuters. Nothing unusual. Just standard London foot traffic.
But the feeling persists stubbornly. That crawling certainty that someone's eyes are tracking my movements specifically.
"Lottie?" Gemma has stopped a few feet ahead. "You okay?"
I shake my head to clear it. Paranoia. Post-crisis hypervigilance. My brain inventing threats because the real ones are too complicated to process rationally.
"Fine." I force my feet to move. "Just tired."
I follow Gemma toward the tube station, but twice I glance over my shoulder. The street reveals nothing unusual. Just strangers going about their stranger lives.
The feeling fades as we descend into the Underground. Fluorescent lights replace grey daylight. The familiar scent of recycled air envelops us completely.
Probably nothing at all. Just my imagination creating drama.
I've got enough real drama to occupy me indefinitely.