“It’s in the southbound lane.” With that, Blake winks and boards. We tap in and join the jostle of travelers trying to negotiate London at an unholy hour.
“We could end up absolutely anywhere,” I say. “Shit, Croydon if we’re unlucky.” Not that Croydon’s particularly unlucky, just that it’s very much not where I want to end up tonight. “How about we go to the river for a walk? More of the local tour. Show you some more of the city.”
His eyes dance. Neither of us wants to call it a night quite yet.
We cling to the handrails.
“That’s part of the fun.” Mischief in his eyes, his hand brushes mine, and it’s all I can do to hang on. “Not knowing where we might end up together.”
That’s how we find ourselves along the Thames sometime later, watching the sky shift through a cascade of pink-orange clouds at dawn. We’ve found tea despite all odds and the unsociable hours. We walk along the promenade in easy company, relaxed. The city is ours.
“Wait, wait.” Blake tugs at my hand to stop. We’re at Waterloo Bridge, with the makings of a fantastic sunrise to the east.
Pausing, I take the chance to study him as he marvels at London looking its best with the golden promise of morning light. He pulls out his phone for a couple of pictures, and I follow suit.
“I wish I had my proper camera with me, but it’s amazing what phones can do,” Blake marvels. He glances over at me with a broad smile.
“You’re also into photography?” I ask, surprised. And then I feel rather silly, because it’s obvious that he’s into it to some degree, given the fabulous catalogue of images he has curated on Instagram. And they’re not all selfies, but brilliant photos too of city life and the occasional foray into nature.
“You bet. You too?” Blake looks intrigued, lowering his phone as he studies me in a way that’s thrilling.
I nod and give him a wry smile. “I do, when I can. I have a couple of old film cameras that are fun to play with, see what they can do.”
He brightens at the surprise of this common ground between us. “Oh, I’d love to see your photos sometime. I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” The words come out before I have a chance to hesitate, a thrill running through me. “I’d be happy to show you. I mean, I don’t have a fancy setup or anything like that.”
He waves my belated backtracking off, clearly not dissuaded. “It’s not about a fancy camera. Just the way you see things. And I’d love to see the way you see things.”
And we stand on Waterloo Bridge in a pink-gold haze, unable to stop grinning at each other even if we wanted to. Like the promise of everything that might be hanging between us. As though the countries and worlds between us don’t mean a thing at all.
“Oh, and just look at that. It’s the perfect amount of cloud.” Blake sighs happily. “Would you stand against the rail so I can get your photo?”
“Me?” I ask, startled, glancing up at the spectacular skies shifting overhead.
“You,” confirms Blake with confidence. “You’re the most beautiful part of today.”
Somehow I don’t swoon or mock him, which I’d like to think is some kind of growth. Instead, I just laugh and shake my head at his hopeful look, phone in hand.
“Please?” he entreats, in the most appealing way possible—which, for the record, is essentially impossible to say no to for such a simple thing. And I definitely don’t want to say no, even if he is entirely mad to think I’m more beautiful than the sunrise.
“Just this once,” I tease him, leaning against the rail. Over us, the progression of dawn transforms London into something stunning, all warm tones over historic and glass buildings.
Blake grins. “Awesome.”
And I admire him, my expression soft. Thinking how I can be falling into serious like for someone I only met a few days ago. That for all of the differences between us, there might be some common ground too.
He frames the shot, his expression thoughtful as he does. The wind teases us, fresh before the swelter of the day, a fine morning. The river glistens. Traffic trickles past.
We swap places, because it’s only fair. And it’s my turn to take a photo of Blake, his stunning grin and open expression just for me, attention rapt.
Goose bumps cover my arms beneath my light jacket, riding the euphoria of the last few hours as if fatigue is a thing that only other people worry about.
He pulls me in finally for a quick kiss. “Selfie,” Blake declares. With his arm around me, he stretches out a long arm to capture us both, with him trying to sneak in a kiss while we laugh.
“Those’ll be dreadful,” I assure him.
“Pure gold, these.” Delighted, he shows me the photos of us laughing, unguarded. My hair’s tousled by the wind, Blake’s dark hair in compliance due to the skillful application of styling product. Some unstressed Aubrey lives in Blake’s phone. Where did he come from?
