I want to argue.
I can’t.
Because beneath the panic, beneath the instinct to retreat, there’s something else. Something quieter. Something that had been there long before I asked her out.
“Do you like her?” he asks.
The question settles heavily between us.
I could lie.
I’ve been lying to myself for months.
But the truth has been waiting patiently for me to catch up.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I think I do.”
The admission feels like stepping off solid ground.
Alex nods once.
“Right,” he says. “Then this is what’s going to happen.”
I don’t like the certainty in his voice.
“You’re going to take her to dinner,” he continues. “And before that, you’re meeting me at the Cricketers.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because,” he says patiently, like he’s explaining something to a child, “you’re not capable of walking into that situation cold. You’ll panic, say something stupid, and spend the rest of your life regretting it.”
I don’t argue. Mostly because he’s right.
“So,” he goes on, “we’ll have one drink. One. Enough to take the edge off. Not enough to turn you into an idiot.”
I hesitate. “One drink.”
“One,” he repeats firmly. “Just enough for a bit extra courage.”
I nod.
It feels like a reasonable plan.
I don’t sleep much that night.
Every time I close my eyes, my brain replays the moment. The way she’d looked at me. The way she hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t made it easier for me to retreat into the familiar safety of avoidance.
She’d simply said yes.
By morning, exhaustion has settled into my body like weight. By afternoon, anticipation has taken its place. By evening, panic has fully taken over.
I arrive at the Cricketers early.
Too early.
The pub is quieter than usual, the absence of noise making it harder to disappear into the background. Every second stretches. Every thought circles the same unavoidable conclusion.
I am going to ruin this.