Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
My first stop is for tea around the corner from the museum, sitting down at a table by a sunny window. I’m exhausted to the core of my bones. Around me, the café bustles. People laugh and carry on. There’s the clatter of dishes in the background. Like everything’s normal.
I’m trying to catch up with everything I said at the meeting with the director and Lily. Like my mouth operates independently from my brain. I’m loyal to Will, and I don’t regret standing up for what I believe in so far.
But have I screwed my career over for good?
I go through the ritual of letting the tea steep in the teapot, then pour with enough space left for a splash of milk and sugar. Carine’s right. This ritual of tea-making is soothing. It’s starting to grow on me after a summer in London, like I’m really starting to understand some things at last.
Now, the sensible thing to do would be to go home and actually rest. Go back to bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep all day.
Which is an idea that has some merit, I won’t lie. But more than that, my conscience and guilt won’t leave me alone. Because I’m still not technically fired despite my efforts this morning. They’ve only sent me home for the day, presumably to calm down, because they think I’m being overemotional.
But I’m not. It doesn’t make any sense to fire Will instead of me. Even if he took responsibility first. There’s a chance there’s more to the story, but I won’t know till I find Will for more answers.
And Will’s nowhere to be found.
While I sit by the bright window, the café hums around me with mothers and young children, tourists, and the occasional office worker seeking refuge from Friday morning.
The air smells like freshly brewed coffee, while the espresso machine screeches with the milk frother going overtime.
Mugs and dishes clink in the background as orders are called out to the waiting customers.
And steadily, the café fills up with people.
Whatever’s happened with Will, he’s not feeling well. I don’t know if it’s a migraine or if it’s the agony of being fired. Or even if it’s regret over getting mixed up with me.
My stomach twists at the last thing. Why else would he be ghosting me now?
Or all of the above.
Shit.
The only way to get to the bottom of this, whether to let him go or figure out what happens from this point, is to find him.
Even if it’s only to say goodbye. I can’t leave London at the end of next week without seeing him again.
But that might be out of my control. If I were reasonable, I’d listen to Stephen and move on with my original, ambitious dating plan while I was in London.
Which obviously means I need to find Will, and fast. But how?
I stir more sugar into my tea, staring glumly into it like it will conjure answers.
Think, Dylan. You’re supposed to be a reasonably bright guy, good at solving problems.
Usually.
After my tea, I head out to walk along the Thames toward London Bridge, not entirely sure if I’m going for a walk to clear my head while gulls bob and reel over the water, or going home, or what. Then, I walk past where Will and Gray and I met up not that long ago for drinks.
My God, I miss Will. I want him so much.
And then it dawns on me the way to find Will may be by finding his brother.
I try searching on my phone for Gray Martin-Greene without much luck. Then I try Grahame Martin-Greene gallery. I can’t remember if he’s in London or where he lives. If I can find Gray, I can find Will.
Soon, I stand in the plaza next to the Old City Hall like I did when I first arrived in London, overlooking the Thames.
Except with much better weather. It’s a stunning August morning under broad blue skies.
The glare of the sun on my phone’s screen makes it hard to read.
I shift to stand with my back to the sun and shade the screen with my shadow.
Finally, results start popping up on my phone.
I do an image search, and then there’s a picture of Gray, beaming in a headshot, looking carefree in a way that reminds me of how Will often is with me. There’s his LinkedIn and then a museum bio. He’s based in Cambridge.
Which is very much not where I am.
Checking the time, it’s half past ten in the morning. Hopefully, he’s working and not on holidays. Cambridge Contemporary Gallery, Curator and Founder, reads his bio. Art History at Cambridge for his undergrad, his MA from the Royal College of Art, and a list of exhibitions he’s curated.
Well. Clearing my throat, I go for the only reasonable option: I call the gallery.
A woman answers. “Good morning, Cambridge Contemporary. How may I help?”
“Good morning. I’m, err, looking to speak with Gray. Grahame Martin-Greene, please. It’s important.”
“Unfortunately, he’s in a meeting this morning. May I take your name and number, and I’ll give him the message when he’s available.”
I brighten up. Holy shit. Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to Gray after all. “It’s Dylan Alexander.”
“What is it regarding?”
“Um.” Shit, I should have thought about a good answer. My plan’s not exactly foolproof. “Art?”
“Art?” she echoes. “Any specific kind of art?”
Well, this is getting awkward. I can’t screw up at this point. And it wouldn’t be professional to say I’m looking for Gray’s brother because he’s not answering my calls, and I won’t get the hint.
“Contemporary art. Actually, it’s a contemporary art emergency, I’d say. Definitely.”
“I see.” There’s a tone of skepticism now.
I need to rally, and quickly. “He knows me from the London Art & Design Museum,” I add in a rush. “It’s—it’s about our opening on Saturday night.”
“I’ll let him know.” There’s definitely a tone of dismissal now. But I’m not ready to hang up.
One last effort.
“Is he in the gallery this afternoon? I’ll try calling again after lunch.”
“I believe he is in, but he has appointments scheduled.”
“Right. Okay. Thanks. I’ll try again later.”
We hang up. I continue to stand staring at my dark phone, unconvinced she’s going to pass along the message because honestly, it sounds like a crank call. If I were her, I’d have some doubts on forwarding my message to the gallery director too.
Which is about when I decide that instead of going home or haunting the street outside of Will’s dark flat, it’s time to go to Cambridge.
I get myself to the station in record time, figuring out the route on my phone app as I go.
Only when I’m on the train headed out of town sometime later do I sit and take a deep breath, watching London glide by my window.
Tan and gray brick buildings line my view on the way through London, and I take stock of the colorful graffiti on brick buildings along the route between stations, eventually giving way from the sprawl of the heaving city to green, broad pastures and pale skies.
Naturally, I don’t tell Stephen where I’m going, because he’s sleeping right now, and also, he would tell me I’m out of my head for this guy. Which, really, is true.
I might not have any better luck going to Cambridge than I did going to his flat, and he might be really upset I’ve gone to this length to find him, but at least I can feel like I tried everything in trying to find Will. And he can tell me to go away to my face.
But—my heart twists—I want to tell him everything about how I feel. Which is just as terrifying as losing him for good. And returning, alone, to Canada.