Page 23 of The Meet Queue-t
That means it’s already here, surely, but this damn station is far too large for me to see everything. I can’t even see the platform. If he’s even here at all—I might have completely misread the situation and he’s having a nice chill time wandering around London while I’m sprinting down platforms like an idiot.
I’m not sure at what point I gave up pretending I wasn’t looking for him, but Thelma would be delighted at the thought of it. I can practically hear her cackling.
Please be on the train. Apart from anything else, this is more cardio than I’ve done in a year, and my T-shirt is stuck to my back under my hoodie. If it ends up being pointless, I will have made myself wheeze for nothing. Anyone who says exercise is good for you is a dirty liar.
Panting and disgusting, I haul myself onto Platform 7 and run to the train. I can’t see Oliver waiting, but in all fairness, there are enough people here that I can’t make out much at all.
“Oliver!” I call, waving my hands. People stare at me. “Oliver?”
Nothing. Just more eyes on me, awkward and confused.
“Oliver.”
Okay, probably not on the platform. I look at the train, take a deep breath, and plunge into the nearest carriage. Five minutes. I storm down the aisle, calling Oliver’s name. Faces turn to me, but none are his. He’snot here. I go down carriage after carriage, but although I keep calling for him, and although I keep scanning all the people there, still finding their seats, I can’t find him.
He’s not here.
Not here.
The whistle blows and I have about thirty seconds to leave the train. Even then, I stare at the passengers and the two carriages I haven’t checked through.
You’re a quitter, my inner Thelma tells me. Not helpful.
But this isn’t quitting, this is practicality. I don’t want to go to York. This is an East Coast train, meaning it’s not going even remotely in my direction, and my anytime return doesn’t cover this line.
Damn it.
I make it back onto the platform just in time for the train to pull away, and it feels like a failure. My hands are shaking as I pull out my phone and type a message to Rosalie.
TESSA:On a scale of 1-10, how crazy am I for chasing a guy I’ve known for 12 hours across London?
I’m not expecting an immediate answer, so when she doesn’t so much as read my message, I just sigh, shrug, and put my phone away. I already know the answer, anyway: a full ten on the crazy scale.
“Tessa?”
I freeze at the sound of his voice, because it can’t be.
Slowly, I turn on the spot to see Oliver standing behind me, coat open and that obscenely close-fitted turtleneck on display. His bag is hanging loosely over oneshoulder and he’s looking at me like I’ve turned into a giant pumpkin.
“Tessa,” he says again, and takes a step forward. “You’re . . . sweating.”
Crap. I swipe a hand over my forehead and, for good measure, along the back of my neck, lifting my hair so I can air myself out. “Yes. I, um, ran.”
“I can see that. Do you need to sit down?”
Yes. “No. I actually came looking for you.”
“Yes,” he says, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “I heard.”
“You did? I didn’t see you.”
“You’re seeing me now.” He shrugs, but although it’s a callback to our previous banter, something’s different. The dimple lurks in his cheek, but he doesn’t smile. Just watches me, waiting.
“You left,” I blurt out. “And you didn’t say goodbye.”
His shoulders stiffen. “You made it perfectly clear that you didn’t want me to stick around.”
Here goes nothing.
