by Hayden Stone
Which is what makes coming to America and risking making a fool of myself so worthwhile. Because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t go all out in search of him.
My heart couldn’t bear not taking the risk.
Out of habit, I open up Instagram as I have the last of my tea. And I’m rewarded, because the algorithm knows what I want. Right away, there’s a dramatic black and white shot of Blake. He’s glorious, his bare chest peeking out from an unbuttoned black shirt in the obvious heat, that navy cap.
I’m starting to sweat just looking at him.
God. He’s gorgeous, all svelte muscle and serious smolder. Top shelf selfie. A++ would recommend. I shake my head, flustered. Even here, by myself.
And then I notice something important about that Blake photo. Forget the summertime swelter and Blake raising the heat by at least a hundred degrees in one selfie. Or that it’s fine material for a consolation wank later on. Forget all of that.
I groan. “Motherfucker.”
He’s standing in what clearly is Trafalgar Square, a broad expanse of space by the fountains in front of the National Gallery in London. It takes a fraction of a second to register the scene, the accompanying caption.
Back enjoying the sights because I can’t stay away.
Blake’s back in London.
God help me—I’m in the wrong damn country.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In shock, I just stare at Blake, as if I haven’t memorized his face, or the scent of his skin. My fingers trace the screen, seeking the feel of him again, but instead there’s cool glass.
This is obsessive, Aubrey. There’s nothing attractive about this. Lily shouldn’t have encouraged this dumb idea in the first place.
And yet here I sit, getting all nostalgic over a man who doesn’t even have the decency to be in his country of origin when I make the unlikely grand gesture to come here and find him.
Unable to stand it any longer, I text Blake. There’s no further dignity left to make the pretext of saving it any longer.
You never gave me that answer to the black and white bean trivia. x
There’s no response. I check the time. In London, it’s getting on late afternoon. A reasonable time for him to be up and awake.
Maybe he’s filming? It’s got to be filming, right? What else would it be?
But what if, in the very unlikely chance Blake missed me, he’s come back to London to find me? Not just to find me—for me. And I’m not there? What if we actually have a chance and I miss it, because I’m in the wrong damn city? What a disaster.
I need to get back home. Right now.
My credit card is smoking, between the taxi direct to the airport and the last-minute flight to London, but luckily I find some last-minute deal that makes the fare only moderately terrible instead of catastrophic.
Another flight alone. I buy a pack of gum and try to channel my inner jet-setter Lily. Sunglasses, check. Passport, check. Wallet, check. I tie the scarf like she showed me.
And, fuck it. I buy some soft pink lipstick and eyeliner and detour to the toilets to do myself up. If I’m going to be petrified, I may as well look as good as I can while doing so.
My phone remains dark. I shut it off for the flight.
As predicted, the flight’s excruciating. My fists are balled beside me, eyes shut for most of the way, feigning sleep. More like trying to pull a Dorothy and click my heels to arrive back home, but I’m definitely no longer in Kansas, whether that’s New York or London. When my eyes are open, I attempt to write poetry about Blake to distract myself. Nothing sounds right, but that’s okay. Somehow, I feel different for having tried being vulnerable with this trip. For putting myself out there to seek out Blake, to reveal my heart. That’s got to count for something, at least a compensatory pint and a consolation wank when I get back home to the comfort of the flat, if I still can’t find him.
But I can’t think like that. I have to find him.
When I land in the late evening and get through passport control, I could—almost—kiss the ground at Heathrow in gratitude. God help me, I’m not taking a flight anytime soon if I can help it. I turn my phone on, and it comes alive with notifications. I texted everyone when I landed in New York, but I was so focused on finding Blake that I hadn’t given an update in my haste to return to London.
Gemma: You are coming back at some point right? Or Barnes Books is mine bwahaha. Also: really, come back. I’m gonna have a sale if you don’t.
Lily: Status report! All hands on deck! I’m dying of curiosity on how Day 2 is going? I won’t sleep till I hear back.
And then I stop breathing.
Blake: That’s the rare orca bean. Hard to get in America, tends to be found elsewhere. You need to go looking. B.
My hands shake as I stare at my phone. Now he’s just messing me about. He can’t possibly know what I’ve been up to. Can he?
With a breath, I exit out to the concourse. The tube rattles me back home, straight into central London, living a surrealist experience. Down here, it’s too warm, the air stuffy. People jam together in the overcrowded carriage. The Piccadilly line’s deep underground and has me out of phone reception for approximately one eternity till I reach the surface again in central London the better part of an hour later. It’s late by the time I’m outside again checking my phone.
And I send a text.
Where are you? x
Soon, there’s a one-word answer from Blake:
London
That’s it? As if this isn’t an important development? I stare at my phone before tapping back a one-word response. Touché. I can play this game too.
Why?
Lingering outside of the station before continuing the rest of my journey home, it takes about ten minutes for a response to come.
We need to talk
Shit.
The “we need to talk” line is never a good omen.
Do you want to talk now? x
A moment later—
Yes
Chapter Twenty-Six
My heart thuds in double time as I finally arrive on my street, having texted Blake back that I was about fifteen minutes away from home. The August night has a chill to it, my black jacket zipped up. I’m still wearing Lily’s scarf.
As I wheel down the dark street, quietish at this late hour, there’s a familiar silhouette waiting for me down the street. Cars are parked half on the pavements. Streetlamps cast a soft glow. Overhead, clouds reflect the city’s lights.
Getting closer, I see Blake leaning casually against the entry of Barnes Books, shuttered for the night. After everything I’ve been through the last few days—the flights, the angst of searching, begging strangers for info—I can’t believe I find him right where we started: at Barnes Books.
Home.
I stop to stand an arm’s length away from him. He doesn’t move, his pose languid and easy. He owns the street in his leather jacket, dark hair soft without product to keep it in place. My heart clenches. He’s so devastatingly handsome. The streetlamps cast strong shadows over his face, highlighting the striking planes of his cheekbones and his jawline.
He gazes at me, not moving. His expression’s unreadable.
“You’re in London,” I say unnecessarily. I pull up my suitcase beside me as we flank the entry to the bookshop in our nighttime tableau.
“I am.”
I take in the sight of him again. Still damnably hot. Still like he has my heart in his pocket, the thing I’ve been missing since that horrible night we fought in the hotel after the paparazzi’s photos hit the press.
The abrupt ending to something that could have been fantastic.
“I’ve been trying to find you,” I say as neutrally as I can. Luckily, my voice doesn’t waver, but it’s not quite the carefree and confident delivery I was hoping for.<
br />
I can’t read his expression in the dark. “I know.”
He knows? How does he know? Did someone tell him? Maybe one of the people I called in my frantic pleas that a desperate Englishman was roving New York looking for him?
Keep it together, Aubrey.
Keeping it together is not quite my forte.
“Look—” Blake begins, but I don’t let him go on.
“No. Listen to me.” This time, it comes out curt and urgent. Not quite detached, but confident. Despite how I’m burning up inside, despite the part of me that’s ready to unravel to feel all the feels.
His eyebrows lift. I don’t think either one of us was expecting that to come out of me.
“I went to America. I went to find you—”
Blake smiles at that.
“—and, for the record, I hate flying and I’m not a good air traveler but I went, because it was important. Because… I couldn’t live with myself leaving things how we did. Leaving them like that because of some stupid paparazzi bollocks.”
Everything is riding on this. Because it is. My future, his future. The potential of us, together. And it doesn’t look like I’m winning, given his frown.
He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
Not good.
“I know,” I rush on. “It’s mad and desperate and pathetic and all of those things. You were clear that things had gone too far, that you weren’t comfortable with us in the media and because of your family. I can only imagine what you faced back home. And I’m sorry if it makes me sound like a creeper, because I’m really not, and if you never want to talk to me after this again, I get it. I’ll respect that. I didn’t text you because I needed to see you in person. To talk to you.”
Blake’s gaze stays fixed on me. He barely moves.
Out here, the street is empty and dark. A taxi drives by. Someone walks past us on the opposite side of the street, paying no heed. Overhead, the overcast London night reflects the soft glow of city lights. But down here, it’s only Blake and me and an ocean vaster than the Atlantic of awkward between us.
“And,” I continue, “I figured out that you were in New York auditioning for a film. Serial Kisser, I think.”
His lips twist. “Yes. That’s right. I was.”
“And I saw your Instagram—which has mostly been dark, by the way—at the New York Public Library in Manhattan. You had to be there. Obviously.”
This time, it’s my gaze that’s unrelenting, taking in the sight of him. He’s slump-shouldered as he looks at me, his expression contorting slightly, shifting from something unreadable into another version of unreadable.
Not helpful. Damn actors.
“I…I can’t believe you tried to find me.”
I gulp, unable to read him. Is he happy? Unhappy? Oh God.
“I went to the audition,” he confirms. “No news yet.”
“Good.” I’m holding my breath, fists tight while I wait for any hint of how he’s taking the news of my impulsive search to find him. I can’t believe I did that. Stupid, really. I mean, what was I thinking? Obviously, he’s going to be upset.
“Tell me something,” he says, shifting. “Why would you do all of this? Go to New York? Looking for me?”
“Because…” My voice drops into something low and unsteady, but I’m channeling every last bit of resolve I have, the sort of confidence Blake usually has by the bucketful, where I’m usually flailing about, far from being in control of my emotions.
Deep breath in. Deep one out.
“Because I had to tell you something in person.”
“You said that before,” he acknowledges.
“I did.”
We contemplate each other, the tension hanging between us like a veil between worlds, heavy and thick. Like there’s glimpses of our shapes behind the curtains, but we’re caught in them, struggling to break free from their confines.
“I’m in love with you,” I say softly, at last letting the emotion out in my voice, because I can’t keep that in. I’ve gone this far. May as well say it all. There’s nothing to lose, and if I’m lucky—very lucky—there might be everything to gain. “And, well, I couldn’t live with myself without telling you. I know that the strong odds are you don’t want me, but I need to tell you anyway. Rather than stuffing it away and never saying it. Even if you don’t feel that way about me—”
Blake comes close, so close I can hear the softness of his breath. His eyes are bright with tears. Hesitating only for a moment, he slides his arms around me and draws me into a kiss that I can only describe as heated, leaving me reeling, and thank God his arms are around me, because I could fall over, and if this is the last kiss I get, it’s going to count for something—
Finally, he breaks away, expression raw. Vulnerable. “I love you too, Aubrey. More than words can say.”
“Oh God,” I choke out, my hands covering my mouth.
Words I never actually expected him to say. A feeling I couldn’t believe I let myself feel, then give voice to it—and have it reciprocated? Is this a dream?
I grab him tight for another kiss, and he presses me against the door of Barnes Books, against the glass front with the sign flipped to closed. We kiss like nothing we’ve done before, leaving me hot and shivering and overwhelmed.
“I missed you,” he breathes against my ear, holding me tight, leaning his head against mine. “So much.”
“I missed you too.”
I laugh and cry a little, and he does the same as we consider each other, both with eyes too wet and emotions too raw.
“But,” I whisper. “Feelings…feelings are brilliant. But reality’s quite another thing altogether. I hate to mention that. Like, you being from America. Me being from here. The paparazzi. Your career. My damn shop.”
A million reasons why this is impossible. We’re so different. How on earth did this even happen? Of all the very unlikely things.
Finally, Blake straightens. “You made me feel things that I didn’t think I was capable of. And made me question everything, to figure out what matters.”
“Blake, I don’t want to cause problems for you with your family—”
His face is mostly in shadow. Hard to read, but he holds up a hand. “And yes, I love my family. But my sisters are right. I can…well, I can love you and love them. Even if Dad doesn’t understand. Call me an optimist, but maybe…one day he will.”
“You talked with him?” I dare ask, my gut in knots. “I was thinking of you and wondering if you spoke.”
“I did.” He takes a shuddering breath. I slip his hand into mine.
“I’m sorry it’s difficult with your father,” I say softly, searching his eyes. “I know your family means the world to you. More than.”
“It’s been hard,” he acknowledges, “pursuing a career in something he doesn’t approve of. And not approving of…well, who I love. It just felt like loss after loss, you know? That I always admired him and wanted him to be proud of me. And I had to let go of that approval.” Blake gulps. “The girls were right. I’m an adult and I make my own decisions. And, by the way, they’re very happy. About you. When I told them.”
I smile, squeezing his fingers. “You told them about me?”
“I did. I saw them before going back to New York. To see them, and Dad.” He sighs. “Dad… Well, he didn’t want to hear about London. Or you.” He looks unhappy. “But the girls wanted to know all about it. About you.”
I lean into him, resting my forehead against his shoulder. His hand smooths my hair, fingers tracing the nape of my neck. Unable to keep from shivering, I burrow closer to him.
“That means a lot to hear it,” I confess. “I told my mum I fell for a man and I was devastated it didn’t work out.”
Blake tilts my head up gently with his fingers. His voice is uneven, raw. “I w
ant things to work out between us. You mean everything to me.”
God, such dizzying words. Words that I’m desperate for, wild for. Wild for Blake. And yet I can’t let myself enjoy even that, because guilt strikes over the cost to him of falling in love with me.
“You mean everything to me too,” I murmur. “After you left, I realized I had to face myself. To let go of the past. To let go of what was, the life I once had with Eli, that held me back. That kept me from living now. But with you, I feel free. Like there’s a future ahead.”
Blake holds me tight. “That’s all you,” he whispers. “But I’m glad to hear it. Eli sounds like a tough one to follow.”
I chuckle softly. “He has good bits and bad bits, like anyone. I had to let him go. I have to live now.” I gulp. “Blake?”
“Yes, gorgeous?”
“You never said what you’re doing back in London.”
His laugh is low, intoxicating. “I needed to see you. ’Cause if I was away from you any longer I might burst.”
“And you knew I was away?”
“I didn’t know till tonight. I caught Gemma as she was closing up shop,” Blake explains. “And she reamed me out for not being in America because you were there looking for me. I thought she was joking, couldn’t be serious. She was so annoyed.”
I start laughing as tears stream down my face. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes to wipe them away, trembling.
“Classic,” I gasp.
He holds me then, and we stand together like that for ages in the street, letting ourselves feel all sorts of things we didn’t dare feel before. We start kissing again, desperate and sweet and God, how I’ve missed him.
“We”—I manage between increasingly urgent kisses—“ought to go in.”
I blindly feel for my keys in my jacket pocket, having checked three times on the tube from Heathrow that I hadn’t lost them in my mad dash to America, which would lead me to either calling Gemma at a terrible time to let me into the shop or, more likely, crashing at Lily’s in North London.