He told me once that he loved the band so much, that he’d actually taken time off and bought tickets back to London to attend all three of their shows in England the last time they toured Europe.
That had been three years ago. And I remember teasing him about being a stan, not a fan. Then having to explain to him what a stan was.
We’d laughed at that brunch.
But neither of us was laughing now. Was he serious about moving here just for me?
And how should I feel about it?
Instead of trying to answer that question, I disappear into the bathroom with his t-shirt and turn on the water. I make it hot to the point of scalding, but even that’s not enough to shake me out of my daze.
It’s raining outside when I come out of the bathroom. And to my surprise, Rhys isn’t sitting at my Grandma’s little desk with his laptop when I come out. He’s on the couch typing in front of the TV.
I glance at the TV. There’s a Vox Mind Explained episode about the history and evolution of cricket in India.
“Put on whatever you want,” he tells me, nodding toward the remote, sitting on the couch beside him. “I’m just doing paperwork.”
After a moment of hesitation, I gingerly sit down at the opposite end of the couch. But I don’t take the remote. I watch old black and white footage of proper Indians playing cricket instead, while the narrator explains how long games used to take.
“Cynda…” he says after a few moments.
“Yes?”
“I’m granting your request to watch television with you. I expect you to sit closer.”
I inwardly jolt…then move a little closer.
He shuts his laptop with a very deliberate motion and sets it aside. “Closer…”
I pick up the remote, the last barrier between us. And this time I move close enough to touch.
Then I tentatively place my head on his shoulder like I used to when it was just the two of us watching TV after those afternoon brunches—usually some crime show or talent competition.
A strange peace washes over me when I lay my head on his shoulder. But I can’t fully relax until I see how he responds.
Several seconds tick by with the narrator relaying how cricket morphed from a fussy, all-day event in India to a raucous 90-minute event sport with cheerleaders and rabid fans.
Then he places his hand on my knee.
Just liked he used to.
It’s still raining outside. But suddenly my heart is flooded with sunshine.
No, I still don’t fully understand what just happened. Or if trying to be friends with Rhys is a good idea.
But whatever this new peace between us feels good.
And right.
At least in this moment.
Chapter Fifteen
“Hey, Cynda, how are you?” Billie says, her voice a little too bright when she answers my call. “Is everything okay?”
About a week into my quarantine, I scrunch my face at the phone. Billie looks…not like herself. Her sisterlocks are down and flowing as opposed to pulled back into the tight bun she started wearing them in after becoming an accountant. Also, she’s wearing a very un-Billie like sundress instead of the usual blouse and skinny jeans she refers to as her after work look. And, she’s smiling as if she just finished laughing at something.
I can barely hear her over a sound I can’t quite identify in the background.
“Are you okay?” I ask her. “I’m returning your call from earlier. Also, why’s it so noisy.”
“Oh, sorry, it’s the ocean. Here, let me step inside.”
The phone switches to a view of what looks like light brown balcony slats, as she says to someone I can’t see, “I have to go inside to take this. It’s my friend and she can’t hear me.”
“Your friend? Same friend who got you in trouble. Perhaps it is time for introduction.”
Perhaps indeed. I can’t see whoever wants to meet me, but his voice is deep and resonates enough to cut through all the ocean noise. It also sounds like he has an accent. Russian maybe?
But Billie says something I can’t quite hear and a few moments later the noisy sound of waves crashing instantly disappears. There’s the sound of her flip-flops lightly thwacking against more hardwood floors.
And the next time I see Billie, she’s sitting in front of one of those white cabinets people install over toilets. She must have closed herself up in the bathroom.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask. I’d thought I would have the most explaining to do before going outside to return Billie’s call. But now I’m asking my friend, “Who was that? And why are you at the ocean?”
“Long story,” she answers. “And that’s not why I called. Tommy came by my condo a few days ago. He was demanding to know where Gina was like I was hiding her from him or something. The conversation got weird and threatening.”