“I think people surprise you and, really, what do you have to lose?”

“Pride? Dignity? Self-respect?”

“Luc, you and I both know you have none of those things.”

She’d made me laugh again—I was pretty sure it was her superpower. “That doesn’t mean I want to give Oliver Blackwood a chance to kick me hard in the feels.”

“I know you don’t. But from what you’ve said, he sort of deserves one. And, anyway, it might go well.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “that’s what they said about the invasion of Iraq.”

“We’re talking about asking a cute boy to give you a second chance. Not starting a war.”

“You have no idea how many second chances he’s already had to give me.”

“Which means he clearly likes you. Now go and tell him you’re sorry, and that you like him back, because you obviously are and you obviously do.”

“But I’ll fuck it up or he’ll not want to see me or—”

“Or you’ll be unbelievably happy together. And if it goes wrong, we’ll figure it out like always.”

That was about 50 percent comforting, 50 percent embarrassing. “You shouldn’t have to keep scraping me off the floor.”

“That’s what friends do. Scrape each other off the floor and hold your hair back when you’re being sick in the toilet.”

“You’re so sentimental, Bridge.”

“Holding someone’s hair while they throw up is one of the most loving things you can do for them.”

“You know, you could just drink less?”

“I could, but I choose not to.”

I mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“Iloveyoubridget.”

“I love you too, Luc. Now go get your man.”

“At three a.m.? How will that help?”

“It’s romantic. You’re chasing after him in the rain.”

“It’s not raining.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

“And you don’t think he’d prefer a polite text after we’ve both had a decent night’s sleep?”

She squeaked in exasperation. “No. And, besides, he won’t be sleeping. He’ll be staring out the window, wondering if you’re looking at the same moon he is.”

“How could we be looking at different moons? Also he can’t see the moon, because it’s apparently raining.”

“Okay, now you’re just stalling so I’m hanging up.”

She hung up.

After she’d gone, I slowly uncurled. I still wasn’t quite ready to stand up or leave the bathroom, but I was taking my victories where I could find them. As enthusiastic as Bridge had been about the plan, I wasn’t sure that showing up at Oliver’s doorstep at stupid o’clock in the morning would come across as quite as romantic and spontaneous as she was hoping, especially since I’d done it before—although at least then it had been at a slightly more sociable time. In my defence, on that occasion he’d dumped me so, in a way, we were one for one. If we ignored the fact that he’d dumped me specifically because of my behaviour and I’d dumped him, um, specifically because of my behaviour.

And while I got what Bridge was saying about letting him choose whether he wanted to deal with my bullshit or not, I couldn’t shake the sense that we’d hit a level of bullshittery that would make the choice kind of a no-brainer. Because this was what he was getting: someone who’d spent five years burying himself in cynicism and apathy, and honestly hadn’t been so great before then either. I didn’t want to be that person for Oliver, I didn’t want to lash out or run away every time I thought something might hurt me, but it was going to take more than a month of fake-dating and a couple of rounds of French toast to dig my way out.

It would be easier for everyone if I never spoke to him again.

But Bridge was right, he deserved better than easy. And if that meant I had to stand there on his doorstep again, and say I was sorry again, then I guess I’d do it. And maybe this time I could let him see me, all the ways I was messy and hurt and lost, and all the ways he made me better. Maybe he deserved that too.

Twenty minutes later—against my better judgment—I was in a cab on my way to Clerkenwell.

Chapter 32

I was standing on the pavement outside Oliver’s, trying to figure out exactly how bad an idea this had been, when it started to rain. Which, at the very least, got in the way of my plan to dither helplessly for twenty minutes before wussing out and going home. I mean, I still hadn’t completely written off Operation Wuss Out but, somehow, there I was, unsexily damp and terrified, ringing Oliver’s doorbell at four in the morning.

Oh shit, what had I done?

I stared at Oliver’s pretty glass panels, wondering if it was too late to run away like a kid playing a prank. And then the door opened, and Oliver was standing there in his stripiest pyjamas, his face pale and his eyes red-rimmed.

“What are you doing here?” he said in a “this is the last thing I need right now” sort of voice.

With no idea how to answer that, I called up Cam’s article on my phone and jammed it in Oliver’s face like an FBI agent in a movie.

“What’s this?” He squinted.

“It’s an article about what a loser I am by some guy I met for five minutes a month ago.”

“When you woke me up,” said Oliver, “at a time so unsociable it can’t even be called the middle of the night because that was about two hours back, I’d hoped you might at least be coming to apologise. I didn’t expect that you’d be asking me to do background reading on a wet smartphone.”

Fuck, I was fucking this up. “I am,” I tried. “I mean, I do. I apologise. But I wanted you to know why I flipped out. For context.”

“Ah yes.” He gave me one of his cold looks. “The most important part of any apology.”

Rainwater slithered from the tips of my hair and down my face. “Oliver, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I’m sorry for losing my shit. I’m sorry for locking myself in the bathroom like an emo teen at a bad party. I’m sorry I suck at apologies. I’m sorry I’ve been a crap fake boyfriend. And I’m sorry I keep showing up on your doorstep begging you to give me another chance.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture…well, gestures”—he was doing the temple-rubbing thing that meant he had no idea how to deal with me—“but I don’t understand why this keeps happening. Honestly, I don’t even understand what happened tonight.”