Chapter 16

16

We still have cake left when midnight ticks around. I didn't even realize how late it had gotten, but Lloyd is full of fun stories and lighthearted anecdotes, and every time there's a lapse in conversation, it remains comfortable and easy until one of us thinks of something else we want to share.

I only notice the time because Lloyd ducks out to go to the loo, and now I'm left alone I check my phone, where I see some WhatsApp notifications.

At the top of the screen, there's a message from Mom. I read enough in the preview to know it's yet another overly enthusiastic hi/how are you/just checking in, like she has any right to "check in" on my life. I delete it before it can spoil my good mood.

I see some messages from Louis and a prickle of panic curls its way up my spine. Shit. Louis. He's probably already home, wondering where the hell I've disappeared to after saying I'd be vegging out on the sofa all night, and I'll have to come up with some half-baked lie to cover up the fact I've been with Lloyd, because I know there's no way I'll be able to make this sound platonic or innocent and like anything but a date….

But as I read his messages, I find I have nothing to worry about.

Louis

Heyyyyyyy roomie, change of plans—we're heading out to a club so won't be home anytime soon. Or at all, tonight?! I am getting some SERIOUS signals, so wish me luck!

23:26

OKAY SO NOT THAT YOU WISHED ME LUCK OR ANYTHING, BUT THE SIGNALS ARE FULL-ON ACTIONS NOW. Don't wait up lol (and yes, I realize you're probably already in bed and asleep)

23:49

Since, at some point, he'll probably notice the two little blue ticks that I've seen his message, I reply with a string of appropriately excited, celebratory emojis and tell him I can't wait to hear all about it tomorrow.

I don't mention that I'm not in bed, asleep.

Lloyd slips back into his seat, hands braced on the table as he does so, careful not to disturb our shared pot of decaf tea. (I have no idea how he had any kind of coffee earlier—let alone how other people are still drinking it at this time of night.)

I say as much aloud, pointing to a guy a couple of tables over with an espresso.

"Maybe this is just their first stop of the night," he suggests. "Setting themselves up to make it through partying till five in the morning."

I must pull a face because Lloyd raises his eyebrows.

"Let me guess—the only time you've stayed up that late was to pull an all-nighter studying?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Not at all."

"I probably—I mean, I'm sure I have at some point. Sleepovers with friends, or something." I pull another face, though, knowing it was never actually as late as it felt when we'd stay up late at nine or ten years old. "Maybe…maybe when I was a baby?"

When he laughs, I kick him half-heartedly under the table.

"All right, Fletcher. When was the last time you stayed up all night partying?"

He's quick to answer—until he's not, whatever answer he had so ready failing him as soon as he opens his mouth. I watch his eyes drift to the side as he reconsiders. His mouth closes again. When his eyes drag back to mine, he rolls them.

" Fine. Not for a while. Probably last year, when I was at college, I guess. Probably freshers' week."

"All night?" I press, and he shrugs, looking a little less sure of himself. When he sighs in defeat, I giggle into the palm of my hand. "It's okay, we'll just be boring old biddies avoiding the party lifestyle together."

"I don't avoid it."

"Yeah? That's why you're hanging out with someone from work at a coffee shop instead of being out with your friends living it up, or with the mystery lady who's not your girlfriend?"

He grumbles half-formed and half-arsed insults under his breath, making a show of scowling melodramatically. I laugh, trying to ignore the little somersaults my heart is doing inside my chest.

Just because he's cute, just because it feels like it could be a date…

It's not.

"She's not my girlfriend, for the record," he tells me after a beat. "And not much of a mystery lady. She was…"

Unlike when I pushed him to talk about college, I immediately want to back down from this topic; I regret bringing it up at all. What should it matter to me if Lloyd does have something going on with another girl? It's not like we can—not that we want to date each other, I correct myself hastily.

"You don't have to tell me. I didn't mean to bring it up. It's not any of my business, anyway," I say.

It's not.

But Lloyd takes a deep breath and says, "She's the intern I dated last summer."

Oh.

Now I kind of do want to know, but in that sick, uneasy way that will only make me feel worse in the end. I want to know what made her so special that he was so heartbroken when it ended, and why this girl made Lloyd think it was better to pretend he and I had never met when our paths crossed again.

I wait, and Lloyd looks apologetic—torn—before continuing. "Last year's cohort invited me out with them a lot, and she…I mean, she was flirty, and I flirted back. I liked her, a lot, so after a couple of weeks I asked her out. We were spending so much time together and the whole thing was such a rush, I—I fell for her, hard. And I thought she felt the same way, but at the end of the summer…"

I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but Lloyd has such a look of dismay on his face that my heart aches for him.

"She liked me, but not in the same way I liked her. Mostly, she liked that my dad owned the place and I knew everything about the company and I'd drop everything to help her out with something."

A horrified gasp rips from my throat. "She used you to get ahead?"

"Sounds worse than it was." He quirks a smile, but it disappears fast, sliding away as he shrugs one shoulder, then the other. "She did like me. Wanted to date me. It wasn't all as calculating and coldhearted as it sounds, but…she still did it. And still called things off at the end of the summer before she went back home. She's back in the city now working for some consultancy firm, and she kept reaching out, wanting to pick up where we left off. I only met up with her to tell her I wasn't interested."

I'm too busy reeling to say anything. So instead, I reach out and give his hand a quick squeeze, trying to convey all the things I can't say—that it sounds awful, and I can't imagine the audacity of this girl to have used him like that, dumped him, and now want to rekindle things. And that now I understand why he pushed me away that first week and felt like he had to protect his reputation.

I wouldn't have done that to you, I want to say, but the words stick in my throat.

Lloyd's fingers shift slightly beneath mine, not pulling away but simply acknowledging the comfort. The corner of his downturned mouth draws up a little and his eyes soften, the green flecked with the golden reflection of the lights above us.

"Kinda screwed up my approach to dating a little, though," he announces suddenly, with a self-deprecating laugh, slipping his hand away from mine. "I kept getting a little paranoid that girls will care more about the Arrowmile stuff than about me, so I haven't dated anyone for more than a couple of weeks at a timesince."

He grins, like it's all a great joke he can laugh at now, but I can tell he still believes it.

I roll my eyes. "Fletcher, I said it once and I'll say it again— you sell scooters. You're not the hotshot you think you are."

"Not with you to keep me honest, at least." He laughs and winks at me, and I have to swallow down the smile that threatens to steal across my face. Talking about an ex, about dating…It feels too intimate, given our (albeit very brief) history.

I tuck myself a bit tighter into my seat, scooting back against the wall again. The band is taking a break; pop music filters through the speakers, louder than it should be for a coffee shop but quiet enough to allow for conversation without needing to shout across the table. The place is still packed, although the crowd has shifted and changed, people having come and gone in the time Lloyd and I have sat here poking at our shared slices of cake and talking.

Fork poised for the last chunk of carrot cake, I ask, "Do youmind?"

"Go for it. I'm not much of a carrot cake guy myself." He claims the last of the chocolate fudge, which I've only nibbled at.

"Why'd you get it, then?"

He shrugs. "You like it, though, so it was obviously a good choice."

"A great one," I agree, tugging the plate nearer to me so I don't drop crumbs everywhere. "I, uh…I meant to tell you thanks, by the way."

He scrunches his nose, adorably confused. "For the cake?"

"No. Well, yeah, obviously, but I meant for coming to my presentation on Monday."

"Oh! You already messaged me after to say thanks. It's okay."

"Still, I haven't said thanks. I…really appreciated it. A lot." I hesitate, my gaze laser focused on some of the crumbs on the plate. Lloyd waits, obviously sensing I've got more to say, and finally, I continue. "I didn't expect to see you there."

"I knew you were nervous about it," he tells me.

Like it's that simple. That easy.

Maybe it was.

"Thanks," I murmur, voice thick, eyes prickling. I blink a few times, suck down a deep and steadying breath.

At the edge of my vision, I notice his hand begin to stretch across the table. Toward mine. His fingers stretch out, open, an invitation—and then curl one by one into an awkward fist. He draws his hand back to his side and fidgets with his napkin instead, unaware I noticed. Even though he didn't touch me, the skin on the back of my hand suddenly feels cold.

Composing myself, I look up with a small, plain smile, like nothing's amiss. Lloyd returns it, and I pretend not to notice the disappointment and relief mingling in equal measures in his expression.

—

Somehow, neither of us notices the café clearing out around us.

It's only when an employee in a dark gray polo shirt emblazoned with a cursive Keye that outside of this, there's a reality where Lloyd is a pest who monopolizes my time and distracts me from my work, where his smile is too bright and grating, his attitude cocksure and flippant.

A pang slices through my chest, agonizing in how gradually it spreads through me, how deeply it lingers. Why can't he be more like this all the time? Why can't we both be? Why do I only get to see this more vulnerable, less curated version of Lloyd when the stars are sprinkled across the sky and we're alone?

It'd be different if he was horrible all the time. If he just didn't like people, or if he was so focused on his job (whatever it is) that he made no time for anybody else. That, I could understand.

But he's not. The rest of the time he's just… more. Exaggerated, emphasized. A little further away.

Outside, the air is cool and crisp. It fills my lungs in a crystalline rush, clearing away the heady scent of coffee and pastries. In spite of the deep, violent purple sky and the heavy gray clouds rolling across it, threatening a summer storm, it feels brighter out here than it did indoors. It's disorienting, like leaving a dark cinema to discover it's still the middle of the day.

"I guess I'd better head home," I say. Announcing it, like it'll make a definitive end to the night. Stalling, in case Lloyd has any more ideas of places to go in this not-so-sleepy nighttime copy of the city.

"I'll walk you home."

"It's a bit far to walk. "

He lets out a small, breathy chuckle. I catch him rolling his eyes before he fakes doffing a hat and makes a low, elaborate bow. "Please, my lady, allow me to escort you home."

I drag him back up, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, mortified that people are glancing over at us. "I take it back. You're not a bad movie villain. You're a bad movie hero. And I don't mean that in a good way."

Lloyd only grins at me like he thinks it's an excellent compliment, and we make our way toward the Tube, swiping our way onto the train. A few other people are on the platform, waiting for the next train. It makes me wonder where Lloyd lives—is this wildly out of his way?

Selfishly, I can't bring myself to ask, because then I'll be obliged to say, "It's okay, I can make my own way home," and it might bring our night to an end that much sooner.

It's only once we're swaying in our seats, with the gentle rattle of the Tube that's become familiar to me in the last few weeks, that the bubble we created around ourselves that I was so desperate to hold on to suddenly feels claustrophobic. He's too close in the seat beside mine; I could count his thick, lovely eyelashes if I tried hard enough. I'm aware of the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way it's in sync with my own, how his body is angled just slightly toward mine….

His left hand, the one nearest me, is balanced sideways on his thigh, fingers curved slightly. I want to slip my hand into it, to feel the heat of his skin against mine, maybe the sweep of his thumb from my wrist to my knuckle like he did the last time we spent a night out in the city together, and…

And he's looking at me, really looking at me, seeing all the way down to the deepest corners of my soul and drawing me in to drown in the vivid green of his eyes. His breath slows. His head tilts slightly to one side and his full lips part; I can see his tongue move behind his teeth and he must know I'm staring at his mouth.

I wonder if he's thinking about that kiss, or if he's thinking about this next one.

"Can I ask you something?"

Just like that, the spell is broken. Five words, and he's shattered a moment that I'm suddenly sure existed only for me. The tilt of his head is curious, the pressure of his gaze thoughtful. I bite my tongue and draw back, not quite sure when I started to lean in. My hand has crept closer to his and I tuck it between my knees instead.

"Sure."

"Why didn't you ask for my number?"

My eyebrows scrunch together. "Because we don't exactly…We don't talk, really. We don't hang out. Tonight excepted, obviously, but…"

A muscle jumps uncertainly in his cheek. The weight of his gaze lifts a little as he glances down for a second.

"Right. But I didn't mean now. I meant that night we met."

"Oh." I'm startled into speechlessness for several moments. I try to look away, but he makes it so hard. It's too easy to get lost in his beautiful face, and it feels like so much hinges on my answer—like it matters to him. I can't decide if I want it to matter to him or not.

The train pulls into Kennington. The doors open, and then close again. The train leaves.

Lloyd waits.

"You didn't factor into my summer," I finally tell him. "I don't mean as the boss's son or whatever, I mean, at all. I didn't want to muddy things for myself by having some summer fling. I had to—I have to— focus on this internship. I didn't need…distractions. You know. Romantic entanglements."

He arches an eyebrow, and I blush, desperately trying not to picture a romantic entanglement with him—which, of course, means it's all I can think about: legs wrapped around each other's naked bodies, the heat of his skin beneath my hands, the way he'd kiss my neck or murmur my name….

Is he thinking about what it would be like, too?

Nope, do not go down that road, Anna. Back away—quickly.

I shove him with my shoulder, glad of the excuse to break eye contact for a minute.

"Shut up. You know what I mean. It's not like you asked for my number either," I say.

"Out of…habit, I guess. Like I told you, I haven't dated anyone for more than a couple of weeks at a time. I regretted it, though. For the record. I really wished I'd asked for it so I could see you again."

"Except when you did see me again, you ignored me. Careful what you wish for, I guess."

That's enough to make him turn away. His body shifts to face forward. His eyes catch mine in our reflection in the dark window opposite us and he begins to study the Tube map overhead like he's committing it to memory.

Good. He should feel awkward. He should know how much his behavior hurt.

We're quiet for the rest of the trip. Wordlessly, he walks beside me to the furnished rental apartments for the interns. A few times I notice him start to cross the road before I can lead the way, and realize that, of course, he's been here before. With her.

I tuck my heart down a little further into my chest, deep enough that he can't try to tease it back out again.

I expect Lloyd to leave once I get to the main doors of the building, but he follows me inside. I don't stop him. We both know this night goes no further than my front door.

Once we're there, I fish around inside my bag for my key. I start to say, "Thanks for walking me home," but barely get out the first syllable when he interrupts me by saying, "You didn't factor into my summer either, you know."

"Huh?"

"I didn't expect to meet you that night. Or like you as much as I did. I know it was shitty, the way I acted when we met again at the office, and I get why you were mad about that. I get it if you still are. I just wanted you to know, you didn't factor in for me, either."

His heavy, shallow breathing is so loud it almost drowns out the sound of my blood, raging, racing, in my ears; my own breath catches in my throat at the earnestness in his voice. There's a plaintive edge to it that creeps down to needle at the heart I just tried to hide from him.

And because it's Lloyd, who wears his heart on his sleeve and is an open book so much of the time, his emotions always so plain on his handsome face, I believe him.

"I get that you don't want any…well, anything, " he presses on. "And I'm not trying to ask for that. But, I mean, we're…You said this afternoon that we're not really friends, but we are, aren'twe?"

Friends.

Right.

A smile tugs at one side of my mouth before I'm even aware of it. I hope I'm not as obvious with my emotions as he is, and he can't see the regret bleeding through me because "friends" might be more painful than being nothing at all to each other.

I pushed him away, too. I was the one who said I didn't want to be associated with him and have him cast a shadow over my achievements this summer. I don't have any right to feel regret, or to want more than just friendship.

"Yeah. Yeah, we're friends, Lloyd."

He lets out a loud sigh, relaxing. I try not to let on how much that hurts, either.

"Do you want to shake on it?" I offer, and he laughs. A little of the serious mood from a moment ago lingers, though, and before it's gone completely, I seize my courage and tell him softly, "For the record, it's not just because you pretended not to know me, or whatever. I don't want everyone to think of me as just…another notch on your bedpost or something. It'd discredit anything I achieve as part of the internship."

Lloyd's arms are loose at his sides. I reach out and tug at the cuff of his jacket, the place he keeps his heart, and then take his hand in mine, giving it a brief squeeze. He swallows audibly, and I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down slowly. A little sadness etches its way around his eyes, but it's forgiving, undemanding. There's only silent acceptance. He doesn't try to protest that it would ever have been anything different.

He only nods, understanding.

And then, our hands still clasped lightly together, he leans in to kiss my cheek, his lips ghosting over my skin and searing it all at once.

"Good night, Annalise," he tells me, and leaves, his hand slipping away from mine, leaving me alone with this heady, bittersweet goodbye.

NEW EMAIL DRAFT

Dear Lloyd,

If only you'd kiss me again. It might be a little easier to let you in, then, I think. Your kiss made everything seem right with the world, like everything had worked just to bring me to that moment, to kiss you. How did you do that? Did you feel it too?

Did you want to kiss me again tonight, too?

Maybe it's for the best that you didn't.

Sincerely yours,

Anna Sherwood