An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

Chapter Sixteen

The wait on the platform in the blustery afternoon is lonely. When I finally settle in my window seat on the train, the long ride to London is even lonelier. At least I have the two-person seats to myself without anyone beside me. My bag’s been stashed by my feet. Something’s missing—not just someone. And then I remember: Blake has my dad’s guitar. Even if I resolved an hour ago to never see the man again, obviously I’ll need to see him again to get the guitar back.

A headache squeezes my skull, an ever-tightening band around my forehead and temples. I’ve skipped lunch and won’t get to eat something decent for hours yet. Somehow, I’m the one who ended up with the mixed nuts in my bag, and so I scavenge those and munch away while gloomily staring out at verdant views.

How could everything go so wrong, so fast? What’s wrong with Eli? What’s wrong with me that I didn’t tell him to fuck off right away? Worse, what’s wrong with me for not flat-out saying I was there with Blake?

Stupid, Aubrey. And now everything’s fucked up.

Miserable, I sulk for a little while before pulling out my phone. In the train car, there’s a pack of laughing teens at one end, others talking or on their phones. I’m hardly adding to the din if I make a call too.

My fingers hover over Blake’s number, but no. I can’t. Instead, I call Lily. She’s probably busy. She’s always busy. It’ll go straight to messages and that’s fine, because who rings rather than texts?

Of course she answers after the third ring. I can hear her frown on the phone. “Aubrey. What’s wrong? I thought you were still away.”

“Level five emergency.” I crunch a nut to punctuate my unhappiness, a sacrificial almond.

“Obviously, because you’re calling. Hang on. Let me get back to my office.”

Right, work. Of course she’s working. Selfishly, I didn’t even think about that, that she might be doing legitimate things rather than waiting to field my drama. And it hits me that I’m calling to unload like Eli did to me, except with two important differences: one, it’s not 3:00 a.m., and two, Lily and I haven’t ever been in a romantic relationship.

“Sorry, Lil. I’m calling at a bad time.”

“Nonsense. They have to wait for me anyway, and there’s enough going on for them to do without me there for a few minutes. The show install is going as well as can be expected.”

“That’s good.” I can only imagine Lily behind the scenes at her art gallery, calling the shots while people shuffle the art around to her specifications. “This isn’t the Spain stuff, is it?”

“No, no. That’s still in development. This is all about the influence of street art and punk rock in fashion. Very Alexander McQueen, plenty of skulls. Goth rating, ten out of ten.”

Despite myself, my lips twist into a smile. “I didn’t realize you were gothic, Lil.”

“Want to come to the private view next week? Might cheer you up.”

I hardly feel festive. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

“I’m back in my office now. Tell me everything. What’s wrong?”

A groan escapes me. “It’s stupid.”

“Let’s not make me drag things out of you again. I do need to get back before too long.”

“Right, sorry. Well, Blake and I went away like I texted you. And we were having a great time hillwalking and relaxing in pubs. Till Eli called me in the middle of the night, having a crisis.”

I hear Lily sucking back air. “He what?”Then a sharp exhale. “The jealous arsehole.”

“No, no. He doesn’t know about Blake. I haven’t told him.”

“You haven’t told him?” she asks, incredulity in her voice. “Why not?”

Isn’t that the question? “I don’t know. Because this is so new? I mean, not telling Eli about him is part of the problem.” I sigh. “Eli went on and on, upset after a fight with Ryan, with the punchline being that their fight was ultimately about me.”

If I was there, I could imagine her wide-eyed gawp. Instead, I hear clicking. Probably some rapid-fire pen fidgeting, knowing her.

“You still there?” I ask.

“I’m so mad at Eli!” she explodes. “Why doesn’t he deal with his own shit rather than bothering you in the middle of the night? Are you sure he doesn’t know?”

“Mm, I didn’t say anything and God knows I’ve kept Blake a secret from Gemma because I would never hear the end of it, which is easy enough because the shop’s been a tip since the filming, and she hasn’t been in. But Eli did stop by the day that Blake sent me an incredible bouquet of flowers, and then Blake came in. They met…somewhat. So, maybe on some level he knows something’s up.”

“I would dearly love to give the man a swift kick in the ankle. I mean, I would never actually do it, but I can’t believe it,” Lily moans. “Level five indeed.”

“Then, I fucked things up even worse by not telling Blake about it, because I thought he slept through the call, but he must have heard at least part of it. And he brought it up the next day. And one thing led to another. I, er, didn’t tell Eli about Blake and now Blake’s upset. Course, he hasn’t told anyone about me, like I’m some guilty secret. Which, fair, I’m nobody on the celebrity scale. And his filming wraps next week, and then he goes back to America and his regular life, and all of this is for nothing, anyway, right? To make things even worse, he has an audition in L.A. like right now and it’s even worse than I thought, because he’s leaving tonight. For a couple of days. So, he won’t be back for long and then he’s gone for good. So, you see, everything’s ruined.” I’m breathless from my monologue.

Silence. More pen clicking follows.

Meanwhile, I chew my lip as we pull into the next station. There’s an announcement over the speakers, and through the mutterings of passengers, I can hear that the train is abruptly terminating service. And that we all need to wait for the next one. Nothing can be straightforward, can it? Not trains, not men.

“Sorry, this train’s given up the ghost, I’m afraid. Bear with me while I get onto the platform.”

And I do and she does. At least there’s a bit of shelter from the rain. I go into the cramped waiting room, with its foggy windows from the muggy day. The clouds are low and gray outside, like a storm threatens but hasn’t delivered yet.

“What a mess,” Lily says at last.

“Hard agree.” My unhappiness comes through my voice.

“I’m sorry. I want you to have good things. And some fun.”

“It was surprisingly fun, till then. We’d actually been getting on and, er, getting to know each other—”

“So the sex was hot,” she teases without mercy.

“Never you mind and maybe it was,” I say hurriedly, flushing, “but we were on the same wavelength and finding out maybe we weren’t entirely so different after all, and then…Eli and geography and timing. I’m on the train back alone. He’s driving.”

Lily tuts. “You didn’t even ride back together?”

“I needed some time on my own. Plus, I thought that would be the end of it between us, but he has my dad’s guitar. I need to see him to get it back.” I groan.

She considers. “Maybe that’s a good thing. You’ll both be calmer by then, have had a chance to think. You can talk things over then, if you want.”

“Doesn’t change the simple fact that he’s due back in short order to America, with the audition of a lifetime by the sounds of things. And my life is here with the shop. Which, by the way, has damages from the filming that I need to deal with when I get back, but it’s just making my headache worse.”

I chew my lip, watching as another train approaches. Everyone watches the board to see if this is the train for London. It is, and it’ll be here in three minutes.

“Damages? What damages?” Lily’s frown is in her voice.

“The floor. There’re gouges and things. Some splintered bits. They’re talking about fixing things this weekend. I don’t know.”

“That’s not right, Aubrey. They should compensate you appropriately and make the repairs. It’s their fault there’s damage. That should be out of their pocket, not yours. Including compensation for the closures. And never mind the patching. Isn’t there an agreement?”

“There is,” I acknowledge, fidgeting with my pockets. “I guess…it’s not just the shop disaster. There’s everything with…a man that’s not right either.”

“Promise me that you’ll talk to Blake too?”

I gulp as the train glides to a stop at the platform, and I weave my way outside. The angsty butterflies in my gut are having some sort of riot, though I’m not clear if the riot is over Blake, Eli, or far too many vegan snacks in the last three days. Or possibly not enough. At any rate, I’m out of sorts, but to be honest, I’m feeling resentful toward Eli. Like, Eli’s had a whole year to get his shit together. It’s as if by some finely honed instinct, he knows I’m starting to make moves toward something good and happy and mine, and then he appears like some sort of villain out of the shadows like some B-grade film that Blake would probably know about.

“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 best 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.