Page 7 of Snowed In
Zoe wanted to be a mother, so she became a mother. My siblings have their partners. My colleagues have their careers, and I have an empty apartment, a job I lose interest in by the day, and friends and girlfriends that come and go with such little impact on my life that I’m beginning to think something’s wrong with me.
No matter how pretty my eyelashes are.
My phone vibrates again, but I ignore it as a group of office workers enters the pub, adding to the small throng around the bar. As they do, I finally make eye contact with the bartender, who hands a receipt to the woman in front of me.
Two things happen at once.
Someone in the group pushes me forward, trying to see what’s on tap at the same time the woman picks up her glass and starts to turn, her eyes on her feet, watching her steps.
For a second, I feel a warm body pressed against mine and then a whiff of flowers from the stranger’s hair. She clearly isn’t expecting anyone to be right behind her and gasps as soon as she realizes there is, the sharp inhale ending in a curse as she’s jostled into my chest, tipping the glass she’s holding, and the 175 milliliters of red wine within it, straight down my shirt.
TWO
MEGAN
I am not having a good day.
I would actually go so far as to say that I’m having a bad day.
And that’s fine. They happen.
It’s just that today was supposed to be agreatday. I was supposed to have my powerlifting class this morning, and I love my powerlifting class. And then it was our receptionist’s birthday, which meant cake in the office. After work, I was going to go with Lauren from sales to give blood because Lauren from sales hates needles and needs constant support throughout. Then as a reward for the whole saving-someone’s-life thing, I was going to go home, put on a facemask, and watch the cinematic masterpiece that is 1999’sThe Mummybefore going to sleep at ten p.m.
A great day.
But instead of any of that, my class was canceled, so no endorphin rush, my meeting overran, so no cake, and then David, the guy I’ve been half-heartedly messaging, was like,don’t forget our date tonight! And I was like,sure won’t! Except I absolutely did forget our date tonight because I only agreed to it when I was feeling unloved and hormonal in that week-before-your-period way. So instead of giving blood with Lauren and feeling great about myself, I gave blood with Lauren while anxiously doing my makeup and then left before my allotted “stay here in case you faint” time because I was running late and then itrained,and then I arrived at this shitty pub, and David’s allI got caught up at work, and now I’ve just spilled a glass of house red all over some guy’s shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, watching the stain spread rapidly down his front. “I’ll pay for dry-cleaning. If you give me your number, I’ll—”
“Megan?”
My head snaps up, which is a mistake as the sudden movement makes little spots appear at the corners of my eyes, but through the sudden rush to my brain, I manage to focus on the man in front of me. The frustratingly familiar man, who looks like—
“Christian?”
ItisChristian. Christian Fitzpatrick. Here. In Dublin. Which is odd because the last time I saw him was…
He starts to sway in front of me, which is weird until the whole world starts swaying, which is even weirder until I realize they’re not moving at all. I am.
“Whoa.” He grabs my upper arm, warm fingers wrapping around my bicep as he holds me steady. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m…” Nope. No, I’m not. “My knees feel funny.”
“You take something?”
“Uh, I got the bus here…” I trail off as his grip tightens, tugging me out of the chaos. The small crowd parts as if pushed, all eyeing me curiously as I’m brought over to a row of tables next to the bar.
“She needs to sit down,” he says to the nearest man, who just frowns at us.
“But I—”
“Move,” Christian says, soundingveryannoyed, and I smile a weak apology as the guy scrambles away. “Sit,” he says to me, and that sounds like a great idea, so I do, feeling like I’m going to puke.
Actually, I’m definitely going to puke, and Christian must see it on my face because he doesn’t even give me a warning as he plants a hand on my head and pushes it between my knees.
“Deep breaths,” he orders, and I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for my body to calm down.
“She okay?” another man asks.
