Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Garrett
As if the British weather is in tune with my mood, rain clouds sweep in on my walk back from the village, a small bag of groceries in my hand.
I don’t need much now that I’ve cut my own trip short.
The lovely lady at the bakery helped me arrange a flight back to London and an airport transfer – not Charles, because he is on leave – for tomorrow afternoon.
Staying in the cottage without Roman didn’t sound appealing. Everything, including the once bright winter day, losing its sparkle knowing he’s not sprawled out on the sofa or dancing in the lounge, awaiting my return.
Inside, I place the bag on the kitchen counter, then flick on the tinny sound of the ancient CD player, drowning out the lonesome silence. I’d much rather listen to Roman mutter to himself while playing cards or reading.
I plate up a pie from the bakery, and make a cup of coffee – the first I’ve made in the cottage – then sit at my desk and pull up my manuscript.
I stare at the words on the page, reading over the chapter where Blaine and Jack admit their love for each other.
Nothing new comes to me. Not a single fucking word, only the desire to erase the entire romance from the story.
I’m angry, I realise. Not at Roman, but at myself.
At not telling him how I felt when I had the chance.
Not being brave enough to pick one of the quiet moments between us to say ‘Hey, I really like you, and I’d love to make this thing between us permanent’ or something along those lines and less cringeworthy.
With a sigh, I get up; open the drawer and take out my phone, putting it on the charger, then move around the place gathering up my things. It takes all of ten minutes because unlike my house companion; I didn’t spread my possessions all over the place.
I find a pair of his socks, one of his books and when I clear up around the hot tub, the coat I ripped off him on Christmas day. All the items go into my suitcase.
That done, I sit back at the desk and will my brain to focus on this novel.
Mary will ask me about it once I’m home, and while I’m sure she will be thrilled with the story so far, I need to finish it.
Like I told Roman, real life exists outside this place, and that includes the deadline on this story.
My fingers tap away at the keys, Jack and Blaine in a dangerous position, finally coming face to face with the stalker – an unexpected visitor from Blaine’s past. Jack throws himself into harm’s way to save the man he loves, earning a bullet to the arm.
It’s dark out by the time I push away from the desk, stretching out my fingers and blinking my eyes, sleep calling me from the empty bed down at the other side of the cottage.
I move my hand, reaching for the plate that held my pie, my wrist bumping into the glass of half-drunk soda next to it and toppling it to its side. The dark liquid spreads across the wood, seeping into the small napkin sitting next to an unopened pack of rich tea biscuits.
The liquid drips over the edge of the desk and onto my trousers. Jumping up from my seat, I snatch up the napkin. The scrawl on it – the most important numbers of my life – is now an inky mess across the paper.
“Fuck!” I exclaim, using my sweater to dab at the ink.
It’s a pointless attempt. There’s no way I can read all the digits now.
My stomach sinks when I picture the hopefulness on Roman’s face.
Will you call me? Knowing now that I have no way to do that.
Despite not having a mobile connection this deep in the woods, I turn on my phone and type out what I think the numbers were, saving them into a note.
When I’m out of here, I’ll try every variation until I reach him.
Resigning myself to a restless night, I leave everything as it is – mess be damned – and head to the bedroom, where I strip out of my clothing and sink into the cold, Roman-scented sheets. And if I hold his pillow close to my chest, can I really be blamed?
“He’s…”
“Young. I know,” I say, interrupting my agent. She looks up from her laptop.
“I was going to say gorgeous. And his content is great. I may need to buy one of these Do You Dare, Supernova? hoodies.” She leans back in the plush desk chair in her home office.
Given it’s New Year’s Eve, we agreed to meet at her place in Surrey rather than her London office.
The house is warm, alive with life as her husband and kids shuffle about downstairs.
A small, grey kitten is curled up on my lap.
I chuckle, not admitting that I’ve already ordered a hoodie and matching mug after watching hours of Roman’s content. As expected, being back at my place – which has never felt like a home, not the way the cottage did – has had me dwelling on thoughts of the young, chaotic man who stole my heart.
“Ooh, the one hanging all over him is exceptionally good looking, too. If you like them a little stuck up. He has pretty, interesting eyes.” She rotates the screen to show me the picture she’s looking at.
It’s one of Roman, taken at the party he attended a few days ago.
Spencer Park, son of some wealthy department store owner, leans into him, his arm slung over Roman’s shoulder.
Roman flashing a toothy grin at the guy.
There’s been no new content – apart from a few taken that night – and no new dares on his channel.
But he looks happy. His smile is big and his face alight with joy.
There’s a video of him doing karaoke, Liam ducking away from him as he serenades his best friend, bursting into laughter after.
It’s left me feeling like maybe I’m the only one with this empty space inside and perhaps he’s okay leaving what we had back at the cottage.
“I did not expect you to go to Yorkshire and fall in love,” Mary muses, moving the laptop to her side.
“Yet here we are,” I reply, opening both hands palms up, not surprised at how easy it is to admit that to my friend. I fell in love, hard and fast, with Roman Otley. Dropping my hands, I stroke the cat, eliciting a vibration of purrs from the small creature.
“What are you going to do?” Mary asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. I think it was fate we met, and then fate that I lost his number.” I point to her laptop. “Look at him. He’s happy. He really doesn’t need some old guy in his life.”
Mary laughs. “Jesus, you sad sap. You don’t even believe in fate, for one.
Second, you are thirty-three, not eighty.
And of course he looks happy. It’s his job to smile for the cameras.
If I set up an author meet and greet down at Waterstones, wouldn’t you smile, even though you miss the shit out of him? ”
I nod, not saying that she’s right. Mary knows she is.
“What do I do? I tried many variations of what I thought was his number, which was both embarrassing and frustrating. His private messages are blocked and I don’t have any other contact details for him.”
She hums, clicking away at her keypad.
“Smart guy, turning off private messages. He must get inundated with feedback from his fans. Or –”
She waves a hand, excitement burning in her eyes when she looks at me.
“You could show up tonight and tell him how you feel, to his face.”
Frowning, I say, “How? I don’t know where he lives.”
“It seems his friend Spencer is throwing a New Year’s Eve ball tonight at the London Penalty Box – you know, that swanky club on the river?”
“I’ve heard of it. Nico mentioned it a few times because the magazine he works for throws functions there.”
Mary doesn’t look up as she types, biting her bottom lip, her brow furrowed. After a moment of silence, she looks away, clapping her hands.
“There, I got you an invitation.”
“How?” Moving the kitten off my lap, I lean forward, my elbows resting on Mary’s desk.
“Your ex may have been a cheating douchebag, but he connected me with some great people in the industry. And believe it or not, old man –” she grins far too widely for someone who calls themselves my best friend – “There is overlap between the people who make his career and the ones who make yours. You’re both big deals. ”
I scoff. “I’m really not. Not like him. Look at his follower count. I have a quarter of that.”
Mary scowls. “One day, I will make you see how big of a success you are, Garrett Reed. Now stop being boring and go get your superstar.”
“You can be really mean, sometimes. You know that, right?” I say, fondly. I have a lot to thank Mary for since that first draft that she had bucket loads of faith in, to the television deal she couldn’t wait to shove in my face when I walked in.
“You love me and wouldn’t have me any other way.”
True.
By the time I get home, I’ve convinced myself that showing up at a party to surprise Roman, when I don’t even know if he wants to see me, is a terrible idea. But then my phone pings with a message and I open it, my body alive with a mix of excitement and apprehension.
Mary: If I know you – which I do – you’re doubting yourself right now. Thought you might want to see this.
She’s attached a screenshot taken from a book review site, where someone has given my unreleased book a one star rating, followed by a review that reads.
“Here’s a question for DI Jack Sniper. What’s the best cup of tea to drink when you’re missing someone so badly it hurts?
Tried my usuals. Nothing worked.” The review ends with three emojis – a winking face, a broken heart and a Christmas tree.