Gillian’s setting up her keyboard. Jackson sorts out his drums. The rehearsal room comes with most of the drum kit and the amps, not as posh as the rehearsal space that Briar and Jackson had for us before Christmas, but also not as likely to sprout plant life from the rugs compared to some other places we’ve practiced. Everyone else packs in their own instruments and gear. None of us are fortunate to have a Posh Van.
After setting my guitar case down, I slip my damp wool coat onto the back of a chair. As I tune my guitar, Gillian comes over, black hair piled on top of her head.
“How’s Papa Charlie?” she asks.
I laugh, about to look over my shoulder for that guy, whoever he might be. Can’t be me, can it? It’s still weird to be referenced by others—hell, even by me—as a dad. “Good.”
“How’s Carys?”
“She’s getting big. You should see her run now. She’s damn fast.” Taking out my phone, I share a couple photos of Carys. There’s one from her birthday where she sits in a box from a gift that Katherine gave her. Another is of me holding her, with Emily, and yet another from the Christmas Day dancing in the front room.
“Adorable,” says Gillian. “Fact. She can come upstage us anytime.”
“Let’s fly her in for next week,” I say, adjusting a guitar string that’s slightly off.
“Brilliant, let’s do it. You had a good time in Wales, then?”
“Absolutely.” Even thinking of Wales has me thinking of Posh Van, which brings me to Ben. And then a smile I can’t fight appears and I don’t explain a thing. Like Ben’s a greedy secret that I can’t mention. Not yet. It’s too new. I don’t want to jinx it. Nothing’s happened other than quality time in his van—without him. Plus, we haven’t had our official first date and as excited as I am to see Ben on our date, part of me is still worried about the whole thing. Of course I’m worried. I’m me, after all. And I don’t want to namedrop Ben or anything like that.
Before long, everyone’s arrived. After warming up together, we work through the set list for next week. It’s a gig at a small bar and everyone wants to bring our A game. If we do well enough, that’s money to save toward professionally recording our demo, or at least keep us in rehearsal cash for a couple of sessions. There’s always the worry about things being a disaster, but it shouldn’t cost us anything. At least worrying’s my unpaid job. I can worry for the five of us, no problem.
Between songs and banter and catching up, the evening goes quickly. It feels a bit surreal to be doing something back in my normal routine after the last few days, and the hurricane of Ben arriving into my life. And I’m back to worrying that when the snow is gone in January and we’re back to the usual London drizzle, the shift in weather will take Ben with it, even with his assurances. Like the snow brought him with its magic and can take him away just as easily when it melts, because Ben wouldn’t happen into my life under normal conditions.
Chapter Thirty-One
On the day of our date, I do all of the things to keep busy while waiting for time to pass. I clean my room. I do the laundry. I go for a long run. When I steam myself in the shower, at last I feel like I can breathe again. Even in the shower, the cold air settles into my lungs, like the earlier damp of the rain as I ran on Hampstead Heath, a green expanse in North London.
Around lunchtime, I receive a text from Ben.
Flight delay.
Shit. That’s no kind of good news. It’s terrible news. The question is: how delayed? Ben’s typing on his phone and every second that passes only serves to spike my anxiety.
4pm arrival. Meet me at Gatwick? Bring the van. And that overnight bag.
For a moment, I hesitate. What’s he planning, exactly? For a moment, I wonder if he has some wild idea to hop on a flight to God knows where. That can’t be right, though, if he wanted me to bring the Posh Van. I’m not sure what he’s up to.
I suppose this is where trust comes in. Should someone be trusted on a first date? But this isn’t really ourfirstfirst date. Not technically. And if he was the murdering sort, he probably could have done it that day he led me blindfolded down Camden Passage to the wool shop. No snuff kink so far. I gulp and respond.
All right. Gatwick arrivals. 4pm.
And I hit send, hoping for the best.
…
The sun is about to set as I arrive at Gatwick Airport, slung low in the sky. Soft clouds break over the horizon, catching the light. The train is busy with travelers, and people pull suitcases, laden with bags. Once I step off the platform at the airport, my stomach dances. No new texts have arrived warning of delays. Ben didn’t send his flight number, which is probably not surprising given his dyslexia and all of the numbers involved, but there are only so many flights coming in at once from Edinburgh.
On the concourse, I stop into a shop to buy a couple of bottles of water, a necessity after any flight. I put them in my duffel bag for now and join the queue of people at the arrivals area. The arrivals board tells me there was another small delay, with the plane arriving at 4:15 p.m.
The five-minute delay’s long enough to make me angst when 4:20 p.m. rolls around and there’s no Ben. What if there’s more delays? What if he’s missed his flight and lost his phone to tell me about it? After all, there’s a precedent for the phone-losing, though I can’t say about missing flights.
By the time Ben appears through the gates five minutes later amid a sea of passengers, I could sob with relief. And he’s fucking gorgeous in his leather jacket and that striped scarf, his blond hair tousled with fresh lavender streaks. He scans the crowd and when he sees me, his face lights up and I die about a million times, standing there.
Hurrying to the end of the arrivals causeway, I meet Ben at the end. There’s no hesitation then when I pull him tight in my arms and he draws me into a lingering kiss that makes me tingle to my toes and beyond, likely sparking some kind of seismic event south of London. His mouth burns and oh I can’t wait for the night to come.
Eventually, we straighten. I reel.
“I missed you,” I confess, smoothing his scarf.
