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zoebechtle-blog · 6 years

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Unlikely Chapter 4

Despite my throbbing head, Friday flew by. I tried not to check my phone every 38 seconds, but failed. I wanted him to text me, but he had to do it first. I don’t play by “The Rules” usually (hmmmm, given my dating history, maybe I should try) but out of sheer anxiety I never call or text first. It doesn’t mean that I don’t bite my nails while waiting, however. And more than once I’ve basically bitten a whole finger off waiting for a message that never came. I tried to distract myself at work by helping in the office in between appointments, explaining some procedures to Rose’s replacement (I’m sure telling her the total wrong thing). At lunch I decided to take a walk to occupy myself, but ended up sitting in the tea shop seven doors down eating a chocolate croissant and sipping Earl Grey. I was wearing ballet flats - there’s simply not enough arch support for a walk. Plus, my afternoon appointments didn’t need to see me sweaty. It was in the best interest of my patients. I was a woman of the people.

That evening Carly and I went to see Kinky Boots on the West End. It was my favorite and Carly had gotten box seats through someone at work. We sang like ninnies throughout the show, laughing and carrying on. Afterwards we hit a swank gastro-pub she’d heard about. As we settled in and were chatting about our days, she dropped the bomb I knew she’d been dying to ask, “So, Niall?”

“Nope.” I rolled my eyes at her.

“Yep. Spill.”

“Well yes, young Niall. He’s a friend of a friend. Perhaps you’ve noticed him at quiz night. Blonde thing, Irish?”

Biting into the olive in her martini, she stuck her tongue out at me. “Seems like he’s more than a friend of a friend. You two were almost snogging last night.”

“I was just playing with his hair. It was innocent. I do that to Paulie all the time.”

“Paul doesn’t practically drool on your boobs when you play with his hair. And he doesn’t look that cozy, either.”

“Stop.”

“Z,” she started. “He rea-...”

“No, Carly. I said stop.” I knew my irritation was evident. I had no poker face - anything I thought or felt was always on display. “Listen, he’s really nice and all the other stuff. But it’s nothing. NOTHING.” She tried to interrupt and I held up my hand. “Don’t. I will not get my hopes up. Because every time someone shows me interest I get a little excited, and I am not doing that anymore. It never ends well, and I’m not putting myself through it again. Remember Adam?” I took a long drink of my martini (Ketel One, extra dirty) and stared at her.

“Right. He was a dick.”

“He was a dick who lead me on for two months and then Aaron found out he had a girlfriend in Leeds. And before him there was Sam, and, um, Robbie. In college there was Dave. High school was Sean. And Kyle The Worst. I’m not doing it. Short of Niall Horan tattooing my name on his ass, I will not believe this is anything more than friendship.” For emphasis, I smacked my hand on the table, startling the tables around us. I eyeballed people who were looking, and stuck my tongue out at a kid about 7 who was staring. Like a sensible human being, he stuck his back out at me.

I’d been unable to get over my hissy fit with Carly, so we called it a night after one drink and no dinner. She hugged me outside of the pub. “Sorry, Z. I didn’t mean to upset you. But don’t shut him down. Friend or whatever, I think he’d be a good guy to keep around.” I nodded at her and hugged her back. I wasn’t mad at her really - she said the same things I would have said if the tables were turned. But Carly didn’t have my history with men, so she couldn’t understand where I was coming from. Sigh. I dug around my purse and found an emergency Valium in my container of miscellaneous pills, swallowing it as the cab sped towards my flat.

I slept late Saturday and Sunday mornings (okay, I sleep late every weekend) and ran errands. I’d begrudgingly let Hannah talk me into hot yoga on the condition that we got pancakes afterwards. I spent the rest of my free time on laundry, had dinner and wine at one of the other therapist’s in my office’s house, and caught up on paperwork. My friends all avoided any mention of Niall - I was assuming Carly had made everyone aware of my meltdown Friday night and they were tiptoeing around me. I was okay with that, though. I didn’t post on Instagram, but went on a few rants on Twitter. Nothing exciting happened, not that I expected it to. Sadly my philosophy on life was to set low expectations and never be disappointed.

Monday began earlier than I expected when my texts notifications dinged at 6:30 (my alarm was set for 6:45 - those 15 minutes make a huge difference). Having been raised to believe that no good came of late night or early morning phone calls, and having adapted this to texting as well, I fumbled for my phone, knocking it off the nightstand. Trying to get to it as soon as possible (Did someone need bail money? Had my sister-in-law finally snapped and murdered my brother?), I fell off the bed. Happy fucking Monday.

Niall. The text was from Niall. I rubbed the tiny knot rising on my forehead (which I knew would swelll into a goose egg by the time the morning was over), and opened it.

“Dragged everyone to quiz night . Not the same without ya !

“I’m shite at the science questions-wish ya were here Z .”

Holy fuck beans. I was wide awake now. As I processed this info, another text came in.

“Oh, and it’s trivia night here . Not quiz night . Americans ;) .”

That was flirty. It was definitely flirty. There was a wink emoji. I took a screenshot of the conversation and sent it to Hannah.

“HELP!”

“HELP!

“HANNAH LOUISE GET UP! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!”

“omg. he texted you! he’s flirting! that’s total flirting!”

“i’m totally squealing for you, btw”

“Right? Me too!”

“what did you say back?”

Fuck. I needed to respond.

“I haven’t. Shit, what do I say?”

“be clever.”

“Oh, that’s helpful.”

“z, it’s 6:40 on a monday morning. you’re lucky i’m awake.”

Okay, I can do this. I carried my phone (like it was my precious baby) into the kitchen while I started my Nespresso. I tried typing in several witty answers and deleted them before I could hit send.

“Sorry, my friend. You hit the quiz night goldmine with us on your first try. And damn those dirty Americans :)”

When I didn’t get a response in a few minutes, I gave up and started to get ready for the day. In the shower (washing your hair actually causes ideas to get loose, I swear) I thought of several comebacks that would have been much better. Damn. No response as I gave my hair a quick blow dry (then gave up and put it in a bun), tossed on my fast weekday makeup (BB cream, a quick swipe of eyeliner, and mascara...lipstick could be done on the tube), and tossed on a pair of gray khakis and a navy sweater. Nothing. Bullocks. I reminded myself that this was the exact reason I didn’t want to get excited about Niall in the first place-it was too easy to get caught up and let my emotions get dictated by someone else. With a concerned effort, I turned off my phone and tossed it in my bag.

When I finished with my 3:00 appointment, one of the part-time admins was standing outside of the treatment room we’d been in. “Zoe, you need to call a Hannah back as soon as possible. She’s called three times since lunch and sounds like she’s really upset. I hope everything is okay.”

Damn it, Hannah, you drama queen. I went into my (tiny) office and retrieved my phone, turning it on. 14 texts from Hannah, 8 from Paul, 2 each from Jess and Carly, and 1 from Brian. She’d sent in the troops. As I scrolled through, I saw one more I’d missed in my initial perusal - Niall. First things first, though: Hannah. I called her extension at work and she picked up, “Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

“Wow, that’s a professional way to answer the phone. I’m fine. Turned my phone off this morning.”

“Did he not text back?” People were shouting numbers behind her and the mere idea of it gave me a rash.

“Not right away, and I didn’t want to keep looking at the phone. Just checked it since you freaking called the hounds out on me. He responded.”

“And?”

“And what? I didn’t read it yet. I called you before Scotland Yard showed up at my office.”

“Well fucking read it!” her high pitched voice pierced the line. Ouch.

“I’ll text you shortly. Call off the posse, I’m safe.” I ended the call and stared at the phone a minute. Here goes nothing.

“I did hit the jackpot for quiz mates . Brains and beauty .”

I gasped. Literally gasped. And dropped my phone, narrowly missing my mid-afternoon San Pellegrino. Beauty. BEAUTY. But mate. But beauty. But mate. Gah! This is why my spinster plan was a good idea. Copied the text and sent to Hannah with my own “WTF?” note.

I hammered out a quick response, “Yeah, Paul’s quite the catch. You did well.” It was almost 7 am in Los Angeles (thanks, Google, because time zone math always tricked me). I didn’t figure Niall for an early riser, so back in the bag went the phone and I went into my 4:00 with Elliott, one of my favorite kids.

On the tube home I couldn’t resist and looked again. Nothing. So I did what any sensible person would do and ordered eggplant parmigiana take away. I got into my flat, changed into an old t-shirt - pants were totally optional in my house, took out my contacts, and plopped my ass down with my dinner. My Netflix and chill date was Italian and delicious. A little saucy, though.

At 9:30 my phone dinged with a text. I was half asleep and could feel the pattern from the sofa pillow indented in my face. I grabbed it and saw a text from Niall.

“Paul is a nice looking chap . Not who I had in mind, tho .”

Well fuck this, I was no good at playing cute. Trying to come up with a way to come and ask him if he was hinting at liking me, I heard another ding.

“Want to facetime? I’ll turn on the Lumineers and sing to ya .”

Oh, fate, you’re a cruel mistress. I didn’t even want to know what I looked like right now. There was marinara on the front of my shirt, and I’m sure some on my face. I highly doubted that my makeup had lasted for 14 hours. And I had dragon breath. (I know, he wouldn’t be able to smell it because we hadn’t invented that technology yet, but I’d know.) I pondered if I could put him off long enough to take a shower, get a blow out, and properly contour and highlight my face. Instead I opted for a coy response.

“What fun would your singing be if I couldn’t play with your hair?”

“I’m not really up for FT right now - Monday slug night. Talk, though?”

One minute and 43 seconds later, my phone rang.

I finally hung up the phone at 00:18, GMT. My cheeks hurt from the smile I was rocking. At one point I'd laughed so hard as Niall told me about being chased by stadium security guards on his Segway that I got the hiccups. He, in turn, laughed so hard he had a coughing fit. “We’re a right mess, aren’t we?” he said as we both calmed down, an occasional chuckle between us. “Suppose we are. But at least we’re entertaining.” By this time I’d abandoned the living room and crawled into bed, almost purring when my back hit the mattress.

“What are you doing?” he asked in almost a whisper.

“Getting comfy. Just laid down in bed. It’s my happy place.” The silence on the other end of the line was obvious. Did I just freak him out? I wasn’t trying to get all sexy times, I just got into bed. My shirt and panties were still in place, for God’s sake. “Uh, I didn’t mean happy place like sex. Well, I mean, I guess that happens here, too, well, has happened here, but I’m just, um, laying down. Ya know, it’s late and my bed is warm.” The babbling.must.stop. “I just really like to sleep.”

His chuckle calmed my nerves. “I like to sleep, too, Z. I guess I was just thinking about you gettin’ cozy in your pajamas.” The tiny yelp noise I made echoed through my room. And the phone. But before I could get awkward, Niall beat me to it.

“Not perverted. Well, maybe a little.” I could already see him pulling at the front of his hair while he tried to explain himself. He let out that damned adorable chuckle again and continued. “I just think you’d look cute curled up in a big bed with lots of blankets. Probably one your gran made ya or something like that.”

My heart was beating so hard I thought it was going to explode. Unable to handle the sweetness, I laughed and said, “Do you have a camera or something in here? I thought you weren’t being perverted?” And I pulled the quilt my Grandma Bechtel made me in elementary school up closer to my chin. It scared me (in a good way, not a Jamie Dornan in The Fall kind of way) that he could imagine a scenario that was basically right on.

“I’ll keep my perverted thoughts to myself, promise. At least for now.”

Okay, well I’ll be good and goddamned if my panties weren’t on fire. “You’re testing my restraint here, Horan. I’m a good girl.”

“I have a feeling anything I say here is going to lead us down a bad path.” His voice had dropped an octave, though, and I could practically SEE the sexual tension in the air. “And, for the record, uh, I think you’re a very good girl, Z.”

Struggling to keep my heart from actually packing up and abandoning my chest, I managed to respond. “I think I should say goodnight, Niall. Or good afternoon in your part of the world.” I barely recognized my own voice. It sounded a little higher and throatier than usual. Oh my god. It was my horny voice. I wasn’t usually in a position to actually listen to myself.

“Yeah I guess it is late there. You go and enjoy your beauty sleep. Not that ya need beauty sleep, I just mean I hope you sleep well. You’re already beautiful. Just, uh, sweet dreams, Z.”

Wow.

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