The Wake-Up Call

by Beth O'Leary

I don’t want to get Izzy out of my system. That is clearer than ever after last night. I want all of her. Her kindness, her commitment, her multicoloured hair, and the way she always puts me in my place. I want to take her home and call her mine.

Really, I’m not sure I did ever want him much. He was sweet, at first, and I’ve always gone for sweet guys—they’re safe and comforting, like milk chocolate, or boots with a two-inch heel. Nothing remarkable, but no risk of breaking an ankle, either.

But there’s no fire in Tristan. No grit. Tristan would never stand up for me; he’d never dunk me in a swimming pool fully clothed or dirty dance with me in a divorcée’s living room. In the entire time I was with Tristan, we never did anything more exciting together than start a new show on Netflix.

“You are ridiculous. It’s a lasagne! Nobody cares.” “I care,” I say. “I want you to have the best things.” She sobers at that, looking at me, round-eyed. “Lucas,” she says, softly now. “You can relax. It’s just me.” It’s just me. Like she isn’t fucking everything.

He’s made my blood boil, and my body burn, but he’s also made me laugh and challenge myself and have real fun. He is a hell of a lot more than he looks. “Deep down, I think you’re all heart,” I whisper, shifting closer.