Chapter 2 #2
"Oh, they're coming a bit later," Camilla says airily, settling back into her seat.
The casual way she says it makes Liam's eyebrows rise slightly as he realizes he might be third-wheeling this dinner.
"I'm really sorry for crashing your dinner. I can leave?" Liam says as we sit down, looking genuinely concerned.
"Oh please, the more the merrier." Camilla's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Besides, I tend to order enough food to feed a small nation."
"In that case, I'll get us some drinks," Liam offers, clearly relieved. "What can I bring you ladies?"
"I’ll take a Chardonnay," Camilla says confidently, sitting up straighter. "Seeing as I'm legally allowed now."
I roll my eyes. "She turned eighteen last month and hasn't stopped reminding everyone."
"Oh, well happy belated birthday. And you, Nora?" Liam asks me.
"Just a lemonade." I'm still a few weeks shy of eighteen, and despite the fake ID burning a hole in my wallet, I'm not in the mood to test it tonight.
Once Liam heads to the bar, Camilla leans forward eagerly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Okay, he's cute. You never mentioned that whenever you talked about this Liam guy. The dimples and glasses and that accent—good God. Spill everything. How long has this been going on?"
I laugh at the warp speed Camilla runs at. "Nothing's going on."
"Right. That's why you brought your extremely attractive colleague to our dinner." She raises an eyebrow skeptically.
"He invited me to dinner and I felt bad saying no. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's great and brilliant at his job too. And he has been trying to help me get my manuscript in front of the editor in chief for a potential publishing deal but—"
"But? What do you mean but? Nora, he looks at you like you hung the moon. That guy is well and truly mental for you."
“What’s the big news you have?” I ask, changing the subject.
"I see what you did there, but just so you know, this conversation is not over, it's just being parked.
" She leans in closer, practically vibrating with excitement, a smile so wide spread across her face it's almost blinding.
"You know how I've been working on the campaign for that massive Spanish fashion designer Elena Vázquez? "
"The one that's currently plastered across every mood board in our apartment?"
"That one. Well, they loved the campaign concept so much that they've invited me to Barcelona for the official launch. All expenses paid, five-star hotel, the works."
I reach across to squeeze her hand, genuine excitement cutting through my earlier melancholy. "Camilla, that's incredible!"
"Thank you, but that's not even the best part." Her grin widens impossibly. "We leave in two days."
"We?"
"You're my plus one! I already cleared it with the company—they said I could bring someone. And well, you're the someone, so you're coming."
My stomach drops like I'm in a free-falling elevator. "Camilla, I can't just—"
"Yes, you can. Liam's already gotten your time off approved."
"What do you—" But before she can answer, Liam returns with our drinks, setting them down with a flourish.
"So," he says, settling into his chair with a pleased expression, "did you tell her?"
I look between them, pieces clicking into place like a puzzle I should have seen coming. "Wait, you two know each other?"
Camilla grins sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "How do you think I managed to get you time off on such short notice? Liam helped."
"You planned this?" I turn to Liam, who has the decency to look slightly guilty, his cheeks flushing pink.
"She came by the office, explained the opportunity. It seemed like something you needed, and it's your eighteenth birthday—why would you want to spend it in London when you could be in Barcelona?"
"How did you know it was my—"
I look to Camilla, who sheepishly sips her wine, avoiding my gaze.
"See, it's all sorted," Camilla says quickly, waving her hand dismissively.
"Wait, did you say Barcelona? As in Spain, Barcelona?" My heart rate spikes, and I can feel my palms growing clammy.
"I know what you're worried about, and you don't need to." Camilla's voice becomes gentler, more serious. "Jay told me he's living in some tiny village in the middle of nowhere. The chances of running into Nate are practically zero."
It's been months since I've heard any updates about Nate, and even secondhand information feels like touching a bruise that hasn't quite healed.
"Please say yes," Camilla continues, her eyes bright with hope. "It's five days in paradise for your birthday, and you could use a break from everything here."
I look at her hopeful face, then at Liam's encouraging nod. They've clearly conspired to make this impossible to refuse.
"Fine," I say finally, throwing my hands up in surrender. "But if this backfires, I'm blaming both of you."
Camilla squeals and throws her arms around me, nearly knocking over her wine glass. "You won't regret this, I promise!"
Liam smiles, and it does something strange to my chest—a flutter I can't quite identify as good or bad.
As the evening wears on, Mondea transforms from a restaurant into something more like a relaxed bar. The lights dim, music gets louder, and people start pushing tables aside to create an impromptu dance floor.
Our table, which started with three, has somehow expanded to include several of Camilla's coworkers and a group of university students who seemed to adopt us.
"Tell me you didn't actually convince a fifty-year-old Spanish executive to green-light your campaign by drawing him a diagram on a spaghetti-stained napkin," one of Camilla's colleagues says, laughing so hard she's wiping tears from her eyes.
"I absolutely did." Camilla takes a sip of her wine, looking enormously pleased with herself. "Sometimes you have to speak their language, even if that language is terrible sketches on used napkins."
"That's either brilliant or insane," Liam says, shaking his head in admiration.
"The best ideas usually are." Camilla grins, raising her glass in a mock toast.
I find myself relaxing for the first time in weeks, caught up in the easy laughter and stories. Liam fits seamlessly into our group, making jokes that actually land and asking the right questions to keep conversations flowing.
He's good at this—at making people feel comfortable, included.
"Alright, I hate to be the responsible one," Camilla says around ten, checking her phone with a slight frown, "but I need to head home.
I promised Jay I'd video call him tonight.
Ugh, time differences suck." She turns to me, that ever-present concern flickering across her face. "Are you good if I head home?"
"Of course, tell Jay I said hi," I say, gathering my own things.
"Will do." She hugs me goodbye, then turns to Liam with a pointed look. "Take care of my girl, yeah?"
"Always," he says, and something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully.
Another hour passes, filled with easy conversation about work, books, and the small details of life. Things feel comfortable with Liam—nice, normal, easy.
There's no emotional minefield to navigate, no history to tiptoe around. Just two people talking, laughing, existing in the present moment without the weight of the past pressing down on everything.
"It's getting late," I say eventually, glancing at my watch. "I should head home."
"Can I walk you home?" he asks, standing and pulling on his jacket.
"It's fine, really. I don't live far."
"My mother would kill me if she knew I let a girl walk home alone at night."
There's something old-fashioned about the way he says it, gentlemanly in a way that feels genuine rather than performative. Liam is everything any reasonable person would want—he's kind, intelligent, attractive in that clean-cut British way, ambitious but not ruthless.
On paper, he's perfect.
But perfect on paper doesn't make my pulse race. Perfect on paper doesn't have dark hair and brooding hazel eyes and the ability to make my world stop with a single look.
When we reach my building, I turn to say goodnight, but Liam steps closer, his expression soft and hopeful.
"Well, thank—"
Before I can process what's happening, his lips are on mine.
The kiss is gentle, tentative, and for a split second, I let myself imagine this could be easy. That I could fall for someone uncomplicated, someone available, someone who wouldn't require me to choose between love and logic.
But then panic floods my system like ice water. I pull back abruptly, probably too quickly, and see Liam's face fall.
"Fuck. I'm sorry, I thought—" He runs a hand through his hair, looking mortified. "I completely misread that, didn't I?"
"No, it's not—you didn't do anything wrong." My voice sounds shaky even to my own ears.
"Then why do you look like I just terrified you?"
I lean against the building, trying to find words that won't hurt him.
"Look, I like you, Liam. You're amazing, truly. And you have been nothing but good to me since we met. But I just got out of something complicated, and I'm not ready for this. Whatever this could be."
His expression softens with understanding. "How long ago?"
"Not long enough."
"Well shit, I didn't think it was possible to be a pushy bastard and a bellend and now also an ignorant bastard in one night. But here we are." He says it with a self-deprecating laugh, rubbing the back of his neck—guilt and embarrassment warring on his features.
"You're not any of those things. You're incredibly kind and attentive, actually. I'm just—"
Emotionally unavailable.
Mentally fucked up.
Confused.
A concoction of all those things multiplied by ten.
He nods, understanding something I don't seem to understand myself, while stepping back to give me space.
"Can I ask if there's any chance of 'not long enough' becoming 'long enough' eventually?"
The question is so hopeful, so careful, that it breaks my heart a little.
"I don't know. I wish I could give you a better answer than that."
"Honesty is better than false hope."
"I should probably head on up. Thank you for walking me home though.” I say, pulling out my keys with fingers that tremble slightly.
"Nora?" He waits until I look at him. "For what it's worth, whoever he is, he's an idiot for letting you go."
The apartment feels too quiet after the noise and energy of the evening.
Camilla's clearly asleep, so I change into pajamas, wash my face, and try to convince myself I'm tired enough to sleep. But my mind is still racing from this morning’s therapy session, from Camilla's surprise Barcelona trip, from the feel of Liam's lips on mine and the guilt that followed.
Guilt.
Why was that feeling even present right now?
I pull open the drawer of my bedside table and retrieve the Discman Nate gave me last summer, along with the CD he made. The mix is labeled simply "Nora's Mixtape #17 V2" in his careful handwriting.
I've probably listened to it a hundred times. I’m surprised it’s not scratched and still working.
Putting on the headphones, I press play and let the music wash over me through the carefully chosen songs. Each track tells a story—our story—from the tentative hopefulness of the beginning to the raw pain of the end.
When the last song begins—the one he wrote himself—I close my eyes and let myself remember what it felt like to be the center of someone's universe. I can picture him sitting at the piano, shoulders hunched over the keys, his voice rough and unpracticed but the lyrics pure poetry.
“Time moves in circles, never straight lines
And I keep walking back to where you used to be mine..."
Why do we do this to ourselves?
Why do we press play on our pain, replay moments that exist only in memory?
Is it because some experiences are too profound to let go, even when holding onto them hurts? Maybe we revisit the past not to live there, but to remind ourselves that we're capable of feeling that deeply. That once upon a time, we mattered enough to someone that they wrote us into a song.
Or maybe we're just gluttons for punishment, addicted to the particular ache that comes from loving someone we can't have.
The song ends, and I don't press play again.
Instead, I lie in the darkness thinking about tomorrow, about therapy appointments and manuscripts and trips to Barcelona.
About the choice between what feels safe and what feels true. About the difference between the love that makes sense and the love that makes you lose your mind.
Outside my window, London continues its restless existence, full of people making choices between their hearts and their heads, between what they want and what they need.
And somewhere out there, in a village I can't picture, maybe someone else is lying awake listening to old songs and wondering if love is supposed to hurt this much.
The thought should make me feel less alone.
Instead, it just makes me miss him more.