I could see all the way down the road for my bedroom window. It was getting towards the time we’d agreed that he would pick me up. I waited eagerly for a glimpse of his car.
I’d spent a while getting ready. Trying to choose the right outfit. I’d settled on a long sleeved blue top and some jeans. 15 year old me was satisfied. Not too dressy, but not too casual.
We’d met the night before at the Horncastle Town Hall. The place to be on a Friday night, a local community hall turned into a lively disco. Hot and sticky inside, lights down low and hundreds of young people intoxicated by cheap alcopops and hormonal lust.
No mobiles phones in those days, and I don’t think we’d swapped landline numbers. He was friendly and cute, and I was chuffed when we’d arranged to go out the next day.
The time came.
No sign. Probably just running late, I figured.
More time passed. He was definitely late now.
More time. No sign.
Lots of time went by until I finally admitted to myself he wasn’t coming.
‘We didn’t really have a firm plan, it was only ever a maybe.’ I said to my Mum later, too embarrassed to tell the truth.
‘I didn’t really care anyway.’ I told myself in the mirror. Of course I did though. You can’t hide from yourself, but aren’t teenage years spent trying to do just that, rather than just trusting your gut and accepting and feeling it?
And of course I wasn’t bothered when he started going out with my friend only a short time after.