An Unexpected Kind of Love

by Hayden Stone

  I shake my head. “That’s not going to happen.” I’m certain of it, part of my realization after drinks with Eli. At long last, I’m letting go. There’ll be a part of me that’ll always love Eli, pain in the arse that he is, because he was my first love, my first long-term boyfriend as an adult. “He’ll always be important to me, but I don’t see a future together. Just history, I guess. And history sometimes makes people foolishly nostalgic, remembering only the good bits and glossing over the bad.”

  Ryan chuckles at that. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Not at all. Honestly, you can ask me anything at this point,” I say.

  “What happened to the man you brought to my birthday?”

  My shoulders sag. “He’s gone home. To America.”

  Thousands of miles away, and part of me was still hoping that it was him who turned up earlier on my doorstep unannounced.

  “And…are you still seeing each other?”

  I shake my head as loss washes over me, too close and uncomfortable. What to say? “I don’t think he was ready.”

  Ryan gives me a curious look. “I saw the way he looked at you, though.”

  I blink. “The way he looked at me?”

  “Like you were the only person there.” Ryan considers me thoughtfully. “Like you were the only person that mattered.”

  I gulp. “Well, I’m sure you saw the papers.”

  “I did.”

  “That complicated things. Made things more real, and harder for various reasons. Mainly for him. I don’t really care what the media says about me. I’m terribly boring and won’t hold their interest for long. But Blake’s a different story. He has a lot more riding on his public image.”

  Ryan nods as he listens. “As an actor, right?”

  “Apparently he’s a hit on Instagram too.”

  “Like an influencer?”

  I give a helpless shrug. “That’s well beyond me, I’m afraid. I just know that he wanted to be the one to control what was being put out there about him, rather than it being done on his behalf.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  Ryan gazes at me. “What do you want?”

  “Want?” Normally, I’m a reasonably literate person and words are up my street. A simple word like “want” shouldn’t be such a shock to my system, like he’s speaking another language. It’s like ice water to the face. The idea of “want” is an unthinkable shock.

  He nods. “Want.”

  I open my mouth and redden. God. The thought of Blake is dizzying, something much greater than want. That feeling of something more.

  And I need him. As much as any person can need another.

  He gives me a smile. “You know it’s all right to pursue what you want?”

  I blink again.

  “Truly,” says Ryan.

  “I suppose…I haven’t thought of things like that before.” And it’s well past time that I did, to be fair. Like I’ve been hiding out in my own head to try to keep from living with my heart. From getting hurt again. I’ve been trying to protect myself from feeling too much, expecting things not to work out. Despite my best efforts, I feel everything for Blake, regardless of things working out. Or not. Apparently, heart wins out.

  “Maybe,” he offers, “you should.”

  Ryan’s right. Since I feel everything already, I should tell Blake. Maybe he feels the same and maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’ll be worth him fighting to keep his career alive and maybe it’s not. And what about Blake’s family back home, and coming out to his dad? There’s so much on the line, but I couldn’t imagine trying to keep a huge part of my life secret. What will Blake do? Will he dare? But I’m already in so deep, I need to take the risk of telling him how I feel about him, about how much I want him, about how important he is to me. Because if there’s a chance that he feels the same way, there might be hope for a future together. If I don’t take that chance, there’s no hope.

  My stomach does flips in response. Flips of longing and need and desire. Things that I might have written off a month ago.

  “Gemma?” I call out.

  “Right here.” She emerges from between the oak stacks where she’s been working—the occasional thump of books as testament—but she’s obviously also listening to our conversation. Which would be difficult to avoid overhearing in the front room of the shop. Her hair’s knotted up in a bun and she’s wearing a Kelly-green blouse that flows over her jeans.

  Gemma grins at us. “You should totally listen to Ryan.”

  Ryan laughs, pleased. “Thanks. I’ve done my part here.”

  I look intently at her. “I might need you to mind the shop for a couple of days at least. There’s something important that I need to do.”

  “Of course,” Gemma agrees and salutes. “Reporting for duty.”

  “Promise me you won’t rearrange any furniture while I’m away or sign any more agreements?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  My shoulders relax, tension ebbing. “I’ll hold you to that.” Relieved, I nod. “Brilliant. I’ll need you both to excuse me.” I need to call Lily and come up with a plan.

  “Good luck.” Ryan winks, then turns his chair to go. “And thanks for the books.”

  “Of course.”

  “Let us know how you get on?” he calls over his shoulder.

  “I will.”

  What I want is so clear: Blake. Because, against all odds, I’ve fallen in love. And God help me, I’m going to America to find Blake and tell him that.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The problem with madcap plans is that…well, they’re madcap. So much for the comfort and routine of the shop, and the fact that it’s ready to open again tomorrow. Instead, I’m upstairs packing a small suitcase for America while Lily sits on my sofa bed, drinking wine like she was born to it.

  “You know the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” I inform her, rolling another T-shirt and wedging it into my suitcase. “God, I don’t even know what I’m packing.”

  “Let me help, being the jet-setter that I am.”

  “How long am I going for?”

  “However long it takes to find Blake and deliver your message. Clearly.” She gives me a knowing look, as though that was achingly obvious and I’m regrettably a day late to the party.

  “New York is big,” I point out.

  She ignores me. “Pack a week’s worth of underwear. A couple of T-shirts, a couple of nice shirts, a jacket, a pullover. One pair of nice jeans. Toiletries. Anything else you can buy if you need it. And just take one good pair of shoes in your suitcase, the other one is whatever’s on your feet.”

  I glance down at my well-loved brown leather boots. “Passport?”

  “Now you’re getting into the spirit of this,” she enthuses. “Make sure you have your bank cards too.”

  “God, I’m going to regret this.”

  “Have faith.” Lily’s grin outshines that of the Cheshire Cat. Clearly, she loves seeing me out of sorts, flailing in the shallow end of the pool.

  She goes through my suitcase to make sure I’m equipped to her liking. I round up Lily-authenticated toiletries and give her a wry look. “I think that’s me sorted, then.”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely.” She gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “This will be brilliant, you’ll see.”

  It’s a long train ride out to Heathrow, plenty of time for second thoughts and even more abundant fear to settle in. Fear of flying. Fear of actually finding Blake and having to see him—and talk about feelings. Lily won’t hear of any of these second thoughts, shaking it off as we walk into the terminal, which bustles with summer holiday travelers, sunburnt and festive.

  “Get water once you’re through security.” She pats my arm. “Just like a proper jet-setter.”


  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I inform her as we look at the oversize departure board for my terminal and gate. It’s a digital cascade of flight information.

  “You aren’t.” She eyes me with no small amount of concern.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll warn you if I actually puke.”

  Meanwhile, I’m eyeing the person who takes the sniffer dogs around the gathered travelers. The dog gives my bags a thorough snuffle while I watch, perturbed. Finding nothing, dog and handler move on.

  “Seriously. I’m so not cut out for this.”

  Lily pats my face and wraps a blue scarf around my throat over my black T-shirt. “There. Chic but also practical when the air-conditioning goes overtime on the plane. You packed sunglasses?”

  “Yes…”

  “A book?”

  I give her a look.

  “All right, all right,” she laughs, entirely undaunted. After all, she’s not the one flying to New York. “I’ll walk you to security after, but then you’re on your own. Time to fly the nest.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “It’s a brilliant idea. You’ll see.”

  At takeoff, my eyes are squeezed shut as I tremble. It’s terribly unbecoming, but I really do hate flying. It’s a sharp takeoff, precise. My stomach lurches somewhere behind us over London.

  It’s a full minute before I dare peek out the window at late evening summer sky, still bright.

  The only thing keeping me from full-bore panic is thinking of Blake. Thinking of how upset he was after the paparazzi photos hit the press. And, importantly, our time together before that.

  God, the heat of his mouth and the weight of his body and the things the man can do with that tongue…

  I barely look at my book during the flight to New York, lost in daydreams to distract myself and the occasional restless nap. Except they’re fake naps, because I can’t stop thinking about Blake.

  I don’t want to stop thinking about Blake.

  In a daze, I deplane in New York. Despite hours of flying, albeit west across time zones, it’s still evening local time. Adrenaline’s kicked in to keep me going.

  By some miracle, I’ve arrived intact, with my things. And I didn’t puke, not even once, though my stomach’s in knots. It’s not any better now that I’m on the ground again. Even with my dread of planes and flying, I have half a mind to turn around and get back on that same plane home. Forget about this harebrained idea. But I’m here, and I want Blake.

  After checking into my hotel, I study his Instagram for any clues. Still no selfies. But there’s another New York photo. It’s all silvery skyscrapers.

  How many people did Blake say lived in this city? Twice the size of London, at least. And how to find him through all of this?

  If I was Blake, where would I be? Where do actors hang out?

  I refresh his Instagram, then sit bolt upright.

  It’s a bloody miracle. Have the social media deities been paying attention to my suffering?

  He’s at the New York Public Library, the big one with the lions under the evening sky. At last, a photo with landmarks. And it’s just been posted.

  Time to read some of my favorite poets, says Blake’s caption.

  I gulp.

  I needed to catch a taxi ten minutes ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I race to the taxi queue outside of the hotel, barely remembering to take my wallet and key cards as I head out. The evening’s warm and close. I slide into the next available taxi.

  “To the library on Forty-Second Street in Manhattan, please.” I’m breathing hard from my sprint as I attempt to settle into the back seat. It’s exciting—till we’re caught in a traffic crawl.

  Unfortunately for us, New York traffic is as dreadful as London’s no matter the time of day. Eventually I give up on the taxi in favor of my chances on the subway. I’m blindly relying on the map app on my phone. It’s not far on the subway, but this is the most off-script thing I’ve ever done in my life. There’s fares and gates and far too many people—people who clearly know where they’re going.

  Before long, I rush up from the subway to the library. Looking wildly around, I scan the scatter of people for Blake, but of course he’s not there. Granted, his photo updated at least an hour ago, and he probably didn’t linger outside in the very unlikely event I appeared out of the blue, unannounced, to pounce on him.

  After a lap of the imposing library building and even a peek inside, I’m Blakeless.

  Glum, I sit on a bench.

  Idly, I scroll through the phone again. I need a new idea. Maybe casting calls? There’s a website that’s got loads of casting calls, but it’s hard to figure out where they actually are without signing up and getting screened in. Hopeless. I don’t think I could convince anyone, least of all myself, that I’m an actor. I might be able to fake being a musician for about five minutes, but that’s about where my performance skills end.

  The madcap adventure was all madcap and for nothing.

  Do I stay to keep looking or do I leave? Is there any point to holding on to the unlikely hope that I’ll find Blake in a city of millions?

  I have no idea where he lives, aside from his family being back in Georgia. I don’t know the name of the town, even if I drove the fourteen hours down south to make a grand spectacle. If he was there. But that seems like a more unlikely scenario than the current one, so I stay here.

  How could I have such strong feelings about a man I know so little about?

  In the hotel that night, I toss and turn, not just from the jet lag, but because my brain won’t stop. Where exactly did my feelings start to change? Was it the first date dare? The dancing that night? His challenges to me? Like he could see some part of me that slumbered for ages like a hibernating animal.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to give up.

  I don’t want to give up.

  …

  Early the next morning, I shower and go for breakfast at a little café not far from the hotel. The night passed one restless hour after another while I tried to figure out how to find Blake. Even the impressively comfortable mattress, an entirely different universe than my old sofa bed, couldn’t lull me into sleep. By morning, I have a plan. Better yet, I have a growing constellation of plans, because I’m determined.

  I look over the detailed list of casting calls, agents, and local studios I put together over a pot of tea. I’ve made five calls so far without any luck, but I’m going to call every last place an actor might be connected with if I have to. I don’t care how many people I have to call. I’ll even try Alice Rutherford, the set designer from the last film, if I need to. Or media Andrew, who brought the news to us back in London that dreadful day about the paparazzi photos.

  Last night, I also tried to sort out what to tell him when I find him. In my head, I replayed my speech a hundred times. Every time it sounded daft. But I need to tell him in person how I feel, no matter who’s there. Obviously, I won’t burst onto a film set mid-scene, but if I can find his location, and with a little luck on my side, I might get to talk to him.

  I miss Blake so much. His energy, kindness, fun. The bean jokes. The drawl of his voice. The taste of his kisses. I miss his ease, the fun we have together, his attentiveness. His kind heart and living with such openness.

  The way it feels to lie in each other’s arms, in turns debauched and reverent.

  In two short weeks, he made a permanent mark. Indelible. Not that I want Blake to be delible—not even close.

  To that end, I’ve got loads of work ahead of me today.

  I only have…forty-seven more calls to make this morning, according to my list. That’s totally doable. I’ve got purpose. It’s not just any random sort of call. These are calls that matter. Forget I’m an introvert and that I hate making even one call. It’s
only forty-seven more pleading, shameless calls for a very important Blake-shaped cause. I don’t care how desperate I sound, or how much groveling is in my future, or how unlikely any of this is to turn up Blake.

  I can’t think like that.

  After all, I’ve literally just crossed an ocean for him.

  If none of my calls pan out, I’ll go to a couple of casting events that I’ve seen advertised on social media. It doesn’t matter if I’m shit at auditions. I’m willing to go through that and embarrass myself like I haven’t ever embarrassed myself in my life if it gets me in the door.

  It’s a long shot, but I figure if Blakes’s not there, maybe I can find out where actors usually hang out in New York. Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will say, “Hey, he’s always at this bar or that coffee shop,” and I can pretend to run into him by accident.

  Or, you know, I could go the simplest route—figure out who his agent is, and come up with a watertight, compelling story that only someone truly coal-hearted could deny. Like, say, Blake forgot something very important in my shop while he was filming, something that’s irreplaceable. Maybe a watch from his family. Or, say, a lucky figurine that he always has to have on set. But it’d have to be really outrageous, like a Barbie Ken doll or a baby Yoda or even a My Little Pony. Something so silly that it’ll be bound to get his attention, that his agent will think is so ridiculous it has to be true.

  Worst case, I’ll very predictably send him a book if I can’t find him. But not just any book—that damn poetry book he returned on the day we met in my shop. It’ll be my turn to put a note inside and I don’t care who reads it. Because I’m in love and I want him and, God, we just need a chance, a proper chance, to try to make this work.

  Please, universe. I don’t ask for much.

  We’ve just had a handful of days together. Enough to tease of a promise of a future together. Enough that he’s impossible to forget, to see a million possibilities of a future together, of what things might be like. I’ll learn every bean on the planet to impress him, learn fluent vegan and ethical zero waste, and be an all-around better human.