The Wake-Up Call

by Beth O'Leary

She grins at me, and there it is—a traitorous flicker of sensation in my gut. This happens sometimes. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, I think Izzy is the most annoying woman I have ever met, but very occasionally I can’t help noticing how beautiful she is.

I don’t understand how she does this to me, but something about Izzy Jenkins makes me want to behave very badly.

“You’re being an optimist,” he says eventually. “And a romantic.” “So . . . ridiculous?” “No.” He gives me his full attention—a rare thing from Arjun. “You’re being Izzy, and it’s excellent,” he says, as though it’s as simple as that.

“You would already know she’d say yes? Where’s the excitement in that?” “A proposal is an agreement,” I say. “It’s a lifelong commitment. You don’t do it on a whim.”

“You didn’t do this in the hope of a reward.” “I did it because it felt right, and putting good stuff out into the universe gets you good stuff back.” I spread my arms as we step between the hedges and into the car park. “Isn’t that kind of the same?”

Our palms connect hard. The feeling of his fingers gripping my hand makes my heart quicken, like the moment at the start of a race—you’re not running yet, but you know you will be.

Maybe I don’t need to keep people in my life at all costs.

Seeing her in such a different context is making it harder to remember that this is the infuriating Izzy Jenkins, and without that, she is just a dangerously beautiful woman in swimwear.

I’m human, too, I want to say. When you’re unkind to me, it hurts.

:(((((

“You’ve got to live every moment and enjoy it.” Lucas tilts his head, saying nothing. I head for the towels, then pause as he says, “No, you don’t.” “Pardon?” “You don’t have to enjoy every moment. Nobody can do that. It would be . . . exhausting.”

I want to believe that marriage is forever. When I choose to marry, that’s what it’ll be.

We are all misled and misdirected from time to time. Perhaps there really is no shame in that, as long as we wake up to it before it’s too late to change.

I am a careful man by nature. But Izzy makes me feel reckless.

Very suddenly, I see the problem. I don’t hate Izzy Jenkins at all.

“Ha!” I say, sticking my tongue out as he eventually hops through the door, breathing hard. I’m expecting a comeback about how infantile I’m being, but when he looks at me, for a moment his face is unguarded. He’s smiling. “What?” I say, suspicious. His smile smooths away. “Nothing,” he says, moving past me, angling—of course—for the only available seat.

Like a train bearing down on me, a great truth has been rolling in, and as I lie here in this embarrassment of a hotel room, I have no choice but to acknowledge that I want Izzy Jenkins to like me.

Because I like her. I like her stripy hair and the way she plays dirty. I like that she challenges me. I like that she’s so much more interesting than she seems at first glance. I want to be the one person who knows every inch of the real Izzy.

if you’re made for each other, you’re made to heal her when she’s hurting.

“My type isn’t women in tiny gymwear who watch complicated films. Right now it is a small, irritating Brit with wicked green eyes who is occupying all of my thoughts, even though my brain knows she shouldn’t be. Do you understand?”

Izzy has another go. She doesn’t quite get the final syllable right, but still, I like the sound of Portuguese on her tongue.

“And how long were you ‘accidentally’ checking me out in my swimwear? Did you see anything else of interest? Shall I quiz you on freckle locations?” “It was a very brief moment,” I say, immediately thinking about the perfect little mole on the curve of her hip.

“You would strip naked for me, but you don’t want to kiss me?” “I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.” Her eyes move over me. “Kiss me, then.”

How could anyone cheat on someone like her? As if beautiful people are immune to the damage a screwed-up man can create.

I play Jem’s voice note one more time and feel so grateful for the friends who still make space for me in their whirlwind lives; the people who know exactly why something will hurt, and who know just what to say to make it better.

I roll my sleeves up and start levering open the paint tin. This is way better than digitalising. Little does Lucas know, he’s just handed me a task that I’d choose over pretty much anything else. I smile as I dip the brush and get to work. Definitely an Izzy day.

porque la conoce 🥹🥹🥹

It is satisfying annoying Izzy. I like getting her to rise to the bait; I like making her eyes flare and narrow, and I like how her humour comes out when she’s snapping back at me. But it turns out that making Izzy happy is a hundred times more satisfying.

I wonder why I’m doing this. The only answer I can dredge up is that I want Ana and my mother to meet Izzy. And I want Izzy to realise that my family are good, kind people. Maybe that will make her see me differently.

I want to look after you. So that you don’t have to do it all, for once.

How did you get from strangers to this, where you’re like one person split in two?

The look on Izzy’s face is one I want to see every single day. I have to look away.

“If we do this,” he says, voice rough, accent strong. “Then you don’t look away from me.”

I’d follow her anywhere these days—maybe I always would have.

I am struck by an entirely ridiculous urge to trawl the ocean. Perhaps Izzy’s ring washed up somewhere? Perhaps I could . . . learn to scuba dive . . . ?

I would like to believe that I can let a person see me, and that once they have, they might think more of me, not less.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “You can. Whatever it is you want.” He turns to look at me for a split second and his eyes are as dark as the sky outside. “I’m yours.”

I didn’t know kissing could feel like this—as though it’s clearing my mind until there’s only sensation.

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.

Was that all the Izzy I get? That thought, the very idea . . . it hollows me out.

“No, Izzy. You’re not out of my system.”

From the moment he crosses into my flat and hitches me up against him, he barely says a word in English. He whispers Portuguese against my stomach, my thighs, the back of my neck, but we don’t talk.

Let her protect me from a broken heart. Just give myself one morning off from always fighting to look after myself.

Maybe Lucas did have a point when he said nobody can live life to the fullest all the time. Sometimes it’s good to curl up under a blanket and wallow.

“You are ridiculous. It’s a lasagne! Nobody cares.” “I care,” I say. “I want you to have the best things.”

“Lucas,” she says, softly now. “You can relax. It’s just me.” It’s just me. Like she isn’t fucking everything.

I am not a person who lets someone burn her twice. Life is too short for wasting time with people who don’t deserve you.

wish

“He’s not leaving, Mrs. SB,” Izzy says with a smile in her voice. “I’m bringing him home.”

“Some things change, but love doesn’t. When you know . . .” You know. I understand why people say that about love now: there’s no quantifying this. It is too enormous—too dizzyingly deep.

“Surprise!” shout Lucas’s family, their image projected on the sheets, just as I spin around to hear a different chorus of voices yell, “Surprise!” Lucas is standing in the doorway to the hotel, framed by Grigg, Sameera, and Jem.