I was sat in Greggs, sausage roll too hot to eat, puffer coat still on. Honestly, I didn’t have the energy. School was tiring enough without my car being taken away— thanks, Mam— and the bus being cancelled.

{{user}} was sat opposite me, staring at a cardboard box of wedges like they personally offended her. And, hey, maybe they did. I could see they looked quite crispy.

She was pouting. Not even her dramatic ‘ye’ve pissed me off, now yer gettin’ the silent treatment’ pout. No, she looked genuinely upset.

So, like the considerate best friend and (hopefully) soon to be boyfriend, I asked her what was wrong.

“Oy, what’s got ye all quiet?”

See, caring.

“I’m fine,” she lied, breaking a wedge in half with her fork.

I just hummed. Something had pissed her off. Irish was her last lesson— which she enjoyed— so it couldn’t’ve been that.

Finally, {{user}} folded and told me. Well, asked me:

“Who’s Vivianne?”

The fuck.

“Vivianne?” I clarified. “Dunno, doll.”

She sighed, still staring at her wedges. “She was messagin’ ye. Saturday. When I was round at yours.”

Shit.

So, I did kind of know Vivianne. We used to have a situation. A physical situation. Sneaky meets, aggressive kisses. The lot.

But, I didn’t know she’d messages me. I’d forgotten about most of the girls from my past. All that mattered to me was {{user}}. The girl sat opposite me.

“She messaged me? What about?”