“I just might. Fries, as we say in American.”
“Cute. Let’s go.”
We don’t have to go too far to find people queueing for kebabs at a nearby shop, the spillover from the club. Before terribly long, we have our food and it’s beautiful in its deep-fried glory. Blake’s happy with his falafel and chips. I have my favorite kebab. We alternately walk and pause to eat.
We’ve definitely missed the last tubes and trains. Taxis are scarce, empty ones even more so. We could try to find a taxi rank but taxis are too expensive anyway. Which means—
“Are you staying near Soho?” I ask once we finish eating.
Blake nods. “Do you…” he falters, searching my eyes, “want to come back with me?”
Part of me screams a “yes, fuck yes, right now” sort of yes. I’m having far, far too much fun with him tonight, even more galaxies over from my usual problems—and fuck me if it’s not a terrifying idea. The greedy part that wants more fun fights with the part that’s nervous for more.
Because if there’s more, what does that mean?
I hesitate. “I…”
“No pressure,” Blake says in a rush, tripping over his words in his eagerness to put me at ease. “I mean, we’ve had a lot to drink. And eat. And…”
I gulp, gazing at this entirely too beautiful man, like nature made him to torment me and his legions of Instagram followers. He’s all angles, eyes a soft blue beneath the streetlamps.
It would be very easy to lick my way along his jaw right now.
Not. Helping.
“Would you…” I take his hand, gulping in a steadying breath. Or something like it, from back when oxygen and I were friends. “Be offended if I said not tonight?”
His expression softens. “Of course not. I mean, I want you to be comfortable.”
“I know I’m being weird. I’m like the anti-Grindr right now. I’m kind of mortified, actually. I don’t know why I’m like this.”
Reasons pop up. The shock of our impulsive tryst. Self-consciousness. Too much to drink tonight might lead to another freak-out—and I definitely don’t want that.
I don’t want to ruin this thrilling, fabulous night.
“It’s fine, don’t worry. I’ve come out with you because you’re interesting and funny—and hot—and I want to spend time with you. You don’t need to come back to the hotel with me… I just want you to know I’ve had a lot of fun with you tonight.”
We stand in a bath of light cast by the streetlamp. The heat from the day still lingers at 3:00 a.m., close to the skin and sultry. Like Blake’s hand in mine.
“I still feel like a numpty,” I confess.
“I don’t even know what that is, but I think I get the idea,” teases Blake, all nighttime sleek.
“I can try to make up for being daft by attempting to navigate the night bus to get us closer to Soho again.” With that, I retrieve my phone from the depths of my pocket, lost in schedules and maps. I’m fucked if I’m too drunk to figure this out.
“How about this one?” Blake squints into the distance at an approaching double-decker. “It’s at least headed south.”
“How do you know that?” Aghast, I stare at him. A newbie in town, and he’s already a pro at public transport. Meanwhile, I flail around rather uselessly, especially for someone who should very well know the night bus routes like a second heartbeat, having grown up in London. But the honest truth is that I’ve had far more nights in with books than mad nights out, no matter what Gemma thinks of me and my quasi-rocker looks.
It’s been years since I’ve had big nights out on the regular, going to gigs with friends. When I did, often enough, we were in stumbling distance to someone’s flat. Or the gigwasin someone’s flat.
At any rate, I better not reveal how much of a recluse I’ve been lately if I’m going to save any face at all.
He’s still looking at me while I have a moment of internal Transport for London existential despair. I’m fairly confident this is the right bus, but—
“Well,” he says, lowering his voice, “wanna know a secret?”
“Of course.” Impatient, I look at the bus as he flags it to stop, the official stop just ahead.
