“Fuck.”
Later, soaked and miserable, I make my way into a pub. People around me have a great time, gathered with friends by clusters of tables and the bar. It’s a happy, rowdy crowd and I’m the dark cloud in it all. A trip to the toilets only confirms that I look like something the sea spat up, wretched and sodden. I try to pat my hair dry a little with paper towel, which is a fairly hopeless exercise.
I squelch to the end of the bar, hang my water absorbent coat off the back of the chair, and reminisce about snow, which doesn’t have quite the same result. God, if it was snowing, none of this would be happening, would it?
Maybe this is because of the drama at my parents’ home right before Ben left. And us leaving things feeling all vulnerable and shaky. Is this my fault for saying we’re too different? And he went right back to the person who has way more in common with him, like that same drive for music? Plus, it’s not just anyone—it’s Maximus St. Pierre.
There’s no way I can compete with that.Not in this lifetime, at least.
The barman looks at me wryly. “Drink?”
“Yeah. Whatever’s on special.”
He slides over a glass of something in short order. I take a drink, then retrieve my phone and hope that it’s not soaked too. But it’s survived the insult of rain in my jeans pocket beneath my coat.
I have a collection of missed messages and voicemails. All from Ben.
A text at 6:21 p.m.Charlie? Was that you? Security said that was you. B xx
A voicemail at 6:25 p.m. “Come back, Charlie. Max said he saw you with security, that you took off.”
Another text at 6:32 p.m.Whatever you think you saw, I can explain. B xx
A voice message at 6:48 p.m. “Shit, Charlie. I’ve got to go because we’re on stage in a few minutes”—there’s talking in the background—“aye, I’m coming—look, can we catch up tonight? Please don’t go.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I rub my face, down my drink, and have another. Sick to my stomach, I want to leave. I want to catch the next train headed back south, away from whatever’s happened here tonight, back all the way down to Brighton. Back before that, even. Back to the magic of the snow and Ben woven into yarn, my own craft project, transcendent.
Hanging my head, I’m torn about what to do.
8:30 p.m.Ok. Let’s talk after the gig. C.
Chapter Forty-Three
After 11:00 p.m., Ben meets me outside of the venue, pale beneath his freckles. It’s been enough time for me to come back to my senses. To reality.
Our realities are not the same.
If I ever needed a reminder, this is it. There’s no way I measure up to Maximus St. Pierre.
“God, Charlie…” Ben reaches out to me.
I step back, wary. I shake my head. I’ve had a couple of drinks, walked enough for the start of blisters on my feet in wet boots.
“What’s going on?” I ask him.
“What’s going on with you?” Ben asks, searching my eyes. “Talk to me.”
“I came up to surprise you. Except the universe is having a laugh at me again. You pulled the surprise instead. Just as well.” Heavy, I stare at him, hands stuffed in my pockets. “Serves me right for thinking this might work.”
Ben frowns. As ever, he’s gorgeous, even rain-damp. Even worn. His hoodie is up beneath his leather jacket. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you that Max was playing tonight with us in Liverpool.”
“You think?”
“They’ve billed us together for a few of the bigger stops. Figure they can sell more tickets like that, cause a little bit of a media stir, I guess, with our past.”
A hard lump catches at the back of my throat. It’s tough to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice wavers and I hate it.
“I—I don’t know,” Ben manages. He’s crying. “I wanted to protect you. Please don’t be angry.”
