Just a Name

by Becky Monson

  He hands me a bottle of water. The coldness of the bottle feels good in my warm hands and I quickly unscrew the top and take a few big gulps, keeping my eyes on the market rather than the man standing in front of me.

  Nate sits down next to me, our bodies close together on the small bench. We both stare out toward the market; the green, red, and yellow awnings that cover some of the booths make the place seem bright and cheery. People move in and out through the stands, perusing and stopping to make purchases or try samples.

  Nate opens his water and gulps it down quickly. There’s only a quarter of the bottle left when he comes up for air. Then he pours what’s left over his head and rubs it into his hair, the water trickling down his face. It’s a hot day in London and I feel slightly envious I can’t do the same. My hair would frizz up like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket if I tried.

  “Feel better?” I ask as I watch him tousle his now fairly wet hair around.

  “Yeah,” he says, his mouth pulling up into a grin, that dimple on his chin quite prominent.

  He fusses with his hair for a minute, only making it worse as he does.

  “Do you want some help?” I ask finally after watching him move his hair one way and then back the other way, trying to get it into place.

  “Yes, please,” he says.

  He leans his head down, and I reach up and comb through his damp hair with my fingers, trying to style it the way he had it when we left the hotel this morning.

  He sighs as I run my fingers through his dark blond locks. “That feels nice,” he says on a long exhale.

  “Look up,” I say so I can have access to the front part. My fingers go to work, as I push the hair back from his face. His hair feels lush and soft and I find I don’t mind doing this. Not at all.

  When I’m basically finished, and now just fixing some pieces, trying to get them to stay in place, I look at Nate’s face and see he’s watching me with those pale blue eyes of his.

  The intense stare he’s giving me isn’t something I’ve seen a lot from this happy and energetic guy I’m on this journey with. A tinge of something pulses through me once again and I instantly pull my hand away, afraid it might grow a mind of its own and caress that stubbled square jaw of his.

  “There you go,” I say, looking away from him and back out at the Borough Market. Warning bells have started going off in my head. I liked that way too much.

  Boundaries. Must keep boundaries.

  “Thank you,” Nate says.

  I take a quick breath, my shoulders raising as I do. “You ready to go?”

  “Let’s go,” he says, rubbing his hands together.

  ~*~

  “You know,” Nate says after taking a big gulp of his beer, “I’m having a great time.”

  We’re at a café in Piccadilly Circus eating pizza after a long day of walking and sight-seeing.

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, reaching over and brushing a couple of his fingers up my arm. Nate’s found ways to touch me throughout the day—nothing that would cause any warning bells on my part. Just small gestures here and there. A hand on my back as he guides me through a door. A quick tap on the arm to show me something. He even grabbed my hand once as we were leaving Tate Modern, and I wasn’t put out at all.

  “I’m having a great time too,” I say.

  “You say that like you’re surprised,” he says, giving me a teasing smirk.

  “Yeah,” I say, reaching up and twisting some hair around my finger. “I wasn’t sure how this all would go.”

  “Right,” he says, putting his hands in his lap. “I wasn’t sure either. I mean, I hoped, but it’s definitely weird going on a trip with a stranger.”

  I smile because once again, Nate has made me feel like I wasn’t alone in my feelings. Although I doubt he was as crazy as I was.

  I clear my throat. “So, tell me about your work,” I say. This is a topic Nate seems to always shut down. He can go on and on about his mom, which I find quite endearing.

  He can also go on and on about his friends—he has a tight-knit group of friends like me, but no women in his group. Just a group of guys who hang out regularly, go out on the weekends, play basketball during the week, and work out together at the gym Nate owns. But when it comes to work, it’s like he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “There’s not much to say,” he says.

  “What’s it like owning a gym?” I prod.

  “It’s,” he looks off to the side, down at the unfinished pizza on his plate. “It’s kind of boring, to be honest. Lots of paperwork and dealing with complaints.”

  I nod my head. Not that I fully understand, but I can sort of relate. There are parts of my job I don’t find boring, but rather more annoying. Like my team. And Tiffany. Which is the bulk of my job and makes me wonder what I actually do like about my job. I like the reporting part. I hope there’ll be more reporting in the CCM position.

  “What are you thinking about?” Nate asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  “I was thinking of the parts of my job that I don’t really like.”

  “What’re they?”

  I twist my mouth from side to side before responding. “I guess I don’t like managing my team so much.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re . . . hard to manage,” I say. This is the understatement of the year.

  He cocks his head to the side, squinting. “What do you do again?” he asks.

  This is a conversation I know we’ve had a few times, and I feel a sliver of annoyance creep down my back. Nathan—the original Nathan Jones—rarely listened to anything having to do with my work either. It was like his mind couldn’t retain anything work-related that I shared with him. I get it, my job isn’t that interesting. Working at a call center isn’t glamorous. But it’s a big part of my life, so of course I’m going to talk about it.

  I could deal with it when it came to Nathan, because on paper he was everything I was looking for: stable, successful, raised by both parents (I already had enough baggage there), relaxed—he could be the yin to my yang of need for structure. He had all those things and more. He was also supportive, but not in all the ways I needed him. At least where work was concerned.

  Looking back, I realize now that even if things seem good on paper, even if someone matches my mental list of what I think I want, it doesn’t mean it’s the right fit.

  This is all moot now, since Nathan and I are over, and I’m sitting with Nate, who has had so much information about me thrown at him in a short amount of time. Of course he’s going to forget some things. At the end of the day, what I do for work carries no weight here, since what Nate and I have is temporary.

  Nate nudges me with his elbow. “You okay?”

  I give him a closed-mouth smile. “Yeah, I’m good. I—”

  “You ready to get out of here?” Nate asks, interrupting me.

  I hmph and then chew on my bottom lip. Didn’t he just ask me about work? I guess my work is a topic all Nathan Joneses find boring.

  “What?” Nate asks, his brow pulling down.

  “Nothing,” I say and then give him a confirming smile. “Yes. I’m ready to go.”

  Chapter 23

  I haven’t thought about work in two days. Well, okay, I’ve thought about it, but not half as much as I figured I would. Sure, thoughts of Tiffany brainwashing my team and taking my job and the promotion in one fell swoop have filtered through. But Nate and I have been so busy that I haven’t even had the time to really entertain them. Marie will be so proud.

  Like right now, for instance. I had a temporary moment where I felt like I should send a note to Avery to make sure they were all surviving (aka, making sure I still have a job) as we exited the elevator on the 68th floor of the Shard. It might have been because, unlike the other tourist attractions we’ve been to, the Shard has more of a corporate feeling to it, like you’re in an office building rather than the tallest building in London. Maybe it w
as the reddish hue of the hardwood floors and dim lighting in the stairway as we made our way to the sixty-ninth floor to see the first viewing gallery.

  But then we got to the top of the stairs and walked into a three-story-high atrium with a 360-degree view of the city, and I couldn’t remember why I wanted to contact Avery. Well, I remembered, but it was like it didn’t matter anymore.

  “Holy crap,” Nate says as we stand near a window looking out toward St. Paul’s Cathedral where we were only two days ago. I thought the views were fantastic there, but from here, it seems like a little miniature toy I could squish between my fingers.

  We spend some time pointing out places we’ve been over the past couple of days. Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Tower. Nate claims he can see our hotel, but I think he’s full of it.

  “Isn’t it crazy that we’re up here and there’s a whole world going on down there?” Nate asks rhetorically. He’s having one of his “deep” moments. Which, to be honest, are not that deep. Like when we were at the Tower of London and he asked me, in all seriousness, if I thought it might be haunted by Anne Boleyn’s ghost. I laughed, but then seeing his face, I realized he had actually been considering it. At least he has his history right. Jim would have probably asked me if the Tower is where they found Tutankhamun.

  Nate is pretty smart, I’ve found. Not that Jim isn’t smart, he just doesn’t know anything about geography . . . or history . . . or how to talk like a normal person on the phone and not sound like a robot. I forgot where I was going with this . . . Oh yes, Nate. Nate has surprised me with his knowledge of history and especially with the places we’ve visited. Like when we were at Big Ben, he whipped out a ton of facts I didn’t know, not that I knew much to begin with. I mean, it’s a clock. But as he rattled off points—like the fact that Big Ben is actually the name of the largest of the five bells, and not the tower or the clock—it became more than just a clock to me. Plus, we sort of had a moment there.

  We were standing outside and studying the structure since you can’t go inside unless you’re a UK resident, and it suddenly started pouring down. I had seen the ominous clouds and wondered if we would get some rain—we’d been lucky thus far and had only beautiful blue skies. The sky didn’t give us a warning, no drop or two, just instant rain in mass amounts.

  Nate, in a flash, pulled an umbrella out from his backpack and had it over us, but not before we were both soaking wet. He guided us over to a large tree for more shelter. At this point I was shivering and my white T-shirt was pretty much transparent. He wrapped an arm around me, his other hand still holding the umbrella over us, and pulled me into him when he saw my chattering teeth.

  At first I was rigid, like this was definitely crossing boundaries. But the warmth of his body—even though his shirt was as wet as mine—radiated through me. I found myself relaxing and sort of snuggling into him, and we stood like this for what seemed like a long time, under the tree, an umbrella over us.

  I’d love to say I just enjoyed the moment, but of course I couldn’t. I kept arguing with myself—telling myself I should pull away, create some distance. But my body would not move. He was too warm and strong . . . and listen, if you were all plastered up against that body with all the muscles and the tightness, well, you’d be hard-pressed to step away too.

  I was present enough to know I liked what I felt. Nate, his tight-muscled-hotness aside, made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a while: he made me feel taken care of. That’s something I’ve always counted on myself to provide. I plan, prepare, keep things in order because it provides the safety net I desire—I don’t need other people to provide that for me. But, for a moment, it felt nice to be taken care of by someone other than me.

  It didn’t end there. After the rain was over, Nate reached into his backpack and pulled out a long-sleeve shirt and put it on me. He actually put the shirt on me, rolling up the sleeves so my dwarf arms—that’s what they felt like in his massive shirt, at least—could fit through.

  I could have kissed him then, after he helped me with the shirt and then started rubbing my arms to warm me. His face was so close to mine, and I think he wanted to. There was a moment when we looked at each other, and it would have been a small upward turn of my head, just a little bit of a nudge, and I think he would have taken advantage of the moment. But I didn’t. The word boundaries crept into my mind, and instead I forced myself to step away, giving him the subtle—or perhaps, not-so-subtle—signal that it wasn’t going to happen.

  Now as I stand near him at the Shard, looking out over the city moving and pulsing below us, I kind of wish I would have just gone for it. I mean, this trip was all about me throwing caution to the wind. Why not with Nate?

  Because he’s a person with thoughts and feelings, and although flings sound fun in books and movies, I know in reality they only complicate things—I’ve seen what they do to Bree. That’s why. And I don’t need this trip to get complicated.

  “Where’s your brain off to?” Nate asks, briefly rubbing my upper arm with the back of his hand.

  “What?” I say, realizing I’ve been staring off at the view before us, daydreaming, for who knows how long. I feel heat start to move up my face.

  “You seemed lost in thought,” he says.

  “Oh . . . well . . . I was—I was just thinking about what you said.”

  “Huh?” Nate pulls his eyebrows downward.

  “You know, how we’re up here and everyone else is down there.” I point out the window at the view.

  “Right,” he nods, his lips pulling into a closed-mouth smile.

  “You ready to see more?” I ask quickly, trying to stave off Nate from coming up with another deep thought. I know I said they were endearing, but only at a minimum.

  “Sure,” he says, his grin slowly morphing into a grand one. He’s got a great smile. Not exactly the spine-tingling, award-winning smile Logan has. But then again, Logan’s smiles are hard earned. Nate’s very free and giving with his grins. And who cares about Logan? I’ve done a fairly decent job of not thinking about him, and I plan to keep that going.

  That’s not so hard to do when Nate reaches over and takes my hand, weaving his fingers through mine. It’s a gesture he’s done before—holding my hand—but the finger weaving is a new thing. I find I don’t mind. Not at all.

  ~*~

  “I could live here,” Nate declares as we eat fish and chips at a pub with outdoor seating overlooking the Thames. It’s nearing dusk and purples, oranges, and blues from the sky reflect off the water. We’re alone out here, the only other table that was occupied having left a few minutes ago.

  Nate’s chosen to sit next to me rather than across from me this time, and I was taken aback by that at first, but then I relaxed and just enjoyed the companionship. We’re sitting at an old-fashioned wooden picnic table, his leg pressed up against mine, a lit candle in front of us dancing around in the soft breeze.

  “Really?” I ask, wondering how he could think about living here after only being here for three days, and one of those days was mostly walking around in a jet-lagged stupor.

  “Yeah,” he nods his head. “I mean, I love the city, and the people, and the history.”

  I look out at the river, watching the water move in slow, lazy patterns. “I think I like where I’m at,” I say.

  I see in my peripheral vision that Nate has turned his head toward me. “You don’t like change, do you?” he asks.

  I turn my head to him and grin. “Who me? What made you think that?”

  He laughs at my sarcastic tone. “I mean, it’s not anything you’ve done, it’s the vibe I get from you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been trying to be less rigid on this trip. I’m trying something new, doing something I wouldn’t normally do.”

  “What would you have done differently?”

  “For starters?” I say, angling my body more toward him. “I wouldn’t have even gone on this trip.”

  Nate puts a hand over his heart, an over-dramati
c expression of hurt on his face. “What? You don’t want to be here?”

  “No,” I say, putting my hand over his and pulling it away from his heart and down into his lap. I go to remove my hand, but in a swift move, he turns his over and grabs ahold of mine. “I’m glad I’m here. I . . . I just . . . well, this wasn’t my idea. None of this is like me.”

  “Explain,” he demands, angling his body more toward me, his hand still holding mine.

  “This whole trip? This was Quinn’s idea, and I did it to help save her job,” I say. I don’t feel like mentioning that, in a way, it’s also been to save my own job. That’s a much longer explanation I don’t feel like giving.

  “Quinn’s career?”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking down at the candle as the flame moves and shakes around. “She had this video go viral where she cussed on air.”

  Nate’s eyes focus out on the river, a look of concentration on his face. Then his eyes go super wide. “Oh, my gosh,” he exclaims, slapping his hand on the wood table in front of us, which causes our empty plates and glasses to shake and rattle and the candle to nearly extinguish. “I totally saw that!”

  “You have?” I ask, scrunching my brow. It now has over thirteen million views, but that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the billions of people on this planet.

  “Yeah,” he says, still chuckling. “My boss showed it to us. The woman got all mad at that other reporter and then she totally dropped an f-bomb.” He hits the table again, this time with less force.

  “Your boss?” I ask, confused.

  His eyebrows fly up. “No, not my boss. I’m the boss.” He looks away from me and down at the table in front of us. “I mean, sometimes my partner acts like my boss,” he says, giving me a sheepish grin and adding in what sounds like an uncomfortable laugh. He shakes his head. “It’s been . . . um . . . an issue.”