An Unexpected Kind of Love (When Snow Falls)

by Hayden Stone

  “Would you be mortally offended if I had a kebab now?” I ask, light-headed with the euphoria of the night. With the taste of Blake’s kisses still light on my lips.

  What is this strange, warm feeling? A big night out, beyond reckoning. The first in an eternity. Or is it an eon? Even nights out with friends don’t see me feeling so relaxed by the end of it.

  We’re kisses and air, fingers and goose bumps. Part of me is sorely tempted to drag him back to my place to carry on.

  Except I can’t.

  I can’t show him how I live. Where I live. Not a chance.

  “These are the meat snacks you want?” Blake’s entirely irreverent.

  “Chickpeas and kale aren’t the same at two in the morning,” I protest. “But now I feel terrible. Selfish of me.”

  “Oh no. I want you to have your kebab fix because you deserve it.” Blake smiles.

  “Would you eat chips, at least?”

  “I just might. Fries, as we say in American.”

  “Cute. Let’s go.”

  We don’t have to go too far to find people queueing for kebabs at a nearby shop, the spillover from the club. Before terribly long, we have our food and it’s beautiful in its deep-fried glory. Blake’s happy with his falafel and chips. I have my favorite kebab. We alternately walk and pause to eat.

  We’ve definitely missed the last tubes and trains. Taxis are scarce, empty ones even more so. We could try to find a taxi rank but taxis are too expensive anyway. Which means—

  “Are you staying near Soho?” I ask once we finish eating.

  Blake nods. “Do you…” he falters, searching my eyes, “want to come back with me?”

  Part of me screams a “yes, fuck yes, right now” sort of yes. I’m having far, far too much fun with him tonight, even more galaxies over from my usual problems—and fuck me if it’s not a terrifying idea. The greedy part that wants more fun fights with the part that’s nervous for more.

  Because if there’s more, what does that mean?

  I hesitate. “I…”

  “No pressure,” Blake says in a rush, tripping over his words in his eagerness to put me at ease. “I mean, we’ve had a lot to drink. And eat. And…”

  I gulp, gazing at this entirely too beautiful man, like nature made him to torment me and his legions of Instagram followers. He’s all angles, eyes a soft blue beneath the streetlamps.

  It would be very easy to lick my way along his jaw right now.

  Not. Helping.

  “Would you…” I take his hand, gulping in a steadying breath. Or something like it, from back when oxygen and I were friends. “Be offended if I said not tonight?”

  His expression softens. “Of course not. I mean, I want you to be comfortable.”

  “I know I’m being weird. I’m like the anti-Grindr right now. I’m kind of mortified, actually. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

  Reasons pop up. The shock of our impulsive tryst. Self-consciousness. Too much to drink tonight might lead to another freak-out—and I definitely don’t want that.

  I don’t want to ruin this thrilling, fabulous night.

  “It’s fine, don’t worry. I’ve come out with you because you’re interesting and funny—and hot—and I want to spend time with you. You don’t need to come back to the hotel with me… I just want you to know I’ve had a lot of fun with you tonight.”

  We stand in a bath of light cast by the streetlamp. The heat from the day still lingers at 3:00 a.m., close to the skin and sultry. Like Blake’s hand in mine.

  “I still feel like a numpty,” I confess.

  “I don’t even know what that is, but I think I get the idea,” teases Blake, all nighttime sleek.

  “I can try to make up for being daft by attempting to navigate the night bus to get us closer to Soho again.” With that, I retrieve my phone from the depths of my pocket, lost in schedules and maps. I’m fucked if I’m too drunk to figure this out.

  “How about this one?” Blake squints into the distance at an approaching double-decker. “It’s at least headed south.”

  “How do you know that?” Aghast, I stare at him. A newbie in town, and he’s already a pro at public transport. Meanwhile, I flail around rather uselessly, especially for someone who should very well know the night bus routes like a second heartbeat, having grown up in London. But the honest truth is that I’ve had far more nights in with books than mad nights out, no matter what Gemma thinks of me and my quasi-rocker looks.

  It’s been years since I’ve had big nights out on the regular, going to gigs with friends. When I did, often enough, we were in stumbling distance to someone’s flat. Or the gig was in someone’s flat.

  At any rate, I better not reveal how much of a recluse I’ve been lately if I’m going to save any face at all.

  He’s still looking at me while I have a moment of internal Transport for London existential despair. I’m fairly confident this is the right bus, but—

  “Well,” he says, lowering his voice, “wanna know a secret?”

  “Of course.” Impatient, I look at the bus as he flags it to stop, the official stop just ahead.

  “It’s in the southbound lane.” With that, Blake winks and boards. We tap in and join the jostle of travelers trying to negotiate London at an unholy hour.

  “We could end up absolutely anywhere,” I say. “Shit, Croydon if we’re unlucky.” Not that Croydon’s particularly unlucky, just that it’s very much not where I want to end up tonight. “How about we go to the river for a walk? More of the local tour. Show you some more of the city.”

  His eyes dance. Neither of us wants to call it a night quite yet.

  We cling to the handrails.

  “That’s part of the fun.” Mischief in his eyes, his hand brushes mine, and it’s all I can do to hang on. “Not knowing where we might end up together.”

  That’s how we find ourselves along the Thames sometime later, watching the sky shift through a cascade of pink-orange clouds at dawn. We’ve found tea despite all odds and the unsociable hours. We walk along the promenade in easy company, relaxed. The city is ours.

  “Wait, wait.” Blake tugs at my hand to stop. We’re at Waterloo Bridge, with the makings of a fantastic sunrise to the east.

  Pausing, I take the chance to study him as he marvels at London looking its best with the golden promise of morning light. He pulls out his phone for a couple of pictures, and I follow suit.

  “I wish I had my proper camera with me, but it’s amazing what phones can do,” Blake marvels. He glances over at me with a broad smile.

  “You’re also into photography?” I ask, surprised. And then I feel rather silly, because it’s obvious that he’s into it to some degree, given the fabulous catalogue of images he has curated on Instagram. And they’re not all selfies, but brilliant photos too of city life and the occasional foray into nature.

  “You bet. You too?” Blake looks intrigued, lowering his phone as he studies me in a way that’s thrilling.

  I nod and give him a wry smile. “I do, when I can. I have a couple of old film cameras that are fun to play with, see what they can do.”

  He brightens at the surprise of this common ground between us. “Oh, I’d love to see your photos sometime. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind.” The words come out before I have a chance to hesitate, a thrill running through me. “I’d be happy to show you. I mean, I don’t have a fancy setup or anything like that.”

  He waves my belated backtracking off, clearly not dissuaded. “It’s not about a fancy camera. Just the way you see things. And I’d love to see the way you see things.”

  And we stand on Waterloo Bridge in a pink-gold haze, unable to stop grinning at each other even if we wanted to. Like the promise of everything that might be hanging between us. As though the countries and wo
rlds between us don’t mean a thing at all.

  “Oh, and just look at that. It’s the perfect amount of cloud.” Blake sighs happily. “Would you stand against the rail so I can get your photo?”

  “Me?” I ask, startled, glancing up at the spectacular skies shifting overhead.

  “You,” confirms Blake with confidence. “You’re the most beautiful part of today.”

  Somehow I don’t swoon or mock him, which I’d like to think is some kind of growth. Instead, I just laugh and shake my head at his hopeful look, phone in hand.

  “Please?” he entreats, in the most appealing way possible—which, for the record, is essentially impossible to say no to for such a simple thing. And I definitely don’t want to say no, even if he is entirely mad to think I’m more beautiful than the sunrise.

  “Just this once,” I tease him, leaning against the rail. Over us, the progression of dawn transforms London into something stunning, all warm tones over historic and glass buildings.

  Blake grins. “Awesome.”

  And I admire him, my expression soft. Thinking how I can be falling into serious like for someone I only met a few days ago. That for all of the differences between us, there might be some common ground too.

  He frames the shot, his expression thoughtful as he does. The wind teases us, fresh before the swelter of the day, a fine morning. The river glistens. Traffic trickles past.

  We swap places, because it’s only fair. And it’s my turn to take a photo of Blake, his stunning grin and open expression just for me, attention rapt.

  Goose bumps cover my arms beneath my light jacket, riding the euphoria of the last few hours as if fatigue is a thing that only other people worry about.

  He pulls me in finally for a quick kiss. “Selfie,” Blake declares. With his arm around me, he stretches out a long arm to capture us both, with him trying to sneak in a kiss while we laugh.

  “Those’ll be dreadful,” I assure him.

  “Pure gold, these.” Delighted, he shows me the photos of us laughing, unguarded. My hair’s tousled by the wind, Blake’s dark hair in compliance due to the skillful application of styling product. Some unstressed Aubrey lives in Blake’s phone. Where did he come from?

  “Filming’s going to be tough tomorrow. I guess today,” I say gamely. “You think you’ll be able to get some sleep?”

  “Maybe. Sometimes it’s better just to keep going. It’s totally worth the missed sleep, though. This night out with you.”

  He gazes intently at me and I meet his gaze just as intently. Then, he brushes his lips against mine. And we melt into each other for a stolen moment beneath the awakening city. We’re all pink-gold sunrise too. And right now, here, Blake is all mine, in a private moment just for us.

  Out here, in this early morning London, everything’s ours.

  Chapter Ten

  When I collapse—alone—onto the creak of my sofa bed, I’m light-headed with exhaustion. And something like joy, if I’m completely honest. The room reels. Morning sunlight spills into the room from the gap between the curtains where they’re not fully drawn.

  As I drift off, my last vision is that of Blake, following a furtive peek on Instagram.

  Social media isn’t entirely terrible, after all. It’s my last coherent thought before passing out.

  By the time I open my eyes much later, the room swelters. The angle of sunlight creeping up the wall tells me it’s far later than I usually wake. With the filming chaos downstairs rumbling through the hardwood due to shoddy soundproofing between floors, I have the luxury of a rare lie-in.

  Downstairs, it could be a break in the filming, given the noise. Which means I’ll have a chance at the kettle to temper the dull thump in my head. Too much fun, not enough water.

  But God, it was worth it. Something dangerous like euphoria still lingers, the secret thrill when I look at the picture we took together at dawn. Imagine relaxing with Blake, a day spent lazy in bed.

  Lying sprawled on the bed, it’s terribly easy to think the whole thing last night was a very vivid dream. I imagine being in Blake’s arms. Dancing. With me, his mouth brushing my cheekbone. Later, we shared teasing kisses along the river.

  That had to be some other Aubrey. Some other Blake. And reality borrowed from someone else who isn’t me.

  Right now, all I need to think about is tea.

  Something tangible. Something real.

  …

  The day passes in a rare lazy idyll. As the sunbeam shifts through my bedsit, me and my cat chasing the warmth, I spend the day alternately reading and drowsing, with a couple of trips out to the catering tent to bring out food. I haven’t seen Blake amid the filming today.

  There’s a fair bit of waffling that occupies the hours.

  Should I text? Do we have a texting sort of…well, certainly not relationship. Status?

  Even friendship seems far-fetched. Though all evidence points to more than a one-time hookup, if vegan meals and midnight kebabs are any proof. And—the dancing. Plus, there’s the lust that took us in the corner of the club.

  I still can’t get over being so close with him, our bodies pressed in the swelter of the dance floor. Or his hands teasing me despite being surrounded by people. And God, how much I liked it.

  What kind of text is adequate after all of that? Instead, I skip the lame how are you today text to send a shameless photo of a chickpea and a simple text. Even so, I wrote and deleted three versions of awkward texts. After all, the photo of a chickpea should alone be at least worth a thousand words. Double word score given how wholesome and ethical that is.

  I had fun with you last night. xx

  Okay. Simple. Too earnest, though. God. Why did I send that?

  I’m revealing way too much. Fun leads to liking. Liking leads to my certain downfall. And I can’t fall for him. Too dangerous. And he’s only in London for a short time anyway.

  Be practical, Aubrey. This can’t last.

  Can it?

  Yet, I lose myself to the agonizingly hopeful wait for a response.

  To pass the time, I text Gemma from my sprawl on the bed. She reports spinach and strawberry salads in the catering tent, fruit salsas, and more that they’ve just brought out. The shop still stands. She says she only made out once with the security guard. We’ve had a few messages to the shop about our closure, about when we might reopen for business.

  If only I knew. It’s terrifying to think of the lost sales, even with the daily rate I’m receiving. What if those customers never come back?

  The problem is that when life goes back to normal…well, life will be back to normal. Which means no Blake, or dreamy first dates.

  Hours pass. And my phone stays silent and dark.

  …

  The crew wraps filming a little earlier today around 4:00 p.m. The stillness and quiet that follows is unsettling after the steady commotion downstairs over the last couple of days. Which gives me all the more reason to angst about not having heard from Blake.

  In my bedsit, I’ve pulled the curtain against the slant of the peak of the afternoon sun in an attempt to make a shady refuge, but it’s admittedly suffocating in here. I retrieve the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge. Cross-legged on the velveteen sofa, the bed folded away, I sit between the floral cushions that my mum sewed for me.

  He’s busy. Clearly. He’s working.

  That’s the reasonable chain of thoughts. Versus:

  Oh God, he hates me and is full of regrets and woe after being up last night with me and I’m full of cringe and I’ll never hear from him again.

  So much for fun.

  Lily sends texts during the day demanding an update, and it’s safe to call her as I eat the last of the pizza I brought upstairs from catering.

  “Hey, Lil.”

  “Thank God. I was starting to think Blake stole you to become h
is husband.”

  “Ha. No. Fuck, no.” My face burns with the inevitable blush when I think of Blake. “I’m fairly certain that doesn’t usually happen in America.”

  “Well, he’d have to get through me first. You deserve a good price. And I deserve my commission.”

  Relenting into a smile, I laugh. “Glad you’ve got my back at least.”

  “Of course I do. Now you’ve kept news from me for hours. I figured that maybe your date carried on into today…” Lily teases, her voice light. In the background, there’s the clatter of a café, full of steamer screech and the rattle of crockery.

  “Not like that,” I spill. She can’t have found me out already, can she? Possibly she has spies everywhere. Worse, what if Gemma knows? “I mean, we were up all night but—nobody went to anyone’s place or anything rash like that. That way lies scandal.”

  There’s silence. I swear I can hear her grin over the line.

  “Into hijinks in public places?” she drawls.

  The perma-blush is back. “No! It’s not like that. Definitely not. I would never.” I cough.

  “Oh yeah? What was it like, then? I’m dying to know.”

  She’s onto me, I swear.

  “Er…” How to put last night into words, all transcendent and full of some light-hearted feeling that leaves me a bit unsteady. Also the filthy bits I’m keeping entirely to myself. Like the world shines brighter today. How odd.

  “Please tell me,” she coaxes. “I won’t even judge you if you say you had a good time.”

  “Well, in that case…” I gulp. “Amazing?”

  “That’s wonderful! Tell me everything.”

  “We had a vegan meal and we went dancing and…” I skip over dark club corners with a blush I’m glad she can’t see, and some regrets that I’m no longer in that corner with Blake. “We were up all night. Dancing. And walking around. I didn’t get home till very early. Or very late, depending.”

  “You deserve to have some fun. And I’m so glad you’ve connected like that.”

  “He’s kind of addictive,” I admit. “I don’t get what he sees in me, but the more I find out about him, the more I want to know, and…maybe he feels the same way too?”