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I'm nursing my third drink, watching the ice cubes slowly melt into oblivion. Just like my dignity.
"Y/n, you know you can just text him yourself, right?" Charlie says, taking a sip of her gin and tonic. The ice cubes clink against her glass as she sets it back down on the sticky pub table.
"That's not how it works," I insist, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "What if he's still angry? What if he's been waiting for me to reach out all this time and now he thinks I don't care?"
Ed adjusts his glass and gives me that look—the one that says he thinks I'm overthinking things but loves me anyway. "You don't even remember what the fight was about. For all you know, it was about whether pineapple belongs on pizza."
"Which it absolutely does not," Charlie interjects.
"Not helping," I mutter, but I can't help smiling. The familiar warmth of the pub wraps around us like a blanket, the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the bar providing the soundtrack to our Friday night ritual.
"Fine," Charlie sighs, pulling out her phone. "I'll text him. But when he responds saying 'why is Charlie asking about you,' don't come crying to me." She gives me a pointed look before winking.
I lean closer, trying to see what she's typing. "Don't make it obvious! Just casually mention me, like, 'Oh, Y/n was asking about your tour' or something."
"I know how to text, thank you," Charlie says smiling, gently pushing me back into my seat. Her thumbs move quickly across the screen.
My stomach does a little flip as I watch her fingers tap across the screen. I take a long sip of my drink, trying to appear casual even as my heart hammers against my ribs. It's ridiculous, really. James and I have been friends for years. We've seen each other through bad haircuts, worse relationships, and the absolute disaster that was our attempt at starting a food podcast together. One drunken argument shouldn't have the power to derail all of that.
Yet here I am, four months later, asking my best friends to act as an intermediary like we're passing notes in secondary school.
"Sent," Charlie announces, placing her phone screen-up on the table. "Now we wait."
Ed rolls his eyes. "This is riveting entertainment. Really glad I came out tonight."
I kick him gently under the table. "Oh shut up. You love drama."
"Only when it's not manufactured by my neurotic friends," he replies, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
Charlie's phone buzzes. All three of us freeze, staring at it like it might explode.
"Well, that was fast," Ed comments, leaning over to peek at her screen.
"Well?" I prompt when Charlie doesn't immediately reach for it.
She picks up the phone, reads the message, and her eyebrows shoot up. "Interesting."
"What? What did he say?" I try to peek at her screen, but she turns it away.
"He says, and I quote: 'That's weird, I've been wondering if I should text her too. Tell her she can definitely text me.'" Charlie looks up at me with a smug smile. "And he added a smiley face."
"A smiley face?" I repeat, as if this is crucial intelligence. "What kind? The simple colon-parenthesis or an actual emoji?"
Ed groans and takes a long drink of his beer. "This is my life now."
"It's the emoji," Charlie says. "The slightly smiling one. Not too enthusiastic, not too cool."
I sink back in my chair, processing this information. "So he's not mad?"
"Apparently not," Charlie replies. "Though God knows why, considering you've been ghosting him for four months over a fight neither of you remembers."
The weight that's been sitting on my chest since that night begins to lift, just a little. I take another sip, trying to hide the relief that's probably written all over my face. "I should text him, then."
"Revolutionary concept," Ed mutters.
I pull out my phone, staring at the blank message field under James's name. The last text from him was from four months ago: Got to the hotel safe. Glasgow is freezing. Miss you guys already.
I'd seen it the morning after our fight and hadn't known how to respond. So I didn't. And then days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and the longer I went without contacting him, the more impossible it seemed to break the silence.
"What do I even say?" I ask, looking up at my friends helplessly.
Charlie reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "How about 'Hi'?"
I stare at my phone, the cursor blinking mockingly at me. "It's not that simple," I sigh, taking another large gulp of cider. The alcohol warms my chest, giving me just enough courage to say what I've been holding in for months.
"The thing is..." I start, then falter. Ed and Charlie are looking at me expectantly. "I think I might have told James I had feelings for him that night."
Charlie's eyes widened. "What?"
"I don't remember exactly what I said," I continued, the words tumbling out now. "We were so drunk, and it was late, and he was leaving for his tour the next morning. But I remember saying something about wishing things were different between us, and how I sometimes thought about what it would be like if we..."
"If you...?" Ed prompts, leaning forward.
"Were together," I finish lamely, my cheeks burning. "And then he got this look on his face, and I immediately backtracked, and that's when the argument started."
Instead of the shock or judgment I expected, Charlie's face breaks into a wide smile. "Y/n! That's actually really sweet."
"Sweet?" I sputter. "It was horrible! I was drunk and emotional and completely out of line!"
Ed nods thoughtfully. "I always thought you two had a thing for each other. The way you bicker is basically foreplay."
"Ed!" I hissed, glancing around to make sure no one heard him.
"What? It's true," he shrugs. "And honestly, I don't get why you're beating yourself up about this. So you told him how you felt. That's brave."
I stare at them both incredulously. "Are you forgetting about Olivia? His girlfriend? The successful, gorgeous accountant who he's been dating for over a year?"
Charlie's smile falters slightly. "Oh. Right."
"Yeah, 'oh right,'" I mimic, slumping back in my chair. "I basically confessed feelings for someone else's boyfriend. Even if I didn't know her that well then, I still respect their relationship. What kind of person does that make me?"
Ed takes a thoughtful sip of his beer. "A human one? Look, having feelings isn't a crime. It's what you do with them that matters. And from what you've said, you immediately backed off when you realized what you were doing."
"Besides," Charlie adds gently, "feelings are messy. Especially when alcohol is involved. I doubt James even remembers the specifics of what was said."
"But what if he does?" I ask, the question that's been haunting me for months finally spoken aloud. "What if that's why he hasn't reached out either? Because I made things weird and uncomfortable?"
"There's only one way to find out," Charlie says, nodding at my phone.
I look down at the blank message field again. The thought of James sitting somewhere, maybe in his flat or at another pub, waiting for me to text, makes my heart ache in a way I've been trying to ignore for too long.
"Fine," I say, and before I can talk myself out of it, I type: Hey stranger. Hope the tour went well. Fancy a coffee to catch up?
My finger hovers over the send button.
"Do it," Ed encourages. "Worst case scenario, it's awkward for five minutes and then you both move on."
I take a deep breath and press send. The message whooshes away, and immediately my stomach ties itself into knots.
"There," I say, placing my phone face-down on the table. "Now I'll just distract myself until he responds. In approximately seven to ten business days."
Charlie laughs. "I give it five minutes, tops."
As if on cue, my phone buzzes against the wooden table. All three of us stare at it.
"That could be anyone," I say weakly.
"Only one way to find out," Ed says, echoing his wife.
With trembling fingers, I flip over my phone. There's a notification from James.
Thought you'd never ask. Tomorrow, 2pm, that place with the good pastries? I've got stories that will make your hair curl.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it. Charlie claps her hands together triumphantly.
"See? Nothing to worry about," she says. "Though I expect a full report afterward."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," I warn, but I can't quite keep the relief and excitement out of my voice. "This is just coffee between good friends."
Ed rolls his eyes so hard I'm worried they might get stuck. "Sure it is. And I'm just drinking this beer for the taste."
I kick him under the table again, harder this time, but I'm smiling. For the first time in months, the knot in my chest begins to loosen. Tomorrow, I'll see James, and maybe—just maybe—things can go back to normal.
Whatever "normal" means when you're in love with one of your best friends.
The next day, I arrive at the café fifteen minutes early, a bundle of nerves masquerading as a functional adult woman. I've changed outfits three times, finally settling on a casual green sweater that Ed once said brings out my eyes and jeans that make my legs look longer than their actual five-foot-three reality. My hair is down, freshly washed, and I've put on just enough makeup to look like I'm not wearing any at all.
I grab a table by the window, order a cappuccino I'm too nervous to drink, and pretend to read something on my phone while actually watching the door like a hawk. Two minutes before two, there he is—lanky frame, ginger hair slightly windswept, vintage jacket that probably has a story behind it.
My heart does a stupid little flip when he spots me and breaks into that familiar smile. I stand up awkwardly as he approaches, unsure if we're hugging or not, but he answers that question by pulling me into an embrace that smells like laundry detergent and that cologne he's worn since I could remember.
"Y/n," he says, and just the way he says my name makes me feel like I've come home after a long trip away.
"James," I reply, wincing internally at how formal I sound. "How are you?"
"Better now," he says, sitting down across from me. "God, it's good to see your face."
I fidget with my coffee cup. "You too. You look... good. The tour must've agreed with you."
"Parts of it," he shrugs, flagging down the waitress to order a tea. "The shows were brilliant, the audiences were lovely, but hotel rooms get lonely after a while."
There's a moment of silence as I try desperately to think of something to say that isn't "I'm sorry I ghosted you for four months because I drunkenly confessed feelings for you and then couldn't handle the embarrassment."
James, thankfully, seems determined to act like nothing is wrong. He launches into a story about a heckler in Manchester who turned out to be his primary school teacher, and I find myself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of our conversation. His hands move animatedly as he talks, and I catch myself watching the way his fingers curl around his mug when it arrives.
"...and then the tour bus broke down in the middle of nowhere, and Ed was convinced we were going to be murdered by locals. You would have loved it," he says, looking at me with such genuine warmth that I almost can't breathe. "I really missed you, Y/n/n. Wish you could've been there with us."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. This is the moment where I should apologize, explain myself, and clear the air about that night. Instead, panic rises in my throat.
"So, um, was Olivia able to make it to any of the shows?" I blurt out, immediately hating myself for pivoting to his girlfriend. "I bet she enjoyed seeing you perform."
James makes a strange face—part confusion, part amusement—and takes a sip of his tea before answering.
"That would be quite difficult," he says carefully, "considering she's currently in Fiji with her fiancé."
I stare at him, my brain struggling to process his words. "Her... fiancé?"
"Yeah," he nods, watching my reaction with curious eyes. "We broke up about five months ago. Right before the tour started, actually."
Five months ago. Before our fight. Before I drunkenly confessed feelings for him.
"But..." I sputter, trying to make sense of this new information. "You never said anything."
"Didn't I?" He frowns, genuinely perplexed. "I thought I told everyone. It wasn't dramatic or anything—we just realized we wanted different things. She got back with her ex almost immediately, and apparently, he proposed on their holiday last week. Charlie didn't tell you?"
"No," I say faintly, my mind racing. "Charlie definitely did not tell me that."
James tilts his head, studying me. "Is that why you've been avoiding me? Did you think I was still with Olivia?"
"I haven't been avoiding you," I lie automatically. Then, seeing his raised eyebrow: "Okay, maybe a little. But not because of Olivia. I just... after that night before you left, I thought things might be weird between us."
"Because of the fight?" he asks, leaning forward slightly. "Y/n/n, I barely remember what it was about. Something about me being emotionally unavailable? Which, fair enough, probably true."
My face burns. "You remember that part, huh?"
"Not the details," he admits. "Just that you were upset, and I was defensive, and then we both said things we shouldn't have. But that's what we do, isn't it? Once in a blue moon we fight but we always make up. It's our thing."
Our thing. As if we're a unit, a partnership, something defined and real.
"Right," I manage, taking a sip of my now-cold cappuccino to hide my expression. "Our thing."
James reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine, sending electricity shooting up my arm. "I missed you, you know. Really missed you. The tour was great, but it would've been better with you there to take the piss out of me when I got too full of myself."
I look at our hands, his pale fingers against my skin, and something shifts inside me. A door that I thought was closed cracks open just a sliver, letting in a dangerous beam of hope.
"I missed you too," I admit quietly. "More than I expected to."
His smile is soft and genuine, and for a moment, I can almost believe that we're on the same page. That maybe, just maybe, I didn't imagine the look in his eyes that night before he left.
But then the waitress comes by to ask if we want anything else, breaking the spell. James withdraws his hand to reach for his wallet, and I'm left wondering if I imagined the whole moment.
"So," he says, after insisting on paying for both our drinks, "what have I missed in your life these past few months? Any exciting developments?"
I think about the promotion at work that I didn't celebrate properly because the person I wanted to tell most, I wasn't speaking to. About the disastrous date with the lawyer Charlie set me up with. About all the nights I spent composing and deleting texts to him.
"Nothing much," I say with a small smile. "Just the usual chaos."
James laughs and settles back in his chair. "The usual chaos sounds about right. Though I bet your version of chaos is still more organized than most people's idea of order."
"You'd be surprised," I say, relaxing into our familiar rhythm. "I've actually been quite a mess lately."
"I find that hard to believe," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes my stomach flip. "Y/n Y/l/n, queen of having her life together."
I roll my eyes. "That's a ridiculous title and you know it."
"Fine, duchess of having her life together, then."
We both laugh, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. Like we're just James and Y/n again, taking the piss out of each other over coffee like we've done a hundred times before.
"So," I venture, feeling brave now that the ice is broken, "are you back in London for good now? No more touring for a bit."
"For the foreseeable future, yeah. Got some writing to do for the next tour, and a few podcast appearances lined up." He taps his fingers against the table, a nervous habit I've always found endearing. "Actually, I was thinking of reviving our podcast idea. If you're interested."
"The one where we debate the merits of different sandwich fillings for an hour?" I ask, my lips twitching. “I thought we agreed it was too close to Off Menu.”
"That's the one. Though I was thinking we could branch out into soups as well. Really expand our culinary horizons."
I laugh again, and it feels so good that I almost want to cry. I've missed this—missed him—more than I realized.
"I love you too, you know," James says suddenly, his voice soft but clear.
I freeze, my mug halfway to my lips. "What?"
There's a cheeky glint in his eyes now, mixed with something deeper that makes my heart race. "You told me you loved me. The night we fought. You never gave me the chance to say it back."
The mug slips from my fingers and clatters back onto the saucer, sloshing coffee onto the table. James quickly grabs a napkin and mops up the spill while I sit there, stunned into silence.
"I... I didn't think you remembered that," I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Of course I remember," he says, meeting my eyes again. "I was drunk, not unconscious. You said, and I quote, 'I love you, you idiot, and it's ruining my life.' And then you stormed out before I could process what had happened."
My face burns with embarrassment. "God, I'm so sorry. I was drunk and emotional and—"
"Y/n/n," he interrupts, reaching across the table to take my hand again. "I'm not telling you this to embarrass you. I'm telling you because I've spent four months trying to work up the courage to say it back."
I stare at our joined hands, afraid to look up and see pity in his eyes. "You don't have to say it just because I did. Especially if you don't—"
"But I do," he says firmly. "I have for ages. Why do you think Olivia and I broke up?"
That makes me look up. "What?"
James's expression is open, vulnerable in a way I've rarely seen. "She said she was tired of competing with someone who wasn't even there. Said it was obvious to everyone but me how I felt about you."
"Oh," I breathe, my mind reeling.
"Yeah, oh," he echoes, a small smile playing at his lips. "So when you ended up at the pub that night, all fired up about how I never open up to anyone, and then you said... what you said... I was too shocked to respond properly. And then you left, and I had to catch a train at five in the morning, and by the time I got my head straight, you weren't answering my calls."
I wince, remembering how I'd silenced my phone that morning, too hungover and mortified to deal with the fallout. "I thought you were calling to tell me off for being inappropriate. Or worse, to let me down gently."
"Well, I wasn't," he says simply. "I was calling to tell you that I love you too. That I've been in love with you for years, probably. But I was too scared to do anything about it."
The world seems to tilt on its axis. James Acaster—my friend, my colleague, the man I've been pining over for longer than I care to admit—is telling me he loves me. And not just as a friend.
"Are you... are you sure?" I ask, hating how insecure I sound. "Because if this is some kind of joke or—"
"Y/n," he says, squeezing my hand. "When have you ever known me to joke about feelings? I'm just terrible at talking about this stuff. Why do you think I turn everything into a bit?"
He has a point there.
"O-okay, I believe you… I just don't know what we do now. " I try to laugh, but my heart is hammering so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.
James looks at me thoughtfully. "Well, I was thinking we could finish our drinks, maybe go for a walk, and then I could kiss you properly. If that's alright with you."
A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, half nerves and half pure joy. "That's... yeah, that's definitely alright with me."
His smile widens, and I can see relief in his eyes. "Good. Because I've been thinking about it for approximately six years, and I'd hate to have built it up for nothing."
"six years?" I repeat, incredulous.
"Give or take," he shrugs, trying to appear casual despite the blush creeping up his neck. "Though if Ed asks, it was a sudden realization I had yesterday. Can't have him thinking he was right all along."
I laugh again, feeling lighter than I have in months. "Your secret's safe with me."
James stands up, still holding my hand, and pulls me gently to my feet. "Shall we?"
As we step out into the crisp autumn air, our fingers intertwined, I can't help but think about all the time we've wasted dancing around each other. But then James looks down at me with such warmth that none of it seems to matter anymore.
We have time now. All the time in the world.