Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
By the middle of the afternoon, I’ve reached Cambridge’s bustling rail station, heaving with students and tourists.
Once I’m outside, I remember the hectic car park I navigated with Will’s Land Rover to meet Gray.
Except this time, I figure out where I am and where I need to go.
It’s not that far, and after sitting on the train for a while, I could use a walk.
On my way out of the station, I stop long enough to grab a snack, eating as I head into the town center.
Cambridge is busy with people, especially with lots of tourists as I get closer to the center, where the gallery’s located.
The afternoon is hot. I’m still dressed up for work from the meeting with the director.
And my messenger bag, laden with snacks, my work laptop, and books, is seriously heavy.
Probably I should have taken the bus in, but I’m committed now to walking.
When I reach the center, I’m stunned by the colleges, especially King’s College, near the central Market Square.
I get a little turned around, especially without Will to navigate this time, so I’m relying on my app.
But paying too much attention to my map in my hand distracts from all the cyclists, and I nearly get struck by one.
“Watch where you’re going!” someone shouts over their shoulder.
The good news is that there’re no cars in the center at least, but lots of pedestrians. And, apparently, cyclists.
Amid the chaos, I find the gallery up Rose Crescent.
“Thank God,” I breathe in the heat, standing in the shade. It’s muggy. I check myself out using the camera on my phone, neatening my hair slightly and taking off my sunglasses, putting them on top of my head. At least I look peak professional. “Good enough.”
At last, I enter, feigning Will’s work confidence. I’m an extrovert. This is meant to be up my alley. Except a lot’s riding on this. And I’m nervous.
The gallery is beautiful, not large, but there are a few stunning abstract paintings hanging on the white walls, with pale maple floors. There’s a reception desk to the side of the entry, and I can see a couple of closed doors beyond.
And behind the desk is presumably the woman who answered the phone earlier.
“Hi,” I say brightly. “I’m Dylan Alexander here for Gray. I called this morning.”
She looks startled. “I didn’t expect you to turn up in person. I’m afraid he’s in a meeting, as I told you.”
“When is he finished?”
She peers at me, probably wondering why this guy can’t get the hint. “I don’t know. He didn’t give me the complete details of his schedule.”
“It’s important,” I try.
“Your art emergency.”
“Right, that.” I nod, giving her an entreating sort of look that usually works on people. I give her my best smile, which I’ve been told in the past is pretty great. Right up there on the charm scale with Will’s. “It’s a terrible art emergency.”
Which amazingly isn’t actually a pile of lies. Because I tried very hard to get myself fired this morning over the missing fashion exhibits, which I would say is at least an art-adjacent emergency.
“I’m afraid we don’t offer conservation or restoration services. If you insist, I can refer you to someone we work with on restorations.” She’s already handing over a business card.
I blink, taking the card for a conservator and looking at it in confusion. “Sorry?”
“For your art emergency?”
“It’s, um, a different kind.” I lift my head to look at her.
She narrows her eyes ever so slightly. “What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Fashion related, actually.” I try the charming grin. “I’m from the London Art & Design Museum.”
If they haven’t fired me, that is.
“I’m here on business.” It’s a very convincing lie, I think.
She sighs. “He finishes after 4:00 p.m. or 4:30 p.m. You can try returning then.”
“Great. I’ll be back.”
Judging by her expression, that’s the worst sort of news she’s heard this afternoon. Meanwhile, a couple of tourists who are in the gallery come over.
“Excuse me,” I say to the receptionist. “Thank you for your help.”
And I slip outside to the shelter of a café nearby to wait till 4:00 p.m.
I pull out the big museum practices book that Will read cover to cover, noticing the sticky notes throughout. I flip to one of them. I see he has written careful notes throughout about the text. It’s totally like him to not want to mark up the book.
And then I realize he’s put notes in like a journal entry.
About what we did each day. Where we went.
One says: Dylan’s busy updating the spreadsheet, and I’m meant to be working, but all I see is him.
Another sticky note reads: Dylan had me take the tube with him today for pickups.
It’s easy to say yes to him when it would be a hard no for anyone else.
And I didn’t fall over and it was totally fine.
Like a diary of the summer together.
It’s everything I can do to keep it together in the café, goose bumps covering my arms as I carefully turn to another page.
He has incredible little sketches on sticky notes on the pages: me, him, even his McLaren that first day splashing me.
His drawings are amazing. There’s another sketch where we sleep together in a too-small bed, captioned Cumbria.
And the smallest, tiniest heart beside the word.
“Will…” I can’t help but whisper, shaking my head as I stare down at the book open flat on the table. Beside me, at the next table, two women around my age glance over.
My heart might burst. Like this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. No wonder he was struggling with me leaving.
The truth is, I don’t want to leave him either. He’s everything to me.
My head’s somewhere up in the clouds by the time I remember I’m supposed to be keeping track of time in the hopes of catching Gray. I make my way back up the cobblestone lane towards the gallery.
Then I lurk a little further down Rose Crescent from the gallery’s glass windows to attempt to be not too obvious. Judging by the look of the picturesque lane, I doubt very much there’s a back exit. So he’s got to come out sooner or later, I reason.
I find a shady spot between shop windows to lean against the cool stone wall between lush planters that brim with flowers. And I wait.
At about 4:30 p.m., I see Gray leave the gallery, and I perk up instantly. I can see him looking around, presumably for me, and I flag him down, hurrying over.
“Gray! Over here.”
Gray turns and smiles like he’s actually happy to see me. Though there’s a slightly stressed undercurrent in his body language, something in his posture. He adjusts his messenger bag over his shoulder.
“Dylan. I received a message that you had called, but I didn’t have your number. And then Linnea told me that you had stopped by the gallery in person. I hoped you hadn’t disappeared back to London quite yet.”
“Not at all. I wanted to keep out of the way and not interfere with your business more than I have already today.” I give him a wry smile. “Sorry. I think your receptionist hates me.”
“I don’t think she hates you.” Gray considers me, now with a slight frown. The breeze ruffles his blond hair. “Aren’t you meant to be at work today? I must admit I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Funny story…” I cough, shrugging expansively, gesturing with my arms. At what, I’m not sure exactly. “I’m not there. Uh, day off.”
“Is the show installation over?”
“Yeah. Last-minute things, you know.” If anyone would know about last-minute prep before an exhibition opens, it’s Gray. Even if his gallery is much more compact than the museum and its warren of offices and galleries.
“I heard you had an art emergency.” His mouth twitches, his eyes hinting at humor.
“I did. I am. It’s a museum emergency, at least. I…
I hope you understand, I’ve been trying to get a hold of Will all week except he’s not answering my texts or calls and I’ve tried going to his flat but I don’t think he’s there because it’s totally dark three nights in a row and at work they—they’ve told me he’s—” Finally, I suck back air, my voice suddenly raw.
I can’t say the word. “Yeah. So, I had to come find you. To make sure he’s okay. Because I can’t reach him.”
Gray’s expression softens at my obvious distress. “He’s had better times,” he acknowledges. “He’s also had worse times. He’s been at our parents’ home, out with a migraine for about three days, but he’s doing a little better today, I heard from our mum.”
“Shit. A migraine. I knew it.”
“It’s been a lot lately. But he’s safe at home with them, our parents.”
I sag with relief. “Thank God.”
Gray’s smile reassures me. Definite older-brother energy.
“I can’t… I’m so sorry for turning up unannounced like this. I didn’t know what to do. What to say. I miss him so much. I need him,” I blurt, my face burning.
He gives me a sympathetic look. “Do you want to try to talk to Will in person? I hear he’s out of bed today.”
I stare. “Please. Anything. It would mean so much. It would mean everything. Even… even if he tells me to go away to my face. Then, at least I’ll know.” I search his eyes. “Do you understand?”
He gives a small nod. Gray adjusts his leather bag over his shoulder like he does actually understand what I’m talking about. Then, it occurs to me he must have a life and a partner or at least evening plans to get to, but he’s unconcerned.
“Let’s go,” Gray says easily. “We’ll need to pick up my car from home.”
Together, we end up walking down south along the road I came in on from the station.
We head down some side street where all the old houses look the same behind their lush hedges, providing privacy from the road and passersby.
I follow him onto a small gravel driveway, where his sports car is parked. It’s not the red McLaren but an Audi.
Before long, we’re on our way to his family home, listening to the radio as we drive out of Cambridge through a series of shortcuts. I’ll never be able to find my way back again. It’s dizzying. I’m anxious but determined. I focus on my breathing.
“We still don’t know what’s happened with the missing exhibits,” I explain. “Everyone’s been looking. But I know we took the exhibits straight from the truck inside the museum and then downstairs. They can’t just vanish.”
“How many crates?” Gray asks.
“No crates. Only one box.” I gesture. “Not huge. Like a medium-sized box that I can carry. I swear we’ve looked everywhere. It was labeled, and we have photos too. And the loan receipts and everything.”
“If it’s not that large and space is at a premium, look inside everything that could fit a box. Someone may have put it away, trying to maximize space.”
“It’s got to be downstairs.” It doesn’t make any sense otherwise. “I’m still looking for it. We’ll find it, and then everything will come right.”
And all I can think of is Will.