Page 22 of The Meet Queue-t
“I’m going to . . .” I sigh, because I know what she’s after, and that’s just not possible. “Look, I hate to break it to you, but this is real life. I can’t just chase after him. I don’t even know where he’s gone.”
“And I bet if someone had asked whether your ex was a few rows behind in the queue, you’d have said that was impossible,” she says, eyes narrowed into slits.
“Statistically unlikely,” I correct.
“Yet he was there.”
“Unfortunately.”
“So what makes you think you can’t find your man?”
“He’s not—”
“Listen to me, because I’ve been on this planet a hell of a lot longer than you.” She leans over the table, and I mimic her, ready to receive the piece of advice that’s going to change my life. Because, let’s face it, Idesperatelyneed to get my life in order somehow. “You’re a quitter.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I gape at her, mostly because she’s right, and I did not appreciate the way she delivered that message. “I’m not aquitter. Not going after a strange man because you think we had a connection isn’tquitting.”
“No? Even when I tell you he looked at you like you’re the only thing he saw?”
“He didn’t . . .” I pause, because I don’t have an excuse for this. If I deny it, is that because I’m afraid of it being true? Am I afraid to hope? “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Do you really not know where he’s going?”
Logically, he’ll be getting the train back to York, because that’s where he lives. And logically, that means he’ll be going to King’s Cross Station.
Logically, there would be no harm in going there, seeing as Ialsoneed to catch a train—there’s no requirement that I commit to chasing after a strange man I just rejected. It could just . . . happen. Incidentally. Whoops.
“Okay,” I say after a second. “But I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
She snorts. “Talking to him would be a start. Come on, love. How can you expect to find happiness if you don’t take hold of it with both hands? Good things don’t just drop into your life, you know.”
Considering Oliver dropped into my lap, I would beg to differ, but . . .
Ah, shit.
I chug the rest of my tea, which is tepid and frankly disgusting, and swing my bag over my shoulder. “I have to go. Thanks, Thelma.”
“Go get him.”
I give her a weird two-finger salute, which makes her chuckle. “Stay cool,” I say, and barrel through the café and out onto the street.
Chapter Seven
I’dalwaysthoughtseeingthe Queen would tie off this chapter of my life with a neat bow, and that would be it. The end. Moving on.
Instead, I’m here, sprinting from the Tube to King’s Cross Station, flinging myself up stairs like I’m an Olympic athlete—without any of the Olympic athlete attributes like speed or agility or fitness. My legs are burning. I’m gasping like I’m underwater and sweat is snaking down my back. I pause to take off my coat, wrapping it over my arm as I run again.
The next train that leaves for York leaves in exactly twelve minutes. Of course, this is the UK and our train service is hardly known for its punctuality, but still. I’m running out of time.
My heart feels like it’s going to burst from my chest with the effort of running this far and for so long, and pushing through these people is like swimming against the tide. Why does everyone move so slowly? It’s like being trapped in another perpetual queue.
There. Escalators. I power down them, grateful to everyone for their escalator etiquette as I hurry past.Quick. Then I’m on Platform 15 when I need Platform 7. I spin, getting my bearings.
Train departs in ten minutes.
