Why would she kiss me right after saying she doesn’t know me at all? Why then, of all the moments? It was a sentence that simultaneously hurt and gave me hope: she has never tried to know me, but perhaps if I could get her to try, she might . . .
I press my hands to my eyes. This has been an unpleasant day. Like a train bearing down on me, a great truth has been rolling in, and as I lie here in this embarrassment of a hotel room, I have no choice but to acknowledge that I want Izzy Jenkins to like me.
Because I like her. I like her stripy hair and the way she plays dirty. I like that she challenges me. I like that she’s so much more interesting than she seems at first glance. I want to be the one person who knows every inch of the real Izzy.
My phone beeps: another message from the family WhatsApp, which has turned into a long-running game of let’s-annoy-Lucas, with a detour into a series of rapid-fire questions about barbecue marinades from my sister.
Hey Lucas, how’s your date going?? Ana asks, with a gif of a giggling elephant whose significance I couldn’t possibly begin to understand.
I hesitate for a moment and then, on impulse, I tap on her name and click video call.
She answers after three rings, with her ringlets pinned and enormous fake eyelashes swooping up to her eyebrows.
“Well, hello,” she says, cocking her head.
“It isn’t a date,” I say. Whenever I call family, it feels a little strange slipping back into Portuguese again. I am a slightly different man in my mother tongue. Bolder, firmer, louder. I don’t think either English Lucas or Brazilian Lucas is the truer one, but the two languages bring out different sides to me, and right now I want to remember the version of myself who breathes through his Rs and goes after what he wants.
“But you wish it was,” Ana says. She’s looking at herself in a mirror, adjusting her eyelashes.
“Where are you going?”
“An actual date,” she says, pouting at her reflection. “He’s coming here.”
“Isn’t it the middle of the afternoon?”
“It’s nap time. I have a two-hour window and a guy who is very open-minded. Don’t deflect, you called me for a reason—what’s up?”
“Oh, I won’t take up your window of—”
“Lucas.”
“Fine. I’ll be quick. I think I like her. Izzy. My co-worker. She tried to kiss me and I blew her off because . . . she hates me. I don’t want to kiss her like that, you know?”
Ana inhales between her teeth. “And she got upset about it.”
“Mm. Now she hates me more than ever.”
“Her pride is bruised. There’s a reason it’s harder for women to approach men than the other way around—when the world tells you your worth is about men desiring you, it’s hard to take it when they don’t, and we’re scared to be rejected. You’ve given her a knock-back. You need to work extra hard to make her feel better again.”
“How do I do that?”
Ana puckers her lips. I’m not sure if this is lipstick related or something to do with me.
“What’s she like? What makes her feel good about herself?”
“She’s very independent. And she has a lot of friends. And she likes second-hand things, and pick-and-mix.”
Ana’s face suddenly warms into a smile. “Oh, you are smitten.”
I growl.
“You’ll know what to do. If you really like her, it’ll come to you, because if you’re made for each other, you’re made to heal her when she’s hurting. I have to go, but I’m glad you called. I’m so proud of you over there, studying, working, going for what you actually want. I miss you.”
“Miss you, too. I love you,” I say. Something else that’s much easier to say in Portuguese. “Enjoy your date. I hope—”
The door opens and a pink-nosed, snow-covered Izzy pokes her head in.
“Oh, sorry, are you on the phone?” she says, pausing mid step.
“Is that her?” Ana asks, thankfully in Portuguese.
“Bye,” I say before she can say anything incriminating and easily translatable. “Don’t worry,” I tell Izzy as I hang up, “we were finished.”
“Look,” Izzy says, “it’s extremely cold outside and I just got sprayed with slush by a passing bus, so I really need a hot bath. Can we just agree to coexist in silence and forget that”—she points at the bed—“ever happened?”
I will not be forgetting that kiss. Yes, it came at the wrong moment, and yes, my mind was racing, but the feeling of Izzy’s lips against mine—her hand on me, her tongue, that cinnamon-sugar scent . . . My body just lit up, as if that kiss was a match thrown on a fire, and it took all of my strength to resist her.
“Fine,” I say, clearing my throat. “Whatever you want.”
She marches into the bathroom and closes the door. I think about what Ana said: if I’m meant for Izzy, I’ll know how to make her feel better. I’m pretty sure that whatever it is she needs, I’m not giving it to her right now. I stare at the ceiling and try to think. She will want to make it clear that she doesn’t need me. Izzy doesn’t like to need anybody. She will want to feel attractive, because I’m an idiot and probably made her feel as though I didn’t want her, even though the woman haunts my dreams and has done so for much longer than I’d like to admit.
And she will want to get one up on me again, because that’s how we operate.
Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe, as painful as this thought is . . . Maybe I need to let Izzy win something.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
She comes out of the bathroom in a tantalisingly small towel, her feet bare, her hair wet. The stripes are gone. It never occurred to me that she must take them out when she washes it, but she didn’t wear them at the pool, either. I had never seen anyone with stripy hair before I met Izzy. It should look tacky, but it doesn’t. Izzy has that effect on things.
True to her word, she doesn’t speak to me. She just grabs her handbag and then heads back into the bathroom, closing the door with an emphatic click. When she re-emerges, she has dressed, dried her hair, and pinned the stripes back in. Meanwhile I have finished Love Actually and am feeling highly sentimental.
“Listen,” I begin, and she holds up a hand.
“That sounds like the start of a sentence about the incident we agreed not to speak about.” She walks around to sit on the footstool, picking fluff off her jeans.
“I just wanted to say that—”
“Lucas.”
“I don’t want you to think that—”
“Have I not made myself clear?”
“It’s not that I—”
“Oh my God, are you incapable of listening to me, or—”
“It’s not that I don’t find you beautiful.”
I almost bellow it in the effort to be heard, but as soon as I’ve said it, she goes quiet. She looks at me at last. I shift up against the pillows, folding my arms over my chest.
“You are very beautiful,” I say, more quietly. “And the kiss was . . .”
“Lucas . . .” Her warning is weaker this time.
“It was a beautiful kiss, too. But . . .”
“Yeah. It was stupid. People who don’t like each other shouldn’t kiss, that’s . . . weird and messed up,” she says, looking out of the window beside her. “I reminded myself of that on my nice scenic walk just now.”
I choose my words carefully. “My type isn’t women in tiny gymwear who watch complicated films. Right now it is a small, irritating Brit with wicked green eyes who is occupying all of my thoughts, even though my brain knows she shouldn’t be. Do you understand?”
Her eyes widen.
“But we’re not going to kiss.”
“You’re being very commanding. You know that annoys me.”
She doesn’t precisely look annoyed.
“Kissing is off the table,” I say.
She lifts an eyebrow.
“Too dangerous,” I say.
I sit forward, watching how her body responds to my movements—she leans closer a fraction after I do, like I’ve pulled her in. Like we’re still dancing.
“You’re right, it would be stupid,” I continue, letting my voice drop lower. “But—whatever you say—I do know how to have fun. Which is why I would like to propose another game of poker.”
* * *
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