by Hayden Stone
“I’ll need to, won’t I?” I say, getting onto the train and finding a seat.
“Hopefully with more enthusiasm than that,” Lily says drily.
“Sorry, I was thinking about what an arse Eli is.” Which is fair, because he is.
“God, I’m so mad at him. I’m tempted to give him an earful when I see him at Ryan’s birthday—”
I groan at the reminder. “Right, Ryan’s birthday. Shit.”
Grimacing, I stare out at the sheep across the way, with all the lush pasture their woolly hearts could desire. Maybe I should start living out here too, away from everything hectic that I have to face in the city. The train glides through the countryside.
Of course I want to say, fuck no—to avoid Eli—and bail like a champion. Because awkward. But I feel a sense of duty. Ryan is my friend too. It’s not his fault Eli’s an arse.
“I don’t want to ruin Ryan’s day. How responsible of me,” she laments, woeful. “You are coming to Ryan’s birthday, aren’t you? Would you bring Blake if he’s free?” she asks hopefully. “I’d love to meet him.”
“Yeah,” I acknowledge. “I’m going. We’ll see about Blake.”
My stomach’s still in knots from Cumbria and our abruptly ended getaway.
I can’t believe I ruined things with him. Over stupid Eli.
“See you at the party?” she asks.
“See you then.”
“Perfect.” I can hear her grin over the phone.
I hang up and spend a few minutes chewing my lip, sighing wistfully and alternately scowling. I need to send an apology. I also need to send the bean of the day. I’m sure this is how mature people adult and make up, through legumes.
The train travels for a while and then glides to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Because of course it does. If the first train back had carried on as it should, it would have been an express service to London. Now I’m stuck on the milk-run train that doesn’t even want to deliver milk.
While we wait, I scroll through an image search of unusual beans, wanting to stump him. Wanting him to know that I’m interested in things that matter to him, even if beans are a symbol of that.
I want him to know he matters to me.
And then I text him with a photo of exotic black and white dry beans, along with:
I’m sorry about our fight and not telling you about Eli’s call. I understand you’re angry and hurt. I realise that you have my dad’s guitar—could we arrange for me to pick it up before you go? Also: gratuitous bean du jour. xx
A few minutes later, my phone buzzes with a reply, much faster than I would have expected.
I’m sorry. You matter to me too. Where’s your train getting in? I’ll meet you. B.
I gulp. He wants to see me right away? Am I ready for that? He obviously made better time getting back to London with a car than my changes on the train and delays.
Euston Station in an hour. x
Silence. Then:
See you there.
When the train pulls into Euston Station, my stomach’s tap-dancing, wrapped around my backbone from hunger. Nuts will only go so far. I down the last handful of them for courage. I have enough presence of mind to at least remember my overnight bag stashed by my feet, determined not to leave my belongings scattered across England. My bag’s light since I’m still wearing my hiking boots, and I’ve only brought one slim book I’ve barely touched, rereading the same page several times over as my thoughts keep returning to Blake.
London’s muggy and hot. Already, I miss Cumbria, especially the part pre-fight. Like greedily having Blake to myself. Or making out in bed like teenagers, all tangled up in each other’s business, like we had all the time in the universe.
The sweltering day hits me as I reach the concourse, with a mix of emotions at once. Anxiety. Anticipation. Hope. Embarrassment. Okay, maybe not all the emotions on offer, but plenty enough to keep the adrenaline pumping. And enough to forget my hunger, at least temporarily.
Euston Station bustles with commuters and tourists. People drag suitcases and cluster in inconvenient places, while commuters deftly weave through the crowd on their familiar paths. Through all of this, somehow I spot Blake, holding the guitar in its battered hard case with familiar stickers. Definitely my guitar.
Definitely Blake.
Though I can’t call him mine. Not quite. And maybe not ever.
There he is, gorgeous as ever, but uncharacteristically rumpled from the day of travel. Blake’s got his backpack from the trip. He’s obviously not had a chance to have a shower or get back to his hotel, but he still looks brilliant, tousle-haired. I don’t think he could ever look terrible. He’s in a light blue shirt, khaki shorts, Adidas trainers.
Blake looks at me anxiously, wide-eyed.
I gulp, approaching him.
Don’t faint. Because seriously.
We stand facing each other. Blake grips the guitar case’s handle like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth. As for me, I’ve forgotten to breathe again and the blood pounds in my ears as I gawp at him, the rawness on his face, the toll of the last few hours that have felt like a year and more.
It’s too soon for someone to get all up inside my guts and mind and, worst of all, heart. And especially if that someone’s from the other side of the planet. I shouldn’t have fallen into serious like.
God, Aubrey, you’re one sucker for impossible scenarios.
Too many fantasy books as a teenager has left me running full tilt to unreality, some secret romantic part of me. And that secret part of me seems to be all about the rom-coms, because I can’t stop reading them lately.
“Hi,” I say softly, searching his gaze.
It’s Blake who anxiously chews on his lip.
“Here’s your guitar,” he says unnecessarily, making no move to hand it over. “I’d say it was a shameless ploy to see you again, but let’s be real: I was too all over the place to take credit for that kind of planning.”
He seems to be having the same sort of problem that I’m having. The unreality. Possibly the lack of breathing.
I swallow hard. “Thanks for bringing it to me. It means a lot.”
You mean a lot.
Transfixed, we stare at each other. There’re no adequate words to describe the tussle of feelings inside me. Thankfully, he’s slightly more articulate.
“I know this sounds stupid, but I missed you like crazy. Even though it wasn’t even a day.” Blake’s raw, open, the usual veneer of confidence gone, with someone much more uncertain in his place. Like a man who has everything to lose.
Except…how can I be that to him? So soon?
“I missed you too, Blake.” His name catches in my throat, low and hoarse.
We continue to stare at each other like we’re the last two men left on the planet, sole survivors of the zombie apocalypse. I feel just as raw as he looks. We’re both, quite frankly, a mess.
“Where do we go from here?” I whisper uncertainly.
Blake shrugs, also looking lost. “I wish I knew. I wish… I don’t know.” He gulps.
Stupid Eli. Stupid me for giving Eli five seconds of my time and ruining this bright thing we had.
“If I had more time, I would’ve written you a song,” Blake says, half joking, emotion caught in his throat.
I’m having that lack of air problem again. “You’d…you’d write a song for me?”
Startled, Blake looks at me intently. “Why wouldn’t I write a song for you? You’re incredible.”
God, that does it. My face burns. I stuff my hands in my pockets, embarrassed.
“That’s why I read poetry,” he offers. “To help my songwriting.”
I gaze at him, wide-eyed. “Probably past time for me to confess to writing poetry, then. To underscore my wanker credentials, and how I know firsthand poets are be
st avoided.”
Blake’s face brightens as if I’ve told him the most incredible secret. “You write?”
I look anywhere but at him. “Yeah. When I have time. And my poems are just short. They don’t really count.”
“Poems sound great.”
When I dare glance back, he’s beaming at me. Blake sets down the guitar case, opens it.
“What’re you doing?” I blink at him. That’s definitely my dad’s guitar, cherry red, with old battle scars from his adventures back in the day.
Blake gulps. He pulls the guitar carefully out of the case and puts the strap around his neck. It’s my turn to take over nervous lip-chewing for the pair of us.
Around us, people mutter at us standing in the way of everything and everyone, another knot of inconvenience to dodge. Announcements echo over the speakers, telling of cancellations and delays, train departures and platform updates. Nearby, a little girl runs shrieking with laughter from her mum. In the corner of my eye, I see a couple reuniting with enthusiastic kisses like nobody’s around but them.
And, in all this, Blake’s looking at me like I’m the only person here. Like the only one that matters. Gently, he plays a couple of chords, expertly adjusting the tuning. The guitar resonates through the buzz of the station. A couple of people glance over at us.
“You’re…you’re not about to do something horribly earnest, are you?” I ask breathlessly, the blood pounding again in my ears. I shiver despite the smothering heat even in the station, the din of the noise around us. My lips twitch into something dangerously near a smile. “I’m preemptively embarrassed. You should know that us Brits are experts in the indirect. In my case, possibly the obtuse.”
“If we’re talking angles, you’re definitely acute,” Blake says shamelessly with unbounded earnestness, making me laugh. He grins, buoyant.
And then, just as he gets my damned defenses down, he plays and sings without his gaze wavering from me, not even for a second, and I nearly die on the spot. His voice is melodic and the sap is singing “Crossfire” by Brandon Flowers, an indie-rock love song. I shiver, back in his arms in bed in the cottage, a summer storm rumbling overhead as we lost ourselves in discovering each other.
I’m…actually being serenaded? The attention’s embarrassing, yes—but also really fucking romantic. Nobody’s ever done that for me before. His voice fills the concourse and people stop to listen. He doesn’t look away. I wouldn’t dare. He’s so incredibly talented, and I had no fucking clue. Not like this.
I can’t breathe, all undone and wanting. Unsteady, I listen to him, wanting him, wanting a chance together. Maybe we can try again? Because I really do want to get to know him better.
What a strange, powerful realization. Against all odds.
And it’s totally impossible, because he’s going to leave, and yet he sings to me like I’m the only audience he cares about.
And it hits me that he’s not singing to me—he’s singing for me. Like a promise.
Then, I’m shaking, and when he’s done, he puts the guitar down, comes over, and draws me into his arms while I hide my face in his shoulder. He smooths my hair and kisses me, and people applaud. I barely hear them, blanking on our audience because it’s only Blake that matters as I lean into the comfort of his body.
“You’re making a scene,” I gasp inelegantly as he holds me and gives me a deep, lingering kiss that melts my knees, and who needs legs anyway? Overrated. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“I want you to know I’m awed by you,” Blake murmurs. “You’re someone I’m lucky to know.”
And that does it. I tremble as he holds me tight, whispering things in my ear that only I can hear, and how can I be so unraveled, so quickly, by such a man?
“Why’re you doing this, when you’re leaving so soon?” I whisper. “It’s only going to make things a lot harder when you have to go home for good.”
“Because you matter so much to me, don’t you see?” Blake’s lips are against my ear. His hands are comforting in the small of my back, tracing my skin under my T-shirt.
“I think I’m getting the idea.”
At last we straighten. I wipe my eyes on the cuff of my hoodie.
“L.A.’s only temporary.”
I take a shuddering breath, straightening at last. L.A. may be temporary, but when he finishes filming for good, he’ll be gone forever.
Is there some impossible way to make this work, despite everything?
Blake’s grin is huge. “C’mon. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I grab him, kiss him something fierce. And there’s more thundering applause and whistles before we get away at last, laughing hand in hand.
Chapter Seventeen
In the late afternoon, the heat’s still on in central London.
At the moment, I don’t care, because I’m with Blake and we’re kissing like teenaged fools in front of the British Library. Kissing in proximity to a copyright library can only be a good omen, right?
Out here, everyone looks a touch sunburned or sun-flushed. Traffic’s snarled; honks and shouts are a familiar backdrop on the Euston Road. Buses steadily navigate up and down the street. The exhaust fumes from the vehicles catches at the back of my throat. As we walk, we pause occasionally under the shade of a tree, or duck against a building for respite from the sun.
Suddenly, Blake turns to look at me with worry.
“You need a hat?”
I laugh. Of all the things I thought he might say at that moment, that was not amongst them. “A hat?”
“I don’t want you to burn. You’re so pale, you’re just gonna burn, right?” Blake frets. He’s irresistible at the best of times, but even more so when he’s worried about me. He digs into his gray backpack, pulling out a navy-blue ball cap with some symbol of American sports ball that I fail to recognize because I know nothing about sports ball in any country, and I know even less about American sports ball than the average person.
He plonks the hat on my head, looking pleased. “There.”
“Am I a dress-up doll now?” I tug on the brim of the hat. God knows what sort of fashion statement this makes, but the shade is welcome.
“Don’t give me ideas,” he teases, and I swat at him good-naturedly.
“Cheers. I think.” I make a face at him, but it does feel a bit cooler now. “Maybe I should put on sun cream.”
“Probably a good idea,” he agrees.
“The north clearly has its own weather system.” Hard to believe only a few hours ago we had overcast skies, and that we were in the woods. I already miss it, our private escape into nature and mountains.
“It was refreshing, I’ll give you that. And beautiful.” Blake smiles, holding my bag in one hand, the guitar in another, as I find my sun cream and slather some on, having stuffed my light jacket away. Now, I’m bare-armed in a lavender T-shirt and gray trousers.
“Where are we headed, anyway?” I glance up at him, pausing in my efforts, arms streaked white.
“Maybe my hotel? It’s not far. I mean, if you want.” Blake uncharacteristically reddens into an appealing shade like some delectable summer fruit. “If you still want to hang out with me, after everything.”
I roll my eyes, going back to rubbing the lotion into my skin. “Seriously? After such a public display, I think we’re good for at least five more minutes.”
He laughs. “I’ll take it.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Pullman.” It’s not far from my old UCL stomping grounds.
“I went to uni near there,” I tell him. “I could tour you around later, if you want.”
“Sounds great.” He looks pleased as we resume walking.
“The BL was my refuge.” I nod at the library as we go past. “Well, any library, really.”
“Not surprised,” he teases me.
“Let me guess—you were always out on a sports field or something.”
Blake laughs. “Only sometimes. I did my share of library time too, don’t worry. Even by choice.”
“Shocked.”
“Don’t typecast me,” Blake says affectionately.
We make our way past couples holding hands, families with prams. A cluster of tourists pull suitcases behind them.
Blake steals a kiss, then tugs my hand. “C’mon. We’re here.”
“What?” I blink at Blake, confused. Belatedly, He’s leading me into a posh hotel. I’ve walked past it a million times, but I never paid it any attention, because it was well outside my budget and daily routine. The air-con hits like a wall right away, sending a welcome shiver up my spine. “You’re staying here?”
Obviously, I know where and what the Pullman is. But I never knew anyone who would be flush enough with cash to actually stay in the chic hotel. Other than Eli, of course. Even on contract, he definitely earns more than me as an indie bookseller. But he lives not too far away and has no need for London hotels.
“Yup. We get special rates. Don’t look at me like that.” Blake laughs. “It’s just a basic room. No fancy suite for me. But it’s big enough that we can gather in a meeting room if we need to, rehearse, and it’s right by the tube and station too, ’course.”
Stunned, I let myself be led by the hand through the broad lobby, past dark chic mid-century style retro furniture and dramatic lighting, including a huge dazzling globe light over it all. He takes me to a bank of lifts up to the suites, crossing plush carpets where dirt wouldn’t dare land.
In the lift, Blake slides his arms around me. I lean into the warmth of his body as he holds me close and kisses me in such a thoroughly devastating way it’s all I can do to keep upright. He’s holding me in mid-swoon like I’m some sort of Victorian heroine in one of the novels I sell, and he’s enthusiastically ravishing me.