“Have you been drinking?” Elliot looks at me over the top of his glasses like a very stern doctor.
“No!”
“Brainwashed by a crazed cult?”
“No!”
“Then how can you be in love with this guy if you only just met him?”
“I’m not in love with him.” Disappointment starts seeping through my body like an icy fog. “We spent most of the day together and we really connected.” Oh God, now I sound like a gushing Hollywood actress being interviewed on Oprah.
Elliot frowns so hard I think his glasses might fall off. “You really connected?”
“Yes. We have a lot in common.”
“So, how old is he?”
“Eighteen.”
“Where does he go to college?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Oh, so what does he do?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. I think he’s on a gap year.” I’m beginning to feel like I’m being cross-examined by one of Elliot’s lawyer parents.
“Right, so you’ve met your soul mate but you didn’t actually find out what he does.”
“I was only with him for a few hours.”
Elliot gives me a knowing smile. He’s starting to really wind me up now—why’s he being so mean? And to think I’d been looking forward to telling him all about Noah.
“We didn’t really bother with small talk,” I continue.
“Oh, really. So do your parents know about this?”
“No! There’s nothing to know.” I look at Elliot in alarm—he’d better not tell them.
“How can you say there’s nothing to know when you’ve put it all over the Internet?”
I sit up straight in bed and glare at him. “I haven’t put it all over the Internet. I blogged about it, that’s all. I thought it might help people facing their fears. He gave me some really good advice.”
Elliot glares back at me. “What about how I helped you on the plane? Why didn’t you blog about that?”
Suddenly, the truth dawns on me. Elliot’s jealous because he didn’t get a mention. “Oh, Elliot, I’m always blogging about you. What about the time you helped me pick a dress for the school prom? And the day you told me top-ten ways to style out a fall. I blogged about them, didn’t I?”
But Elliot just stares sulkily at the bed. “I can’t believe you blogged about him before telling me,” he mutters. “If I’d met someone who liked me for me, I’d have totally told you first.”
Now I feel really bad. I lean forward and touch him on the arm. “I did try to tell you. I’ve been dying to talk to you about it all day, but when I got back up here you were asleep.”
Elliot looks at me. “You could have woken me. And you could have returned my call earlier.”
“I’m sorry.” I feel heavy with disappointment now. “There’s no point getting all moody about it—I’ll probably never see him again.”
There’s a long, awkward silence and then Elliot places his hand over mine. “I’m sorry. It was just that when I got your blog update it made me feel a bit weird—a bit left out.”
“I could never leave you out of anything. You’re my best friend.” I pull Elliot into a hug.
Although Elliot and I have patched things up, I can’t help but feel slightly dejected. I so wanted to be able to talk through everything with him, to relive my magical day all over again, but how can I if it’s going to make him upset? Before either of us can say anything, there’s a knock on the door.
“Hey, daughter of mine,” Dad yells in a fake American accent even worse than Ollie’s. “D’ya wanna go eat?”
• • •
Dinner should have been really fun. We ended up going to Chinatown, to this restaurant called The Cheery Chopsticks, where the waiting staff were like pantomime actors. Everything they did was a grand performance, from the way they helped us off with our coats to the way they delivered the food to our table. But I couldn’t relax. Although Elliot was pretty much back to his normal self and Mum finally seemed relaxed about the wedding and actually looking forward to the big day, all I could think was, I shouldn’t have blogged about Noah. Elliot’s reaction had totally unnerved me. He’s never been negative about a blog I’ve posted in the whole time I’ve been writing Girl Online. Maybe it was really over-the-top and silly to write what I did. Maybe I read way too much into what happened with Noah. Maybe I just imagined the connection between us.
By the time we get back to the hotel, I’m determined to delete the post as soon as I get to my room. With every step we take along the plushly carpeted corridor, all I can think is, Delete, delete, delete.
“What’s that outside your room, Pen?” Mum says.
Delete, delete, delete. “What?”
“Did you order some room service?” Dad asks.
“Pretty weird room service,” Elliot mutters.
I look up and see a brown cardboard box on the floor by my door.
“Uh-oh! You don’t think it’s a bomb, do you?” Elliot says, looking at us all with wide eyes.
I frown at him. “Why would someone put a bomb outside my room?”
Elliot shrugs. “I don’t know. They might not be targeting you directly. They might have just chosen a room at random.”
I shake my head. Even though I am one of the unluckiest, most accident-prone people on the planet, I really think having my hotel room randomly bombed would be a step too far.