The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 27

I’m finding it extremely hard to do anything.

The life of a self-employed business owner is an odd one. From the outside, it looks great. I only need to take into account my own schedule when planning a holiday. I can take a long lunch break without my boss judging me. (Although, sometimes I do judge me. I can be a real bitch of a boss sometimes.) I decide how much to pay myself and can give myself a promotion whenever I fancy one. Monday is normally my day off.

This fact in particular often makes people scoff, laugh, ridicule, and then become self-righteous. Can you really call it a job if you don’t work Mondays? But the joke’s on all of us today, because as it’s peak season, Monday has been forced to become my admin day. The worst of all the tasks, on the worst of all the days.

This is not my first Admin Monday, and every time they come around, I hate them just a little bit more. Is my hatred of Monday purely psychological? Maybe. But do I still hate Mondays? Yes.

Despite my best intentions and the treats I have tried to bribe myself with, absolutely no admin is getting done on this particular Monday because I am still knackered from the weekend. I left Noah’s early this morning so I could get a head start on things. It’s a busy week. It’s the week of the epic white cake, inspired by Noah’s cocoon. The first cake commissioned through Mika. The Smiths. The couple that made Mika sign an NDA. And it’s a biggie. It’s going to take ages to make. And that’s before decorating. So I need to be in a good place. A rested place. A focused place.

But I am not focused. I have mainly been scrolling. The only thing that finally made me stop was seeing an overload of wanky posts from Jethro, the photographer. Jethro’s here, Jethro’s there. Jethro’s bloody everywhere.

So as a result, the only admin I have managed to do is write a list of Things That Absolutely Need To Get Done Because You Keep Putting Them Off. Of course, this is not the first procrasti-list I have written, and so of course I have included many items that I have already completed, just so I can feel good about myself. The only item I have actually completed so far today is sorting out Chris’s cake. I’ve found him a replacement baker (serendipitously, Louise the annoying doughnutter posted a request for work) and emailed him with the news, copying in Louise and thereby protecting myself a little bit from his wrath. I requested a read receipt so I know he has at least opened it, although he hasn’t replied. A while ago his lack of reply might have perturbed me. A while ago I would still be planning on making his cake, but now … well, now I’m finding it hard to get too worked up or worried about anything. Even looking at my bank balance hasn’t filled me with as much dread as it typically does. And I didn’t blink twice when I realized I had made my coffee wrong this morning.

Because instead of being upset, I’ve been daydreaming.

Although I don’t need to close my eyes to see him.

I see him everywhere in my apartment. Every room, except the spare bedroom, is now a room that Noah has been in, and I can’t unsee him.

The book he was reading remains out on the coffee table in the hope that he’ll be back to read it soon. The piano is still open. His towel is still hanging on the towel rail, folded neatly for him to come and crumple.

I even look back with rose-tinted glasses at the memory of him being annoying and smelly and totally immobile in my bed. As someone who has slept alone in a king size bed for many years, it feels odd that I now see one side as belonging to someone else. Or if not outright belonging to him, he at least has a claim to it. I used to occasionally swap which side I would sleep on, just to even out the wear on the mattress. But no longer. I no longer have to do this.

I think even my family would want to hear about this latest news. Not about the evening out of the mattress, but about Noah. I wonder how I could subtly let this news slip. My brother will stop thinking there is something wrong with me, and I think even my mother will be proud. Noah is a doctor, after all. Doesn’t every parent want their child to go out with a doctor?

My thoughts are running away with me, or I am running away with them. But I’m unpractised in these kinds of thoughts, so I don’t know how to handle them. I can’t breathe my way through them. I can’t break them down and deal with them one by one. I just have to let them overwhelm me.

We have vague plans to see each other again on Thursday. It’s been four and a half weeks since we first met, well over my expiry date, and yet no part of me is panicking about this. Part of me is even looking forward to it.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t have that nagging feeling that something will go wrong.

Five hours later and I have finally completed the two necessary tasks I absolutely had to achieve today. I look at the clock. My painfully slow progress means it’s already evening. The rest will have to wait for a different time as I cannot face the boredom.

I sigh as I close down my laptop. I should stop blaming the boredom of admin for my lack of progress. I don’t know if any task is compelling enough in the face of Noah.

My phone pings. Speak of the devil. I smile as happiness surges through my body.

Is it just me, or was yesterday a lot more fun than today?

Followed immediately by a clarification.

Except, of course, for the whole ‘small child with broken bone and potential concussion’ situation. X

I hug my phone with my hands, and then to my chest. Since my morning messages, I’d been trying to not text him all day as the only messages I could come up with were totally pointless or overly mushy. As someone who hates mush, I don’t want to give it out.

I head over to the couch so I can wallow whilst rereading his words and reply.

You won’t hear this too often, but yes, you are right. Yesterday was a LOT more fun than today. I got precisely no work done. Someone (you) kept me distracted. ;)

I stare at my phone until his reply comes in. I try not to look, but I can’t help it. He is online. He’s read my response, and he’s replying for what seems like an unnecessarily long time. I have never watched anything so closely.

If I didn’t still have six hours of work left, I’d ask exactly how I kept you distracted.

His message is swiftly followed by another.

What do you want to do on Thursday? You can pick the activity. Think of it as an apology for being a distraction.

Thursday seems so far away.

A welcome distraction, but either way, I’ll have a think. It definitely needs to involve food.

How’s Henry?

Fine – Sara said he is already talking about going back to football.

And how is Orla?

I think she has a crush on you. According to Sara she won’t stop asking when she’ll get to see you next.

Break it to her softly, but tell her I’m taken ;) xx

I smile even wider. I can’t reply straight away. My heart is beating a little too fast and my mind can’t come up with anything worthy.

Another ping comes in.

OK. I gtg, but I’ll text you later. Or maybe tomorrow so I don’t wake you up. Goodnight. Xx

I stare at the message for a while longer. I consider replying with a simple smile, or even a reciprocal ‘goodnight’ message. But I want to be cuter, without being sentimental. It’s a hard line to draw, but I think a GIF could be my solution. Words might be dangerous.

After many minutes of searching for the perfect one, I opt for a cartoon. It has a little dog on the bed that turns off the light and then says ‘Goodnight’. It’s a safe choice but it’s more than just the word. The dog is cute. I could be the dog.

I hit send and go back to reread his messages, one more time, before hunting for some dinner. I scroll up to some from this morning, just to set the scene.

But as I reread the messages, the GIF starts playing and my soul plummets.

The preview cut off the last little bit of the GIF. The bit where the words ‘I love you’ appear under the ‘Goodnight’ message.

My heart beats faster again, but this time out of fear and anxiety and shame and worry instead of giddy happiness.

Oh god.

Too much.

Too soon.

Can I take it back?

I know you can delete messages, but if I delete the message, he will know I have deleted a message, and I don’t know which is worse. A deleted message or a word bomb?

I think it is better to delete the message. But time is of the essence because—

Oh god. Two ticks. Two blue ticks. He’s seen the message. I can no longer delete the message.

I am going to have to explain myself. But how do I do this? I don’t want to tell him that I don’t love him because that seems a bit harsh. Also I think it might be a … lie.

I start to type out my message but his comes through faster.

It’s nice to know we’re on the same page. Xx