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I typed and deleted for twenty minutes. In the end I sent the simplest version.
“Tess, it’s Ben. I’m so sorry about tonight. I wasn’t judging you. I was just shocked. You’re brilliant, and you didn’t deserve to stand on my doormat feeling weird. Hope you got home safe.”
Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
“Home safe. You weren’t weird. Well, a bit weird. You said oh my God four times.”
“You said it twice.”
“I’m a professional. Twice is my limit.” A pause. Then: “Honestly though, thank you. Most men would have been gross about it. You paid and apologised and looked like you wanted to be swallowed by the carpet. It was quite sweet.”
We texted until three. About Gemma and her terrible new boyfriend who played the ukulele. About Tess’s master’s. About how she’d once fallen in my parents’ pond at a barbecue and I’d fished her out, which I’d forgotten and she clearly hadn’t.
At ten to three she sent: “Can I be honest? A small part of me was disappointed you cancelled.”
I stared at that for a full minute.
“Only a small part?”
“Don’t push it, Hartley.”
I sat up in bed. My heart was going like I’d run for a bus.
There were two things I could say next. One was brave. The other was braver.