“OK,” he says, “I’m pushing play.”
I push play too and watch my TV.
A while later he announces he’s pushing pause again and I do the same. He looks at me knowingly, both our screens silent. “Is this the kissing-in-the-field scene?” he asks with a grin.
“Maybe.”
“He’s on his own. She’s coming in. I see where this is going. Is this where I pick up tips on how to seduce a girl in a field? Is there gonna be striding?” he laughs.
“Yes and yes,” and I actually giggle.
“OK, I’m pushing play,” he says and I do the same. And then shortly after, without even pausing, he just shouts, “No! She cannot go home and marry that other dude. That other dude’s adick.”
And I laugh so happily, because he gets it. Davey gets my favorite film. “Next time we’ll watch your favorite film,” I suggest as I dig deep into my popcorn bag for the final crunchy kernels.
“Next time we do this, we can do it for real. Next to each other, on your couch, or mine if I’ve bought one in time—you and me…in real life.”
I can’t process how wonderful it is to think of Davey and me, in real life.
—
And then it’s the day before his arrival and I’ve done the silliest thing. I’ve liberated a big ream of poster-sized paper from the office printer. It wasn’t easy to sneak it out, but I’m at home, sprawled on the floor watching a Louis Theroux documentary on Netflix that Davey recommended and scrawling, “Welcome to London, Davey” on the paper in bubble-writing. When I’m done I stare at the sign. Will he think this is cute or weird? Do I thinkit’s cute or weird? I was going for silly. Tomorrow I’m actually going to see him.
I message Davey telling him how excited I am. And because I don’t want him to look shocked at my stupid poster when he actually walks into the terminal, I send a picture of it, accompanied by the words,I’ll be the girl holding this in the Arrivals area.
He gives me a huge thumbs-up and, for the first time ever, a big red-heart emoji that I try not to read too much into. I feel like another line is about to be crossed between us and I am so happy I could burst. He messages that he’s finished work and has crammed in leaving drinks with all his friends and that on his final day—today—he’s spending it with his mum and dad. His best friend, Grant, is driving him to the airport and then, before I know it, he must be in the air and on his way here.
Davey said he’d send me a message when he was on his flight, but I don’t get one. He must be too busy. If I were packing up, decanting my life from one continent to another, by the time I got on board the flight I’d probably mentally decompress and forget to text too. But I look at the airline website and it shows that his flight is in the air. He took off an hour ago. “Oh my God,” I breathe. “This is actually happening.”
In around nine hours he’ll be here.
—
My heart beats so fast that I can barely hear myself think over the sound of it thudding in my ears. I’m at the airport in a chain coffee shop, fielding messages from Miranda.
Is he here yet?she asks.
No,I reply.One hour to go,as I look at the board.
She’s been messaging me all morning, telling me how romantic it all is, how jealous she is that this is a story we’ll be able to tell our children. My eyes widen at that one.Who else gets a story like this?she asks.Who else meets The One because he misdials?
Suddenly the pressure mounts and I turn the phone facedownon the table I’m sitting at as I sip my second coffee. I am buzzing and I pass the time wondering if I should buy Davey a coffee, remembering that he drinks double espresso, when the screen shows that he should be collecting his luggage. No, I won’t do that, because how am I going to hold up my poster, with a coffee in one of my hands? Perhaps I should ditch my poster and buy the coffee…Maybe he’ll appreciate that gesture more, after a near ten-hour flight. But if I’m holding a coffee, how am I going to throw my arms around him and hold him for the first time ever?
I look at my hands, clasped around my cup for warmth, and they’re shaking. I’m genuinely nervous. My leg is twitching up and down under the table. I can see the large automatic doors that mark the transition of worlds between passengers just arriving and those who’ve made it through those doors, unscathed by lost baggage or enthusiastic customs officials. People move out through the doors, looking tired but relieved, with blow-up pillows hanging around their necks.
I stand up. This is it. I move closer to the barrier and unfurl my poster. Yeah, I’m doing it. It’s cute. It is. It really is. I hope Davey can tell that. Even if he doesn’t think it’s cute, he’s not going to judge me and my newfound silliness. It’s amazing what really liking someone will do to a person, because I realize now that might actually be what has happened to me. Seeing him will simply cement that I am falling, just a little bit.
When he walks through those doors, will we kiss? I think I’m going to have to kiss him. Not to kiss—after all this time—would seem even stranger. Or maybe we’ll wait until we get in the taxi? I’m not navigating the Tube system with Davey and his suitcases, after that length of flight. That would be cruel. We’ve already decided he’ll come back to my place for the first couple of nights while he furnishes his flat, but whether we’ll share a bed is unspoken. I assume we will, even if he—being a gentleman—doesn’t. Plus, I really, really want to. I am going to explode if Davey doesn’tkiss me, if we don’t get through the front door and kiss as we walk toward the bedroom. Now I don’t need this second coffee I’m holding. Now I need a cold shower.
The initial stream of travelers through the doors dwindles and I wonder if that was even his flight. I steal a look at the monitor and have no real way of telling. Two flights have landed around the same time and both have now gone through the baggage-reclaim area, but there’s no Davey. He’s probably freshening up. He also said he’d text when he landed, but I don’t have a text yet. My leg is still twitching nervously, which is hard to do when I’m standing up, but somehow I achieve it. And then the board shows that more flights have landed, and a while later they too go through baggage reclaim and their numbers dwindle. And now I’m simply confused. I pull out my phone. There’s a message, but it’s from Miranda, with a GIF of a couple kissing at an airport. I smile, but it’s thin. The joy has been swept from me, momentarily. I dismiss her message and call Davey. It doesn’t even ring. It merely goes to voicemail. I hang up and send a message instead:Are you here?
I wait. Nothing. Where is he? Is he lost? Has he come out and gone past me, and is he out here looking for me? I start walking around the Arrivals area, looking for a glimpse of a tall blond man lugging at least two bags, one in each hand. There are plenty of people who look like that from the back, but from the front…none of them are him.
It’s been an hour, and I sit back in the coffee shop. I can’t buy another coffee, so I select two mineral waters. One for me and one for Davey, because he’s going to be thirsty after a flight. And I wait. I think it’s been two hours at least now and there’s been no word from him. I get up from the coffee shop. Nervous energy has engulfed me and I walk around the terminal again. Just to be sure. My phone rings and I leap on it. It’s George and I’ve swiped too soon, to accept the call, because I don’t actually want to talk to anyone who isn’t Davey at the moment. I can’t compute what’shappened. I hang up immediately. It’s rude, but I can’t deal with George right now, for all his fun chat and good intentions. I’ll call back tomorrow, when Davey’s settled in.
I text Davey again:Where are you? Do I have the wrong terminal? Do I have the wrong airport?I’m not that stupid. Christ, I hope he’s not at Heathrow wondering where in God’s name I am. But his flight numbers line up. He should be here.
I have no idea what to do now. He’s not online. He’s not responding. I realize I’ve left the poster I made in the coffee shop and glance over. A waitress is clearing up the detritus of my purchases, which I should have cleared myself, but my mind was elsewhere. She’s scrunching up my poster and pushing it deep into the black sack that she’s moving around with. My heart sinks even further at this.
