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I leaned forward. “Ross. Mate. There’s no pressure. If you want to go, go. Nobody will think less of you.”
I meant it kindly. I watched it land like an escape hatch.
“Yeah,” Ross said, already on his feet, already reaching for his jacket. “Yeah, I think… I think I’d better. Sorry. God. Sorry, Fi. It’s not you. It’s really, really not you.”
“Ross…” Fiona started.
“I’ll text you,” he said to me. “Tomorrow. I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot.”
And he was gone. The front door, his car in the street, done, all in under a minute.
Fiona stood in the middle of the living room with her dress hanging open, black lace, bare legs, completely deflated. She looked at the door. Then at me.
“Did you do that on purpose?” she asked quietly.
“No! I was being nice.”
“You were being too nice.” She pulled the dress closed and tied it, hard. “He wanted you to tell him to stay. He was looking at you begging to be told to stay.”
“I didn’t…”
“I know.” She sat down heavily on the sofa. “I know you didn’t. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. We went to bed and lay side by side, three weeks of build-up fizzling out in the dark.
Ross texted at nine the next morning. Sorry mate. Bottled it. Pint next week?
Fiona read it over my shoulder and sighed.
“Maybe ask him again,” she said. “In a month.”
Ending 8 of 16: Cold Feet. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.