And a whoa.
And a brand-new ache between my legs as the memories race through my body—the way he touched me, kissed me, fucked me.
Okay, then, that was great sex.
I get out of bed and ride the high that morning. I suppose there’s just something about an orgasm that makes everything better.
I spend the morning prepping for my first day at work. In the afternoon, I check my route on my phone to the flats the leasing agent sent me in Charing Cross. I contacted him before I left New York since I don’t want to stay in the hotel too long. Then I meet David near Trafalgar Square and he shows me a couple nearby places.
“This one is fantastic,” I say, as soon as he swings open the door to the third one.
I ooh and aah over the space.
The bathroom is a tiny bit bigger than my one in New York.
And there’s more light, a few more windows with sun streaming in. Plants line the windowsill, making the place cheerier than I expected.
“I might already be in love,” I add.
“Glad you like it,” the jolly man says with a chuckle.
I peer out windows that overlook a bustling street, red double-decker buses and black cabs whipping by. “I can’t complain about a thing. It has a room with a view,” I quip. When his face goes blank, I just shake my head and add, “I’ll take it.”
I bet Heath would get the remark.
I bet he’d be amused by the E.M. Forster reference.
Is Heath a librarian? A novelist? A literary agent? Or just a learned man?
A dark thought flashes through my brain. What if he’s a professor? Like my father?
I hope not. I’d hate for them to have anything in common.
But a librarian would be hot. I can picture Heath in some quiet institution, enrobed in silence all day, checking out tomes. Mmm. Bet he wears reading glasses and looks all studiously studly in them.
Maybe I should text him today.
Is that too soon, though?
I have no idea what the rules are. I haven’t met anyone in person in ages. I met the last few guys I dated online, and they were entirely focused on themselves and didn’t even realize it. One wanted to talk about how stressed he was, the other about his self-care routines, and yet another about his goals. But then, I’ve never had any luck in the romance department, so it should be no surprise they were busts.
“We can do the paperwork now,” the leasing agent says.
As I sit at the flat’s tiny kitchen table, I try to stay focused on the practical details of being in this new city, signing a lease, rather than on the romantic ones of my one-night stand.
The first one I’ve had in ages.
Or is that ever?
I cycle back through the last decade, stopping at Jacob in grad school. My romantic encounters film reel is short. It probably wouldn’t qualify for the shorts category at the Oscars. It’s more the length of a commercial.
Oh, well. I have work and friends. Someday, maybe, I’ll find more.
When we’re finished with the paperwork, the agent tells me I can take occupancy tomorrow. Before I go, I drink in the flat one more time. The couch is comfy, and there’s a spot on the coffee table for my two favorite framed photos. I pat the side of my purse, where I keep them. One is of Mom and me when I was in high school. She’s smiling brightly, letting me fasten a simple locket around her neck. She called me her stylist, and I cherished the term because it came from her. The other pic is of my New York family and me, taste-testing veggie burgers in Brooklyn. TJ, Easton, and I were giving Nolan and Emerson a hard time over their food-rating system. As friends do.
It’ll be perfect right there, next to the shot of Mom.
The two pictures remind me of the good things in life, and the people I can depend on. That’s why I carry them with me.
I thank the agent, and we part ways on the street. I take the scenic route as I wander back to the hotel, the city unfolding as I go.
I try, I swear I try, to see London for what it is rather than for what I felt a decade ago.
Shoving those memories away as best I can, I remember that this city is home to museums and galleries, monuments and theaters, libraries and universities.
And, also, to everyday stores.
Like on this block, as I turn down a quieter side street along the river, and pass a pub, sporting a brick façade and a hanging sign that says Goat’s Head Tavern.
Very English indeed.
A little farther, and I meander by a wine store, then a tiny pop-up shop peddling stamps at the end of the block—inked stamps with cutouts of dolphins, bicycles built for two, chipmunks, stars, and everything else under the sun on them.