Page 9 of The Meet Queue-t

Mum would have loved it here.

She’d have loved every freaking part of all this queueing up together. She’d have made small talk with the cutesy couple ahead of us, and entertained the small child behind with stories about the Queen. This atmosphere I’m feeling now, this sense of belonging to something larger than myself, would have made her feel alive.

“History in the making,” I murmur, and to my horror, my throat is tight. Thinking of Mum always does that, especially when it’s in public places like Tesco (her favourite supermarket) or the botanical gardens (another of her favourite places) or apparently, in the queue.

“Are you all right?” Oliver asks.

“Yeah, I—”

“Tessy!”

At the sound of the male voice, deep and familiar and awful, dread surges through me. My heart, never the most reliable organ, lurches out of my chest and splatters against the ground. I suck in a sharp, hard breath, and dig my palms into the edge of the stone wall to stop them trembling. This can’t be happening. Absolutely, categorically cannot be happening right now.

“Tessy,” he calls again, and when I look up, I’m forced to confront the fact that this is happening. Brandon, the man I thought I was going to marry, the man I devoted four years of my life to, is walking towards me with a pretty girl by his side.

“Hey, Tess,” he says as he approaches, waving at me. I don’t wave back. I might just be incapable of waving, or moving, or speaking, or doing anything but freezing in shock, because the last time we met, when I chucked him out of my mum’s house, didn’t I specify that I never wanted to see him again? This, right now, is included in ‘never’. Maybe I should have put it in writing or something. Got him to sign a contract that states he needs to keep a distance from me at all times or I’ll stab him in the back with a butter knife.

Never mind bringing slippers to the queue—I should have come prepared for imminent violence.

Oliver frowns at me. “Who’s that?”

My breath whooshes out of me, and just like that, I can talk again. “My ex,” I hiss through teeth so gritted I could probably crush entire worlds between my molars. “Shit.”

Statistically, this should be impossible. There are millions of people who live in London. Thousands in this queue alone. And sure, he lives here now, after he got that fancy job, but the fact he’shere? To pay his respects to a queen I didn’t even think he cared about? The odds are not on his side. Not even a little bit. This is a coincidence beyond the realm of coincidences.

But the universe doesn’t pay attention to statistics or odds, and he comes to stand in front of me with the megawatt grin I used to adore before I realised that 1) it was smarmy, not charming, and 2) he used it on lots of other girls.

I can’t believe he’s using it on me now like I’m glad to see him. Like he’s glad to see me.

Has he forgotten the blowout fight where I screamed at him, threw his toothbrush in his face, and told him to get out of my house? To never come near me again?

“Tessy,” he says, grinning up at me. I hate that stupid nickname he gave me. Hate everything about his stupid face. No good ever comes from blonde men, no matter how tall they are, or how white their teeth. “You’ve dyed your hair blue.”

The first time we’ve seen each other since we broke up because he cheated on me multiple times, and that’s the first thing he can think of to say?

Yes, Brandon. My hair is blue. I’ve got three new piercings, including one you’re never going to see. It’s been a year and I’m a whole new person you don’t know any more.

But for four glorious years of my life, I thought I loved him, hard enough I could forgive all the other stuff, like his tendency to sleep with other people. Sunk cost fallacy, I guess, because I was so terrified of letting this relationship fail. Letting him down. Letting Mum down.

Turns out the only person I was letting down was myself, but hey ho. You live and you learn.

“Thought it was time I needed a change,” I say.From you.

“Almost didn’t recognise you there, but I’ve gotta say, you stand out.” He waves a hand at the gorgeous woman standing beside him. “This is Gracie.”

Of course it is. Of course his new girlfriend’s name is fucking Gracie because she’s grace and light and beauty and everything I tried so hard to be for so long.

Here’s the thing about Brandon. He is a grade-A dick and I despise him, but he works in marketing and he’s good at it. He’s apparently got the kind of face people want to throw money at. All he needs to do is have lunch with prospective clients and they’re about ready to hand over their bank details and the keys to their house. Meaning when he turns that dazzling smile on Oliver, I’m ready to do battle.

“Who’s this?” Brandon asks, just enough possessiveness in his voice that it spurs me into action. I’m a rational woman, and I do the only thing left to me under the circumstances.

I grab Oliver’s hand and say, “This is Oliver. My boyfriend.”

Entire suns are born and die in the time before someone else speaks. I replay the line in my head, trying to hear it differently each time, the horror growing stronger with each beat of silence.

Boyfriend. I called him my boyfriend. Shit, shit, shit. What if he calls me out on my blatant lie? What if he doesn’twantto stand in as my emotional-support fake-boyfriend at the drop of a hat?

I wouldn’t even blame him.

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