Ex, The
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He was so friendly that eventually my shoulders stopped clenching, and I stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop and relaxed into the conversation.
We chatted for a good fifteen minutes, shifting out of the way when shoppers needed to grab a box of Nutri-Grain or a packet of muesli. He even reached up to the top shelf to pass a box of honey wheets down to a little old lady with a walker, and I couldn’t help letting my eyes stray to the strip of his lower back that was exposed when his T-shirt rode up.
As the conversation was drawing to an end, he asked for my number, and even though a voice inside was still questioning how he could possibly have any interest whatsoever in me, there was no way I was going to refuse. I gave him my number and I finished my shopping and went through the checkout in a daze.
By the time I was home, the dreamlike daze had lifted and I was back to thinking he couldn’t possibly be interested in someone like me, and preparing myself for the fact that I would never hear from him again.
That’s why his first text message was such a shock.
Hey Cadence, loved meeting you this arvo and really keen to see you again. Maybe over a coffee tomorrow? But if I’m being too forward, just say the word and I’ll back off — sorry, never hit on anyone in the aisle of a supermarket before!! Uncharted territory!
I was thrilled. And of course I didn’t want him to back off.
I rushed to reassure him.
Yes! I’d love to have a coffee. And you’re definitely not being too forward! Where would you like to meet tomorrow and what time suits?
I hit send and then immediately worried that I sounded far too needy. When? Where? Slow down! He was the one who’d suggested the date, I should have waited for him to offer the details instead of demanding them. I knew I’d made a mistake when I watched the little dots appear to show he was composing a reply, but then they disappeared again and nothing came through. I waited. I stared at the screen and I waited. Then I locked my phone, put it down, walked around my living room — two laps — went back to it, picked it up and checked. Still no reply. I opened up the message screen and as I watched, the speech bubble with the dots appeared again. I held my breath. I waited. Nothing. They vanished again and still there was no reply.
I shook my phone in frustration. What was he thinking right now? Had I come on far too strong? Or should I have put more reassurance into my message? Should I have reiterated that I was definitely interested? Apologised for coming across a little withdrawn when we spoke? Explained that it was only because I was shocked that someone like him would ever want to talk to someone like me.
Somehow, I stopped myself from texting all those things and coming across as the most desperate woman alive. I turned on the television instead and kept myself distracted.
He didn’t write again until four hours later. Just before midnight, as I was climbing into bed and berating myself for somehow completely destroying my one and only chance with the hottest guy I’d ever laid eyes on.
10 am at the Proper Coffee Pot cafe. Can’t wait to see you.
Relief flooded my entire body. I hadn’t screwed it up. He still wanted to see me. I ignored the tiny twinge at the back of my mind. The voice that said he didn’t actually check if the location or time suited me. He didn’t apologise for disappearing from the conversation and then texting so late at night. I was too excited to let that voice push through. I immediately googled the cafe and then my mood plummeted yet again. It was part of a chain and there were two within close proximity. Which one were we supposed to meet at?
I wrote back quickly.
Sounds great. Just double-checking, which Proper Coffee Pot did you want to meet up at?
I considered adding a kiss on the end of my message, but decided that was too much. We’d only just met. I added a smiley face emoji instead. I wanted to make sure my tone was friendly, and didn’t come across as annoyed at not knowing which cafe. This time it showed as ‘read’ but no little dots came up. I waited and waited but still no reply. Eventually I fell asleep.
In the morning when I woke, the first thing I did was check my phone for a response from Luke. Nothing, no notification whatsoever. It was 8 am. I had two hours before I was meant to meet him. Should I send another text? Chase him up? I decided to hold out a bit longer, give him the chance to respond.
He didn’t reply until nine thirty, right as I was starting to panic.
Sorry babe! Didn’t see this until just now. The one near the supermarket where we met, obviously! Lol!
I felt like an idiot. But instead of baulking at how he’d laughed at me for not knowing, I was weak at the knees at the fact that he’d called me ‘babe’. It was familiar so fast and I loved it. And anyway, of course it would be the one near Coles. That made the most sense. I should have known.
Here’s the other thing you need to understand. At that stage, I’d been alone for so long. And I don’t just mean single, I mean alone. That’s why him being so familiar with me sent me all a-flutter. I work alone. I have no family. I don’t have many friends.
Let me explain. My parents had me quite late in their lives. They’d pretty much given up on being parents when it happened, ‘change of life’ baby the ‘experts’ like to call it. Mum was forty-eight and Dad was fifty-three. They were ecstatic. They’d tried and tried for years and then all of a sudden, bam: baby. But Mum always had trouble fitting in with the other school mums in the playground. Not only was she older, but she was a career woman as well. Ran her own company, which she’d built from the ground up. And look, I don’t blame her for this, but I could see the relationships being formed between the kids whose mums were best buddies. The extra playdates they had while their mums shared a bottle of wine, the sleepovers, the family barbeques, even camping trips over the school holidays.
And maybe it was me as well. I was an only child and I was used to enjoying my own company. I was used to going out to expensive restaurants with Mum and Dad and discussing politics or the stock market or seventeenth-century literature or art, in the same way other kids discussed Pokémon or handball with their parents. I never quite felt like I fitted in.
I know they both felt guilty when they got sick — one after the other — and then passed away just over two years ago. Before she died, my mum tried to apologise to me for not being one of the young mothers bouncing about in active wear, but I shut that talk right down. ‘You can’t be serious,’ I said. ‘You two have been the most amazing parents I could ever have dreamed of. You gave me more cultural experiences before I was five than most people get to have in their entire lives, you helped me find my love of art, and you taught me how to do my taxes and how to change a tyre and how to make a martini with a twist. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.’
And not only were they the most wonderful parents, they also left me with a safety net after they were gone. Well, more specifically, my mother did, when she transferred her company shares into my name. It’s a safety net that I’ve never been able to bring myself to touch though.
As for my own work, as I mentioned, my mother helped me find my love of art, so I became an artist, and it’s a solitary pursuit that I adore. But it is lonely. And often thankless. I can go from one month where I sell a piece a week and I feel like the biggest success in the world, to six months in a row where I don’t sell a single thing and I’m convinced I’m an utter failure. As for friends, there were some connections that I formed in school, but I guess having such a solitary career has accidentally spilled out into the other parts of my life. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did.
Anyway, despite all of the anxiety over Luke’s slow replies and stressing over not knowing where to go, the date itself was utter magic. He was even more gorgeous than I’d remembered. He refused to let me pay for my coffee, and when I said I didn’t want anything to eat (I was too nervous to eat), he insisted on ordering some scones with jam and cream because apparently they were too good not to at least try.
We stayed in the cafe fo
r a full four hours. Around us the people who’d come in for morning tea cleared out and a new wave of people came in for lunch, and then they left as well. And we talked nonstop the entire time. For me, with my anxiety, being able to talk so easily for so long to a complete stranger was completely unheard of. I was nervous when he asked me what I did for a living. People can be so sceptical when you tell them you’re an artist, and it can sound pretentious. And of course, then there’s the follow-up questions: What kind of art? Can you actually make any money doing that? And they always want to see something right away. Do you have any pics on your phone of your work? And you know they’re ready to judge it. My art is pretty subjective. When people paint lifelike portraits or realistic landscapes, it’s easy to judge whether or not they’re any good. But mine is very abstract, and most people don’t know what to make of it.
My voice croaked when I answered his question. But his reply surprised me.
‘Why do you say it like that?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean? Like what?’
‘You sound so worried. Like you’re almost apologising for your career. Being an artist is awesome. I wish I was artistic. Tell me about your art.’
Something about the way he spoke, and the way he tuned right into my insecurities, put me at ease and I was able to chat effortlessly about my work.
When we finally left, he walked me to the train station and kissed me on the cheek and suggested that next time we make it dinner.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I guess from there you could call it a whirlwind romance. Or maybe whirlwind is too tame. Maybe it was a hurricane. Or a roller-coaster, because of all the ups and downs. The problem was, the ups were so high, they made you want to ignore the dips. And the dips? They were so innocuous that sometimes you weren’t even sure they’d happened at all. To start with, they were only ever in text messages. Face to face, we were always perfect. That’s why the messages seemed so difficult to understand. Maybe I was misunderstanding his tone? Maybe he’d misunderstood my tone and that’s why he was sounding so strange?
Like the one that came through after we went out to dinner for the first time. He picked me up and drove us there. Once again, the date itself was incredible — easy conversation, amazing food, and he still wouldn’t let me pay or even split the bill. ‘Next time, babe,’ he reassured me as he handed over his credit card.
And when he dropped me home, we shared our first kiss and it was fireworks-unicorns-and-rainbows level amazing. You know how sometimes you can kiss someone for the first time and it can be just that little bit awkward? One of you opens your mouth a tiny bit too wide or someone uses their tongue too soon or your teeth bump or you lean in the wrong way. But other times, you seem to fit together and it just works. For us, it just worked.
But then the message came through a little after midnight as I was about to fall asleep, my mind still on the kiss.
Thanks for an amazing night. I have to ask you this though, and don’t hate me for asking, it’s only that I’ve been hurt before. Please tell me you’re not only after me for my money.
I was flummoxed. First of all, what money? Was there a secret fortune that I was supposed to know about? He seemed comfortable enough; he drove a nice car but I didn’t think it was anything especially luxurious. And yes, he’d paid for our first two dates, but that was only because he’d insisted. I’d offered to contribute. I suppose he must have assumed that as an artist I’d be pretty hard-up. I might have been well set up for my future, but I definitely didn’t live that way.
Once again, I rushed to reassure him: Absolutely not in any way after you for money or anything like that. I like you for YOU! Next time, dinner is on me!
I hit send and then cringed. Was it presumptuous of me to assume we’d be having dinner again when we hadn’t actually made any plans for the next date yet? But surely we would be, the night had gone so incredibly well. Then I replayed our entire night in agonising detail, trying to pinpoint any moment where I might have led him to believe I was some sort of gold digger. Was it an expensive bottle of wine that we’d drunk? Who picked it? Him or me? It was him, wasn’t it? Wait, was it? Actually, we chose it together, but he seemed happy with the one we’d landed on. What about the main I chose? It was pasta — linguine with prawns. That couldn’t have been too pricey, could it? Should I have said no to dessert because we’d already had entrees? Three courses! Greedy, right? An hour later, I was still lying in bed, wide awake, wondering once again if I’d ruined everything when my phone lit up with another message.
Ha ha! Okay, deal. Thursday night suit?
Once again, I was flooded with relief. Everything was okay, he still liked me, he still wanted to see me again.
That’s how it continued on. One magical date after another. It was the fastest I’d ever progressed in a relationship. Within three weeks we’d said we loved one another. He said the words first, but I’d already been dying to say them so I said them back in an instant. It was the perfect moment. On the same night, a text came through after we’d gone our separate ways: Tell me the truth, did you only say I love you because I said it first? Because don’t say it if you don’t mean it. Don’t fuck with my heart, okay?
Again, I raced to reassure him. Absolutely not. I meant every word — I even wanted to say it before you did!!! The only reason I waited was because I was scared you would think it was too soon. Please believe me, I really have fallen completely in love with you.
The response came straight back. Ok, I’m still scared that you might just be messing with me. I’ve never fallen for anyone as fast as I have with you. There’s just something about you, you’re special. Don’t hurt me.
I couldn’t understand how someone as attractive and seemingly as confident and charming as him could ever have those kinds of doubts. Didn’t he see what I saw when he looked in the mirror? And at the same time, how could he think I was something so special? I’m nice-looking, that’s how I’d describe myself — just nice-looking. Nothing exceptional, not striking, not drop-dead gorgeous. I’m friendly enough, but I don’t have one of those big personalities people gravitate to — I’m not the life of the party, I don’t tell crazy stories that make people fall about laughing. There’s nothing special about me. So what was he seeing in me?
I put it down to pure luck. I was lucky to have captured his interest, and if I lost him, I’d never have anyone nearly as amazing look my way, which meant I couldn’t mess this up. Which meant I needed to be more careful! Obviously, I was doing something wrong to make him worry so often. Something about the way I’d said the words ‘I love you’ had made it seem like I wasn’t being genuine, or perhaps it was the way I’d kissed him after we spoke the words.
Or, was it because we hadn’t actually slept together yet? Was that the reason he had his doubts? Was it strange that we’d told each other we loved one another before we’d had sex? Or was it better this way? We were building up our emotional connection before the relationship became sexual.
The thing is, I’d been ready to sleep with him for the previous two weeks. I don’t usually move that fast, but with him . . . I’d never wanted someone the way I wanted him. And I wanted every part of him.
Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe I hadn’t made my desires clear enough and that was why he was getting worried. But to be honest, if anyone should have been worried, it should have been me! I’d invited him back to my place three times now after different dates, and each time he’d turned me down. So at that stage, I was torn. If I kept pushing, kept asking him, would he get annoyed? Would it seem like I was being too pushy? But here he was in his messages worrying that I was going to break his heart, so if I pulled back, surely that would make him even more paranoid?
I’m not sure if that was the catalyst for my anxiety to increase; it’s hard to remember exactly when things started to get bad. I guess I can’t really pinpoint it because it was such a gradual thing. But I do know that the stress of not knowing how to keep Luke reassured was
affecting me. I was so scared of letting him down. And at the same time, so scared that any day he would realise the truth that I already knew: I was nothing special. Certainly not as special as he said I was. And nowhere near good enough for someone like him. I lived in fear of that day coming. Obviously that was out of my control, but what was in my control was keeping him reassured that I did love him. That I could never ever break his heart. That of course I wasn’t messing with him. That I wasn’t after his money — although I still didn’t really know what money he was talking about.
One week after we said we loved each other, we finally slept together.
The way it happened was a tiny bit strange. Luke was dropping me home and I was trying to decide if it would be too pushy for me to invite him in once again, when he smiled at me and said, ‘All right, are you finally going to let me see inside this apartment of yours?’
I was taken aback. What did he mean ‘let him’? I’d asked him so many times! But I was too happy that he wanted to come in so I didn’t bother pointing that out. Instead I just said, yes, of course. He parked the car and we walked in with his hand on the small of my back, shepherding me just ahead of him. In the lift, he took me by surprise by suddenly pushing me up against the wall to kiss me, hard. It was the most aggressive he’d ever been and it was an incredible turn-on. Just as the lift was about to reach my floor, he spun away from me and hit the emergency stop button. Then he turned back to me and whispered, ‘I have to have you right now.’
‘Luke! We’re almost there!’
‘I know but I can’t wait any longer.’
I laughed at him. ‘But here? We can’t do it in here!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because, that emergency button is busted. As soon as someone presses the button to call the lift, it’ll move again. We might get caught.’