AMBY AWARDS TOP PICK 2023 ❤️
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"You think I can't act like I'm into you?" He asks in a whisper. He reaches out, and strokes a finger down my cheek, and I feel myself shiver at the touch.
"You think I can't convince everyone that I have f...
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2 months later . . .
Santa Ponsa, Majorca
A few months ago, if you'd asked me what I'd be doing on my 30th birthday, I wouldn't have had the foggiest idea. Maybe I'd have managed to cobble a last-minute party together. Potentially, I could have been back with Declan . . . I'd probably have ended up in O'Neills if that was the case. Or perhaps I'd be curled in a ball under my covers, trying to forget the fact that I'd just entered a whole new decade.
I certainly wouldn't have believed I'd be spending it with Ricardo Parker, my one-time nemesis. Or that the guy who thought celebrating big birthdays was "a bit of a cliché" would have surprised me with an impromptu holiday to Majorca!
"I might not be a fan of birthdays myself," he told me when he handed me the tickets, dark eyes sparkling - incidentally, I've noticed they do that far more frequently these days. "But I know it's a big thing for you." He'd grinned. "Also, any excuse to have a holiday . . . I've not been abroad in years."
So, here we are, at a hotel in the bustling Majorcan resort of Santa Ponsa. The sun is shining, the sky a cloudless beautiful blue. Ric, dressed only in a pair of black swim-shorts (give me a moment to fan myself, please), is walking towards my lounger with a cocktail in one hand and a pint in the other. It's pretty damn idyllic, even if I did have to get up at 3 a.m. on my birthday to catch the way-too-early flight.
"I told them it was your 30th today, and we got a free round," he tells me, placing my drink on the table between us.
"Can you please stop telling people my age?" I tut. He already tried to do it at the airport and on the plane earlier in an attempt to blag us freebies. It wasn't particularly fruitful, although I did get a mini-tub of Pringles out of it, so I guess I can't complain.
"One more time at dinner later, then I'll stop, I promise," he bargains, smiling cheekily at me. I don't think I'll ever get tired of that smile.
I genuinely don't know where the past two months have gone. They say time flies when you're having fun, though, and that's probably why I feel that way.
This is easily the best relationship I've been in. I'm relaxed; I feel secure. I don't feel the need to rush anything. If something bothers me, I tell him. I don't have to put on the Cool Girlfriend Act if I'm not feeling that way. Not that Ric has ever given me reason to feel like that ever since we made our relationship official.
There's that whole theory in the theatre world that if the dress rehearsal goes badly, it's a good sign for the big performance. And I'm thinking the same might be true of my life - all my previous boyfriends have been terrible shitshow rehearsals, and Ric is the amazing main event. (Despite the lack of acting talent.)
We tried to play it cool at first, attempted to spend days apart, and even retire to our separate rooms at night on occasion . . . But within the last few weeks, that self-restraint has vanished completely. We no longer have any shame.
