An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

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 his 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?”

“I’m about to cry with joy over here. There’s so much to see in you, Aubrey. I’ve years of study on the topic. I’m, in fact, a world-renowned authority.”

“Ha.”

“I’m serious.”

“Now I’m terribly embarrassed.”

Aside from a couple of disastrous post-Eli dates, after enough pressure from family and friends to get on with things, I reluctantly tried to get on with things. Spirited efforts—disastrous results.

My heart back then wasn’t in it, still shaped for Eli. There’s no guide on how to move on from something like that. My first real relationship. We got together young, still in school. Eli, I thought then, was the man who was my future, or so I believed, along with my past.

If only Barnes Books sold books about how to exorcise exes from our past. That’d be brilliant late-night reading. God. Why don’t I stock titles like that?

“Just enjoy this,” Lily tells me. “That’s all you need to do. Don’t think about it.”

“That goes against my nature. Enjoyment, pleasure. Work needs doing. You should know that by now.”

“I know. But try. For me. For you, more than anything.”

“’Kay. Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Excellent. You should listen to me more often. I’m very wise.”

“Very modest too. There’s one problem, though.”

“What’s that?” Lily’s concern radiates over the line.

“I haven’t heard from Blake today. At all. What if he…regrets it? Being with me?”

She tuts. “How could anyone regret being with you?”

“Oh, easily. Because I’m ten flavors of awkward, that’s how. But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Well, he must be busy. And, like you said, if you were up all night, he probably needs to catch up on sleep.”

It sounds reasonable. It is reasonable. Except—

“He said he wasn’t going to sleep because he had work to do straight away.”

Lily’s quiet for a moment. She’s probably going to say something terribly logical, rather than saying I’ve already fucked this up. “Then he’s working and probably crashing out right after. Simple. Just try not to worry. If he was out with you all night, clearly he’s into you.”

What a thought. Perma-blush is back, all July-hot and close. On the floor, my cat lies on her back sunny-side up, stretched out in the crack of sunbeam spilling onto the rug between stacks of books. She has to be right. Blake’s collapsed with exhaustion somewhere, trying to restore himself.

“You’ll hear from him soon enough. Just enjoy a night off. Shop’s still closed, right?”

“Yeah. I should be working on something, though.” Relaxing isn’t second nature to me, not by a long shot. Like, it’s missed the mark by several shots, actually. Especially not when I think of Blake. My face reddens.

“Try.”

I relent. “’Kay.”

“’Kay.”

When we hang up, I go back to reading the last of Maurice, and start on my next novel.

In the privacy of my flat, nobody knows if I’m reading a rom-com. For research. Customer recommendations and all that. Not because I’ll like it. No one will ever know.

Hours pass, and I hardly move from my sofa sprawl, absorbed.

Eventually, a text comes with a photo of a small green bean in the palm of someone’s hand—must be Blake’s?—along with a brief catch up later. At least, it’s got to be a bean, though I’ll be damned if I know what it is, well out of my bean comfort zone, which admittedly lingers around the baked beans mark.

Can’t wait, I text back.

And, after a futile search for beans, I give up. Who knew there were so many kinds? What do the different beans symbolize? Like some kind of Victorian flower code. Except for violets and tulips, we have legumes.

I fall asleep again.

Later comes. And goes.

I don’t wake up with any bean or Blake-related insights. Or any texts, aside from the reminder I programmed to place a grocery order.

The evening technically stretches into tomorrow; it’s just past midnight when I wake again. Again, there’re no messages on my phone. Glum, I check the shop email, and then because I can’t help myself, Blake’s Instagram for the latest post.

Unfortunately, there’s no recent update—but the last photo was posted over twelve hours ago, showing a spectacular sunrise over London’s skyline.