And then my heart stops. Possibly my lungs quit working, too.
Ben Campbell saunters past, flanked by a couple of his bandmates. He pauses by me, long enough to hold my gaze until my face sears. He gives me a wink and a cheeky grin. Shameless and bold. “Great gig.”
I nearly die on the spot. My beer sloshes.
Just like that, he’s gone as suddenly as he arrived.
I gawp wordlessly after him.Oh. My. God. Ben Campbell just watched me play.
I try to pull it together and fail miserably, staring.
“Heathcliff’s a lucky man. Good night.” Communications Francois slips into the crowd to try his luck with someone else.
How exactly am I supposed to return to my room in Finsbury Park and my reading and essay now? Totally unfair, universe. Out of sorts, I make my way out for home, wondering if I’ll ever see Ben Campbell again.
Chapter Three
The morning shift goes by in a blur of lattes and pastries, the ever-present clatter of crockery the inevitable soundtrack to my café life. It’s Saturday once more, though I had a patchwork of shifts during the week around my exam schedule. Now it’s back to the usual weekend routine again.
My only escape from all of it the last few days was the occasional lewd daydream about Ben Campbell, including the details of how I embarrassed myself in front of him last weekend, because my brain loves reliving moments of peak shame in excruciating detail, punctuated with distracted memories of equally peak hotness. Even through all of that, his easy grin stays with me, imprinted.
God, Charlie. You’re hopeless. People like Ben Campbell definitely aren’t for you. Especially when you keep making an arse of yourself in front of him.
I wipe my fingers on my black apron before wiping down the counter at the café. The routine’s all muscle memory now, no thought required. Which is good, because I’m seriously distracted right now.
Luckily, between uni, café work, the band, and Carys and Emily, I had very little time to think about anything else this past week. Certainly no time to spend wondering how far those freckles might go down his neck and beneath his collar. Or what he might look like without all of his wintry layers against the late autumn bluster. Or if he’s warm enough, or if he needs my help to chase off winter chills with a few kisses. After all, I’m selfless like that.
The dating ban’s going just great.
At any rate, with the term wrapping up, Friday night saw me out hitting a rock club for a friend’s gig and having a good time for a couple of hours. Till I woke without enough sleep for today’s shift, regretting my poor life choices again as I struggled through the morning routine. When did I become such a lightweight? Probably since I don’t go out often these days. Once in a while, I’ll let myself have a Friday night—and only a Friday night—out for fun, and I’ve got to make every moment count.
“God.” I down a pint of water as Jasmine and I stand behind the front counter. Everything aches and my mouth’s packed with cotton wool. Like, I know full well London water is dodgy and full of pharmaceuticals and who knows what else, but adding cotton is a step too far.
“God speaking,” says Jasmine. “You’d think you’d learn by now. Gonna rethink the point of your existence, Charlie?”
“You’d think.” I take over the till with a grimace. Unfortunately, that means dealing with people again. People mean even more talking. This is far more than my brain can bear this morning. “But I’m not gonna. I’ve got things to do. No time to waste.”
Which is why I have the ban.
I’m busy, but I’m also admittedly scared of opening up to someone and being vulnerable. Like sharing about my time spent in therapy, or time spent wrangling medications to find the right ones or the right doses. Or the right combination. But to be fair, there are things I’ve done in the past that were just plain old shit judgment, and I still don’t quite trust myself.
It’s true that some of my situation is self-inflicted. Sure, it’s not good to drink like I did on Friday nights once upon a time, but it’s a far cry better than how I used to spend every night off my face. That’s addiction for you. Now, I’m clean, but I’ve not forgotten.
Clean’s not always easy, especially during the holidays with my family. Christmas is coming up fast, and stress is high, so letting loose for a little while by going to a rock club when I can on a Friday night is fair play. Besides, it’s technically market research for the band about what’s happening in the local music scene.
At any rate, music keeps my head above water. And so does work at the café.
So far, it’s a quietish Saturday morning.
Customers come at an easy pace, which makes me look almost functional. Brilliant, because the manager is in this morning, and I’m hoping not to embarrass myself in front of her. Better not relive last Saturday’s episode again.
The café is dotted with shoppers and students sitting at worn pine tables, stained dark with time, and mismatched painted chairs. Colorful artwork by local artists hangs on brick walls. A couple of customers have the prime seats by the fire on the old leather sofa: a fab place to be on a cold day like today. Others sit in front of the large windows. A few of them are students from my course. They’re laughing and talking about all of the fun things they will do over their holiday break. Everywhere I look, people wear layers of woolen things like pullovers and hats and scarves. Coats hang from the back of chairs, and the windows are fogged up with condensation from the heat inside.
I’m not getting a break. Not until I go to Wales for a couple of days. But I’ll probably spend more time traveling there than with Emily and Carys.
Attempting to be useful, I start wiping down the counter. I can handle this.Simple tasks, Charlie. Simple tasks. Work up to the bigger tasks.
After a couple of minutes, I clue in that someone’s watching me. Sixth sense or something like that. I glance up.
