Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

He sounds like he needs an excuse for talking to me.

And I get it. I like that he called, but I also know it’s risky to chat this intimately. Maybe an excuse will make us both feel better about this late-night call.

“Thank you for checking in,” I say.

“See you tomorrow. And good night, Jo. My American . . . co-captain.”

There’s a hint of sad sarcasm in his voice, of course. I feel it too.

“Good night to you, too, my British . . . partner.”

I end the call, then text goodnight to Emerson and the rest of the group, missing all of them. Missing my friends in New York and missing this chance here in London.

After work the next evening, I go for a run along the Thames, blasting Rent as I peel off a few miles while the sun sets. I’ve made it to “One Song Glory” when my father calls. I hit ignore and focus on Roger and Mark and the New York crew of artists. The phone transcribes my dad’s message, and I catch the words this weekend before I shut the notification.

It will wait. He’s not going to ruin my running mojo.

Later, back in my flat, I reply to his request, saying Sunday is fine for a talk.

No one else calls me to “just check in,” and that’s fine.

Of course it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?

The rest of the work week flies by, filling with meetings and phone calls and prep for the upcoming collection. And Heath. My week is filled with Heath as we work together. As I learn things like the way he signs off his emails (“With thanks”—formal, but not too cold) and the way he taps his chin when he thinks, staring off to the right as if the answer to a question might be right there if only he could reach it.

Working with him is hard—but I’m strong. I’m here for that promotion. I left New York for that promotion. And I will not be distracted by anyone. And so, I work, and in the evenings I keep myself busy by strolling to spots from the book my friends gave me.

Since I am, indeed, a checker-offer, I snap pics of all the places, like the very pink Peggy Porschen café and the very crowded Tower Bridge. I send them to the crew and tap out replies to their texts.

So far, it seems Easton was right. You keep in touch with the people you want to keep in touch with.

I still don’t love London, but the pictures and the texting feed my lonely soul, which craves connection. But I don’t want this week to be a honeymoon period. I want us to stay close. I hope we can.

Sometimes, I’m tempted to text Heath, but I haven’t yet. Not at all.

He doesn’t seem like a texter, and I’m not sure if I should keep stoking the flames between us with a call.

He doesn’t call either.

When Friday rolls around, my chest aches with the wish I could see my friends over the weekend. Spend it traipsing around Manhattan. Visiting a new food truck with Emerson. Playing pinball with TJ. Running errands with Easton as he preps for a party.

But I’ve got to put that energy into London, instead.

And into the gallery opening this evening, where I’ll see Heath.

Maybe this is why I haven’t called—because I’ve been waiting for tonight.

11

HEATH

During my lunch break on Friday, I make my way to Nigel’s shop in search of an escape, or at least the possibility of one in the form of a book to curl up with. Ideally one that’s five thousand pages long and will carry me through the weekend.

When I go in, Nigel is laughing with a customer while he rings up a candle. “Those are hilarious. Great gift,” he says to the curly-haired woman at the register.

“It’s for my sister, but I’m going to snap a picture of it too. Send it to all my friends,” the customer says. “They’ll get a kick out of it.”

I arch a brow, reading the tag on the candle. Fuck this shit.

When the customer leaves, I tip my forehead in her direction. “Does anyone even care if it smells good?”

Nigel rolls his dark eyes. “Not a damn soul. That’s not why they buy ’em. But it smells like rosemary, oranges, honey, and cedar.”

My nose crinkles at the mismatched quartet of scents. “Or perhaps, it smells like an indecisive candlemaker.”

“I like to think it smells like a money tree, since I’m making green hand over fist.” From a nearby rack, he grabs a pair of socks with a unicorn saying This meeting is fucking bullshit. “By the way, these are perfect for you.”

The last week has only underlined the unicorn’s words of wisdom. Meetings are the worst. “My life’s motto,” I say.