23. Cockblocking Coachmen
Cockblocking Coachmen
Blaze
A dizzying mix of emotions is swirling around in my head—imagine your brain making an emotion-based jungle juice, minus the Igloo cooler.
On one hand, I’m going to see fucking Stonehenge; on the other, I could be home by the weekend.
But there’s a third hand where I just spent three days in a carriage, and a fourth where I have to say goodbye to Jo—again.
You would think for as many times as we’ve done this that it would be easier…
I’m feeling better about this attempt than I did about the last four.
We were grasping at straws, and I was close to asking if it would be worth chartering a ship to America, only to jump overboard as it passed through the Bering Sea.
What if it was a one-way door—sea to London?
This trip has to work, or it would suggest that my favorite nine-book series was, in fact, fiction, and that would make me sad.
After failing to return home by any of my nine different dips in the Regent’s Park pond, plus the incident with the shoes, I had switched to digging through a travel guide of sorts—complete with maps and everything. In turn, we had been visiting every ancient site I discovered within a day’s ride.
Did you know there are remnants of a Roman wall in London?
I didn’t either. The ghost of an ancient gate sits on the other side of the city, and I had convinced myself that walking through the ruin would send me home.
It didn’t, so I kept reading, and that’s when I realized Stonehenge was just outside of town.
Of course, just outside of London means one thing in 2025 and another in 1813.
What would be a few hours by car was actually looking like a three-day carriage ride both there and back.
It took a little rearranging and convincing for Jo and me both to clear our work schedules enough for a full week away.
Jo had insisted I tell Albion I was coming back.
If this attempt wasn’t successful, I would still want my job, and if it did work, Jo didn’t need anyone suggesting my disappearance was premeditated.
I could tell you that the entire carriage ride was awful, and you would probably believe me, but the truth is, it hasn’t been all bad.
When we left the modiste, Jo had taken the seat at the rear of the carriage, leaving me the front, with my back to the coachman.
I made it as far as the first stop to let the horses have a break before I was begging Jo to swap places.
I get carsick easily, and facing forward usually helps.
Turns out she’s the same way, meaning the whole trip we’ve been tucked thigh to thigh with my arm situated on the backrest behind her.
It was practical, otherwise our shoulders would be crushed together and I’m bigger than her, so it would be uncomfortable, I’m sure…
Anyway, here we are. Another few hours and we’ll reach the last inn on our route, and in the morning, we’ll make the final little jump over to Stonehenge.
“Mister Hollows, we’re breakin’ the horses!
” the coachman hollers as the carriage slows to a stop.
“Last one ’fore we arrive at the inn. Might as well stay put.
We’ll be quick with it.” The coach shifts as he dismounts, and the horses nicker in excitement.
Now that I’m listening for it, I can hear the unmistakable sound of water and lean towards the window, catching sight of the river we’re stopped beside.
“You know what’s wild? I trust these old stone bridges you have more than anything we have in the future.
We have these big ass metal bridges and thanks to the internet, I’ve seen about thirty-too-many videos of the damn things failing and crashing to the ground with cars on them.
” I turn from the window to find Jo blinking at me, eyebrows raised comically high. “What?”
“I can not, for the life of me, put a single flake of understanding to what just came from your mouth,” she says, cracking a smile.
“You know what,” I sigh, “that’s fair. Okay, but look at this—“ I lean back and gesture to the glass pane. Jo looks out the window, but in order to reach it, she’s leaning over my lap with one hand on my thigh to balance her.
Someday, I’ll make a list of memorable moments where I act without thinking—this is going on the list.
“What am I looking at exactly?”
“The, uh—“ Cold showers. “Bridge, the bridge.” Nope. My Johnson is not deterred. Gerty in a swimsuit—oh, that’s helping.
“See how thick and sturdy it is?” I say, right before I grab her wrist, because I need it off my leg before I embarrass myself.
She glances down at our hands and then up to my face and fuck she’s so close.
She must be feeling the same way I am, though, because she’s looking at my mouth and now I’m thinking about the bed we broke, and her soft thigh in my hand…
I don’t know which one of us moved—maybe it was both of us—but our noses are a breath apart.
She’s breathing heavily, lips parted and, despite my best efforts, I’m hard enough to break diamond.
Then the carriage rocks sharply, making our heads knock together before she falls back on her ass in her seat, clutching her forehead.
“Ready to roll on, Mister Hollows?” the cock-blocking—I mean lifesaving—coachman hollers. Clawing at each other is absolutely something we shouldn’t be doing right now.
“Yes,” I huff out, then clear my throat and try again. “Yes, carry on!” The coachman doesn’t respond, but the lurch as the wheels begin moving tells me he heard.
“The future is weak,” Jo whispers.
“Huh?” I twist toward her flushed face, but she avoids my gaze.
“You said the bridge here was strong, and you trusted it. I assume it implies the ones in your time are weak?”
“Something like that,” is all I manage to say.
We spend the rest of the trip in awkward silence, with Jo angling her whole body to look out the window while I fight my horny brain to stop replaying the carriage episode from Bridgerton season three in my head and swapping Pen and Colin for myself and Jo.
It’s well past dark when we finally stop at The Broken Wheel, and few words are shared between us as we go straight to bed—her, me, and our trusty pillow barrier.
“…So she touches the rock, and travels back in time, and marries a stranger basically to save her skin. They totally end up falling in love, but then shit blows up—literally—and she leaves Jaime, the hot stranger husband, and goes home by touching the rock again.” I give myself a mental pat on the back for my ten-second summary of Outlander, but take it back when I glance over at Jo, whose eyes are absolutely glazed over. “Jo? You with me?” I ask.
She blinks a few times. “If she loves him, why does she leave him?”
“Like I said, shit blows up and she doesn’t really have a choice. There’s this bad guy who looks exactly like her husband from her time–”
“She was already married?” Jo’s voice hits that octave that people only ever reach when their flabbers have been sufficiently ghasted.
“Well, yeah–but it’s complicated! That’s only the first season. There’s seven seasons out now, and the story is still going.”
“All of that happens in one season? That’s hardly a few months!” Jo shakes her head, and I’m about to laugh when she stops walking and I turn to see why.
We’ve finally reached the towering pillars of Stonehenge.
“Jo,” I say softly. I’ve said goodbye to her so many times, but this one…this feels real. Even though I don’t hear the telltale hum of the stones that Claire does, this is the first time I’ve truly felt it in my bones that this could work. Or I watch too much T.V.
My wife just stands there, a slight breeze whipping strands of her hair across her face as she stares at the megalithic structure. I let her have her moment. It’s been months, what’s another five minutes?
“You have everything?” she finally says, smiling at me the same way Olympians do when their name isn’t called to stand on the podium.
I sigh, then pat the bag slung over my shoulder.
We’re still not sure if I can actually take anything home with me, but I’m going to try.
I have a few woodworking tools, one of the shirts Jo made me—the blue one she likes the best—and my almanac, safely tucked in a zippered pocket of my bibs.
I actually haven’t had the heart to check if that’s been sufficient water protection against my weekly pond dives, but I can hope.
“Oh, can’t forget these!” I pull the hem of my trousers up enough for Jo to see my gaudy, gold cock-socks.
Jo snorts. “No one can ever forget your lucky socks, Blaze.” I blink and she’s hugging me. “Let’s skip the depressing farewell, shall we? You had better go; you have lasagna to eat.”
I squeeze her back, lingering a little longer than I should.
“Thank you, Jo.” I tuck the windswept curl behind her ear, allowing my hand to linger on her cheek as I kiss the top of her head, then turn towards the stones before I can change my mind.
It’s silent as I stand toe to rock, like even the birds know this moment is significant. I fill my lungs one last time with the crisp, clean air from a time before we filled the skies with smog, before I close my eyes and reach out a hand to firmly place my palm on its cool surface.
Nothing happens.
I open my eyes, scan the historical wonder around me, and find Jo standing right where I left her—yellow gown dancing with the breeze and the sun glinting off the stone dangling on a thin chain around her neck.
“I forgot,” I say hurriedly as I jog over to Jo.
“Claire always has a gemstone with her when she travels, maybe that’s the key—can I borrow your necklace?
Or, I guess have, since I won’t be able to return it?
” She’s looking at me with so much pity it makes my stomach turn.
Still, she reaches behind her, unclasps the chain, and hands it to me.
I nod once and trot back to the massive pillar, necklace tucked in one hand as I slap the other to the rock face.
Then, I run to the next pillar.
And the next.
And the next.
I’ve touched somewhere close to a hundred stones—every single one that I could reach at least—and nothing happens.
I slump to the ground, the traitorous sandstone cool against my back.
Jo crouches in front of me, mumbling something about it getting late and that we should return to the inn.
I can’t look at her. If I see my disappointment reflected on her face now, I’ll break.
So I just get up and follow her back to The Broken Wheel.
“Do you want to stay another night so you can try again tomorrow? Maybe we should trade my necklace—would a different stone work better?” Jo asks as we lay back to back, the candles long since blown out.
“I think this idea is a dud, Jo,” I grumble. “Thank you, though. I hope you know that I appreciate you taking the time to come out here with me.” She hums in return, and I know she’s all but asleep.
I’m lying here, the same way I have been for the past hour, dissecting my own feelings—or trying to. My chest has been aching since my skin came into contact with that last stone, but at the same time, I have been able to breathe easier.
With a sigh, I roll over, toss the pillow wall to the floor, and tuck myself around my sleeping wife. I guess at this point I can just hope the ache lessens over time. I let the soft sounds of Jo breathing lull me to sleep.