Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
CAMERON
Kensington Grand Hotel
London, United Kingdom
The crew and I spill out of the drizzling rain and into the warmth of the lobby in one hurried wave, the chill and rain chases us through the revolving doors.
The golden light catches on damp jackets and luggage, turning the whole scene into something almost cinematic.
Inside, the marble floors gleam beneath the massive crystal chandelier, its glow reflecting off the carved wooden staircase like something out of an old film.
Almost everyone on the crew is junior, and they cluster immediately near one of the seating areas, huddling over their phones, buzzing with energy. “I’m telling you, we can definitely do the British Museum today,” one of them insists.
“And Big Ben,” another says excitedly. “It’s just right there, right?”
“And maybe Buckingham Palace? Or Kensington Palace?” someone chimes in, their eyes wide like they were planning a week-long stay instead of a twenty-six-hour layover.
I can’t help the faint smile tugging at my mouth. “You may want to consider a slightly more realistic itinerary,” I call over my shoulder as I lean against the reception desk, sorting through key packets, and a few of them laughed nervously.
The receptionist slid the final stack of envelopes toward me. I turn back to the group, distributing them one by one.
“Wi-Fi codes are printed inside your packet,” I say, slipping into Purser mode. “We’ve got a generous forty percent discount in the restaurant with your crew ID.”
A hopeful face popped up. “Does that include—”
“No,” I cut in without missing a beat. “Not on alcohol.”
One of them groans.
“Our pickup is at seven in the morning. Meeting here in the main lobby. I know you’re excited, but get some rest.” I pause, letting my eyes sweep across them. “Seven sharp.”
More groans. But mostly laughter.
They disperse toward the elevators in small clusters, already arguing over maps, West End shows, and restaurant reservations, but Riley lingers.
“You good?” she asks quietly as I slide my key into my pocket.
“For sure.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” I say, bumping her shoulder lightly with mine. “Remember when we were junior and thought we could conquer an entire city between report times?”
She snorts. “And still make it to the crew pickup without looking like death.”
“Ambition,” I reply solemnly.
“Then you get old and decrepit like us,” she says, watching the elevator doors close on the last of the crew.
I laugh, a real one. It surprises me how easily it comes.
“We are far from decrepit,” I say.
“Please, speak for yourself.” She arches her brow. “My knees disagree.”
A beat.
“Are you seeing Julian today?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She shifts her weight slightly. “We’re planning an early dinner.”
“That’ll be great,” I say honestly.
Her eyes narrow just slightly, protective instinct kicking in.
“If it would make you uncomfortable,” she offers carefully, “I can cancel. We could grab last-minute West End tickets. There’s always something playing. We could make a night of it.”
The offer is genuine, and I glance up at the chandelier again, light glittering against crystal. This hotel holds history for me. So does this city.
But I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact anymore.
“No,” I say gently. “Go.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Positive.”
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Look at you. You’re giving growth.”
“Don’t make it weird,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
She squeezes my arm. “If you change your mind, text me. I can ditch Julian and catch a show with you.”
“Aw, poor Julian.”
“Oh please.” She scoffs. “He’d survive.”
She leans in and hugs me tightly.
“I’m proud of you,” she murmurs.
“For what?”
“I just am.” She pulls back, studying me with a soft smile.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat lightly, “give Julian my—”
Riley squeals as someone swoops in from behind, picking her up around the waist and spinning around.
“Tell me yourself, mate!” Julian’s grin is as bright and irrepressible as ever. He sets her down and pulls me into a quick, solid hug before I can brace for it.
“Thought you’d never come back across the pond,” he says warmly.
I open my mouth to respond and find that words fail me, so I settle for a smile.
“What are you doing here?” Riley swats at his chest playfully. “I told you I’d text when I was changed and ready.”
“Ah, yes,” Julian replies, smoothing a hand down her back. “But I was feeling rather impatient and thought I might… assist with the changing.”
“Ugh,” she groans. “When did you become so corny?” She jabs her thumb toward him and looks at me. “Men. Gross.”
“Well,” I concede with a shrug. “He is a rather decent one.”
She squints at Julian thoughtfully. “Hmm. I suppose. He’s also incredibly intuitive. Watch this.”
She turns dramatically toward him. “Babe, my bags are so heavy.”
Before she even finishes the sentence, Julian has her suitcase and tote lifted off the floor.
“Miraculous,” he says gravely.
Riley beams at me. “See?”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
No matter what, a scalding shower is always necessary after a flight.
The hot water relaxes me as it pounds against my shoulders, creating steam that billows toward the ceiling.
I definitely stand there longer than I mean to, and when I finally emerge from the bathroom, my skin is tinged pink and my fingers are pruny.
Rain taps steadily and lightly against the window while I throw on a pair of sweatpants and crawl between the crisp sheets.
My body is tired from being up all night, but my brain is not.
I roll onto my side, then on to my back.
“Fine,” I mutter to myself after an hour of tossing and turning, and throw the covers back. “I guess I won’t sleep.” I pad across the room to my suitcase and pull on a pair of jeans, a plain shirt, my jacket, and after slipping into my shoes, I head toward the door.
It’s quiet in the lobby, that weird time of business when it’s past check-out time and well before check-in, and the receptionist seems glad to have the task of signing me out a large black umbrella.
Once outside, I slide the umbrella open, and begin to walk toward Kensington Gardens, but with no specific destination in mind.
The rain is steady but soft, and definitely mists more than soaks, and when I pass the black iron border of the park, the air smells like wet stone and autumn leaves.
I take a deep breath, the damp, cold air filling my lungs. It feels so good.
Hey. I’m in London.
The thought arrives quickly. Just a simple message, though.
It’s natural, adult, and neutral. It leaves room for interpretation, right?
He doesn’t have to answer, and we don’t have to see each other.
I shove my free hand deep into my jacket pocket.
And besides, he’s probably busy. It’s the middle of the week, and I have no idea what his life looks like now.
Anyway, it’s been three months… maybe he’s moved on. But what if? What if he’s waiting?
I come to a stop at a crosswalk, watching the headlights of passing cars blur across the rain slicked street.
Dr. Sage would say I’m spiraling, and I cross the street, my sight focusing on the reality of where I am.
I’ve left the park far behind, and I realize that I’m standing in front of the café where I met Gregg for tea the day after we met.
The tables along the pavement are empty, rainwater dripping from them, but the memory of that summer day is alive in my mind, spreading like a wildfire.
You’ve wandered far enough.
I lower the umbrella to my side and smile as I tilt my head up toward the sky.
The cold rain splotches my face and begins to wet the ends of my hair.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, laughing to myself like a mad man.
A few people offer me an odd look as they pass, but I don’t care. The rain seems to renew me.
I’ve wandered far enough.
Under the entrance awning of the hotel, I shake out the umbrella and push through the door.
The warmth of the lobby greets me, and I hand the umbrella back to the front desk.
Halfway across the lobby, I decide to stop orbiting my thoughts, and I fish my phone from my pocket.
My eyes are down as I walk, and I tap Gregg’s name with my thumb.
He’s pinned at the top of my messages, and I feel ashamed looking back at all the times he’d reached out and I didn't have the courage to respond.
CH: Hey… I’m in London.
My message is simple, and my thumb is lowering to tap send when… I hear it.
Music. Drifting down from the lounge above the lobby. It’s soft at first, almost lost beneath the hum of the conversations and clinks of glasses. But it slices through me instantly.
Piano. Warm and low. A chord lingers in the air like the first inhale before a kiss, and I stop walking.
The melody begins to unfold gently, and it’s not one that’s famous or known, and it doesn’t sound like it’s been rehearsed either.
It feels like it’s being born in real time, one hand grounding the progression in rich, steady chords.
Simultaneously, the other hand answers in light phrases.
My heart stumbles in my chest, because I put two and two together…
I know this. I know these notes exactly.
I know the feeling that they carry, the way they move.
It feels like someone deciding whether to leap or not.
The higher tones shimmer brightly, they’re hopeful without being naive, hanging in the air suspended like a held breath.