He’s wearing his black button-down and holding a big, beautiful bouquet of flowers. The look on his face could eviscerate a girl. Like gut her from stem to stern.
I look back at Terrell and I know exactly what I want.
“Goodbye.” I stand on my tiptoes and press a platonic kiss on Terrell’s cheek. “Thank you for explaining what happened eight years ago. No hard feelings.”
“Goodbye, Marlow.”
I watch him walk away and then turn to look at Fionn. My heart lurches when I see the look on his face.
“So that was Terrell?”
“Yes.”
“Are ye getting back together?”
“What? No! Terrell is my ex.”
He shifts the flowers from one hand to the other. “And what am I, Marlow?”
“You’re my…”
“What? What am I?” He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “Some rando you flirted with in a bar in Ibiza? A vacation hookup?”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“How is it, love?” His voice is deceptively placid, but his eyes are turbulent with emotion. “If I am not the fella you rode to make your ex jealous, who am I? From my perspective, you left my bed to go kiss on your ex.”
“It’s not like that.”
“How is it?”
I want to tell him I’ve spent the last eight years going out with different guys because I had a need, a consuming desire, I couldn’t express. I wanted to stay in, to curl myself around the guy, my guy, to let go of the world of dating apps, sexting, ghosting, breadcrumbing, random hookups, waking up in a stranger’s bed, and dipping out before he wakes up and wants to cuddle.
I inhale and hold my breath, because I’m in over my head now.
“Terrell is my Ex, Fionn, but you’re my Oh. You’re my ‘Oh my God, he is it! He is the one I’ve been looking for my whole life. The one who makes me want to stay in when everyone else I know is going out.’”
My stomach is queasy, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m revolted by the cheesy dialogue coming out of my mouth or because I’m afraid Fionn won’t believe the cheese is legit, one hundred percent true. My Exes and Ohs monologue is almost as bad as the one Julia Roberts delivered to that floppy-haired British actor when she told him she was just a girl, standing across from a boy, telling him she loved him. Almost.
“Are ye saying ye want me to be your fella?”
“Y…Yes. I want you to be my fella, ye ’tick cunt. I want to eat shite curry with you. I want you to take me in your arms, to kiss on me, to call me love. I want you to give me loads and loads of ohs.”
“Go on, with ye.”
A slow smile spreads across his handsome face and I realize he is having a go at me.
“You’re my Oh, Marlow Donnelly. My, ‘Oh fuck, fuck yeah! I’m going to be this smashing bit of fluff’s fella.”
“Oh fuck, fuck yeah, you are, Irish,” I say, kissing him.