I regretted blocking him almost as soon as I did it. Years passed without us speaking, but he still crossed my mind several times a week. Sometimes I wondered what he was doing. Sometimes I remembered his blue eyes and the particular way he had of making me feel wanted.
I had my reasons for walking away. Those reasons never quite managed to make me forget him.
Then a message arrived from a different number. It was him. The familiarity came back so quickly that the years between us seemed strangely unconvincing. We could still make each other feel the way we had before.
I was married. He had been married when we first met, but during our time apart he’d divorced and found a girlfriend. Hearing about her hurt more than I wanted to admit. Some part of me had held on to the idea of being his, despite the considerable complication of my own life.
Not long after we reconnected, I was in Edinburgh with my husband. He messaged to say he was there with his girlfriend. I believed I knew why he was there. We arranged to be in the same pub.
I sat facing the entrance. When he walked in, his eyes found mine immediately. I looked away and took a sip of wine. My husband was opposite me, close enough to notice an expression I couldn’t trust myself to hide.
At the bar, he put his arm around his girlfriend. I shifted so I could watch him and felt a sharp, unreasonable jealousy. I had helped arrange this meeting, yet seeing him beside her still caught me off guard.
He told me to meet him downstairs, outside the restrooms. I was going down as he came up. We met halfway and kissed almost immediately, both of us returning to something we clearly remembered.
Then I noticed a camera. In my scramble to get out of view, I went into the men’s restroom by mistake. He steered me toward a stall as I tried to leave. For a moment I worried about being caught; I also wanted to stay. What followed was a hurried, private encounter while our partners remained upstairs at separate tables.
Afterward, we kissed goodbye. Before leaving, I turned and saw him at the mirror, trying to compose himself. I remember feeling possessive again, certain this would continue.
I went upstairs, sat opposite my husband, and picked up my wine. The evening carried on. I already expected there would be a next time.
