Page 36 of London, Love, & A Little Something Irish

Wait it out.

I barely spoke the rest of the night. I let my conversation with Nataly fizzle out for the first time ever. And I haven’t texted her since.

Now, standing here in the cool night air, gripping my van keys too tightly, my mind is working. She didn’t tell me about Joel. Why?

I keep replaying our conversations over the past few weeks, searching for clues.

A couple weeks ago:

Nataly: I love all of the seasons. If I’d have to choose, it would be summer. I’m a summer girl at heart. But I do love all the things associated with autumn. And spring! The cherry blossoms! And CHRISTMAS. I LOVE Christmas! I can’t get enough of Christmas. I want to celebrate before December even starts.

Me: Growing up in Northern Ireland, I have to say I’m more of a fan of summer…

Nataly: Lol I’m sure you would’ve had a lot of rainy days inside in all the other seasons. But at least you could’ve enjoyed all the hot chocolate. And all the cinnamon rolls over the autumn!

Me: Ew cinnamon rolls

Nataly: EW?! EW?! Don’t tell me you don’t like cinnamon rolls Nathan. That is unheard of. Ooey, gooey, Cinnabon cinnamon rolls covered in cream cheese frosting. The way they melt as you pull them apart. It’s basically the only thing you can have on an autumn day.

Me: Sorry to disappoint, Nataly. I once had a bad experience with cinnamon, and I now can’t stand it.

Nataly: I’m sad on your behalf. You’re missing out on the world’s greatest autumn delight. You’re also not going to get away with not telling me what this bad experience was?!

Me: I’m not sure I’m convinced. Something I’ll have to let you wait and listen to in person ;)

Nataly: Ugh stop, I want to know now!

Me: Next time

That was a real conversation. Playful. Easy. Honest. It wasn’t just banter—it felt like something more. Real. The kind you remember at 1 a.m. when you’re wondering if you’re the only one who felt it. So why didn’t shementionshe had a boyfriend? And why do I feel like she’s hiding something?

I run a hand through my hair, frustration simmering under my skin. The memory twists something deep in my chest. Itighten my jaw, drumming my fingers restlessly on the gearshift as I speed through the nearly empty streets.

I could just call her right now. Ask her why she never told me about Joel.

But I don’t. Instead, I pull up to my flat, kill the engine, and sit in the quiet.

My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I yank it out, scrolling to her name in my messages.

Me: Hey.

I should talk to her. I should ask. I’m just going to have to bring it up.

Like,“Hey, I heard you have a boyfriend, so why are we talking every day like we could be something more?”

No. That sounds accusatory. That’s not me. But I need to know.

My thumb hovers over the send button. It would open the door. It would mean confronting whatever this thing is between us. What I feel for her. Which, again, IthoughtI had made pretty clear even if I hadn’t said it outright.

I clench my jaw and pressbackspace.

Because the way she smiled at me earlier—like she was genuinely happy to see me—tells me that whatever is going on between her and Joel?

It’s not love. I know what love looks like, and it’s not that. My stomach clenches at the thought. I’m not letting her go without a fight.

15

Nataly

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