I text Bram that I’ll catch him some other time, then settle down to watch the telly. I make it through a few stupid American shows and half a baseball game before curiosity grabs me by the ankles. I find myself grabbing my iPad and searching through Facebook for Kayla. I barely have a Facebook account myself, and what I do have is locked down and private, but even so I can’t help but want to find out more about her. I’m aware that I’m being a wee bit stalker-ish and I can’t exactly explain why I’m doing this, but it’s happening.
Short of adding Kayla as a friend, which is weird and unnecessary, I go on Nicola’s Facebook page and search through her pictures until I find the ones with Kayla in them.
I have to admit, for all her crass attitude, Kayla is actually a really beautiful girl. Dark, wicked eyes, long shampoo commercial hair, and just enough freckles to make her seem young and innocent, even though I know she’s anything but. She’s got a strange brand of confidence, which is always a bonus. You can tell from the way she smiles, just free and wild. Uninhibited. That perfect body doesn’t hurt either.
But I’m not creeping on her out of anything other than curiosity—she’s not really my type. Sure, gorgeous girls can be great for a quick shag, but anything beyond that is usually futile. They’re too shallow, too vain, too vapid. And once they discover that I’m more than just a rugby player, when they find out who I really am, what I’m really like…they tend to run the other way.
They always run the other way.
Believe me, I’ve seen them all, been with them all. But I’m not like Bram. I’m not proud of it. The honest truth is, after a while, being a player starts to get tiring. I’m thirty-two years old, and the days of sleeping with anyone who throws themselves at me is over and done with. And as for relationships, well, I’ve never been one to get too close to anyone. I’m just not built for it. Being alone has suited me my entire life and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
Which is why it’s really draining that I’ve had to go on a few dates with Justine already. She’s an all right girl—at least she’s easy on the eyes. Our conversations have been pleasant, and I seem to appease her with a simple kiss goodnight. But I feel pretty lousy leading this girl on.
Once again, it was all Bram’s idea. Justine’s father is loaded and has been known to make a lot of investments around the city. He’s hoping that if we get on her good side, she’ll put a good word in for us and then, bam, we’ll have enough to continue.
But because Bram is now happily attached to Nicola (thank god, since I couldn’t stand another day of hearing the lovesick fool pine for her), it all falls on me. I got way more than I bargained for when I came over here.
And I know that Justine can see through it all. At least I hope she can. I’m not exactly wooing her, and it’s been a long time since I’ve tried to woo anyone.
As if she can sense what I’m thinking, my phone suddenly lights up with a text from Justine.
What are you doing tonight? it reads.
I run my hand through my hair and sigh. I suppose anything would be better than lurking on Kayla’s photos and dreaming about home. Maybe getting out of the flat, out of my head, would be good for me.
Not much, I text back. You?
Her reply is immediate, like she already had it all typed out. A new restaurant opened up on Grant. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite and check it out.
I sit back on the couch and stare at the phone for a few moments. In some ways, this is no different from doing an interview. And even though this project isn’t my baby, it is Bram’s. I have my own projects back home in which I work tirelessly for, every single angle. I know what needs to be done.
I make plans to meet Justine and then get ready, slipping on a black dress shirt and grey trousers instead of my usual jeans and t-shirt.
Fifteen minutes later and I’m stepping out of a cab in front of some restaurant called Salt Air. There’s a line of overly fashionable people outside, and it’s exactly the kind of scene that I hate, the type of people who make me uncomfortable. All that judgement. All that ignorance. Give me a fucking pub that smells of stale cigarettes over this chi chi, Instagrammed crap any day.