Scene 6

Economy was the only class available when Dillon changed her Maui flight from Key West to London. She hadn't planned on flying home before the race in Florida, but her foul mood had made her long for the comfort of her flat and listening ear of her best friend. It was worth it, even if she would only be home for a week and it added eight thousand miles of travel.

At least she didn't have a bike to worry about, if she decided to seek a silver lining.

But she wasn't really amendable to a silver lining.

As her flight to Heathrow bounced along over the Atlantic Ocean, she folded herself deeper into the middle row seat and tried to tune out the teenagers on either side of her engaging in a ten-hour war, trying to snap each other with hairbands.

Not much longer and she'd be out of the land of luaus and mac salad—misty afternoon hikes and girls who were better actors than they let on.

She stared at the greasy blonde hair of the passenger in front of her. She wanted to sleep, but her thoughts kept returning to Hana.

Kam had canceled on her. Tuesday morning, Dillon returned from her swim to find a message waiting for her at the front desk. It was handwritten, a brief apology that an emergency had come up and she had to fly home, but thanked her for a wonderful time, and left her with a mobile number at the bottom of the note. If you're ever in LA was jotted in the margin.

And just like that, she was gone.

Dillon didn't know if the emergency had been real or if Kameryn had developed cold feet and decided to run home, but it didn't really matter. She wasn't upset with Kam—she was annoyed with herself for having taken it so hard. What had she expected to happen in the last twenty-four hours they were sharing the same sedate island—both of them thousands of miles from either of their lives? It wasn't as if they'd see each other again. It had been a fun couple of nights, and the actress had simply flown home a day earlier than planned. That was that. It was sheer irrationality to find herself so disappointed.

A sentiment underscored by her best friend, Sam—more affectionately known as Hunt—in their favorite Wapping pub Friday night in London.

"I think I need another pint to get this straight," said the Tyneside native, disappearing to the bar, and returning with a Newcastle Brown and club soda with lime. Settling into her seat, she shoved the seltzer toward Dillon.

"Alright." Her umber eyes narrowed, her upper lip glistening with foam from a long draught of her ale. "Let me see if I have this sorted—two nights before your race, a tourist ran you over on your bike—"

"She clipped my tire—"

"You hit her hood— "

"I scraped my arm—"

"You left half your hide in Hana—"

"It's inconsequential—"

" And ," Sam continued, her Geordie accent thickening with the second round, "in response to her trying to turn you into a pavement pizza—"

"it was an accident —"

"—you rang her up and invited her to dinner?"

"Like I already told you, Kyle was being a tosser. I called her to apologize, and offered to buy her a pint."

"After she ran you over?"

" After Kyle was an arsehole. Jesus—"

Sam snapped up a fast finger, her dark eyes shining and energy wound nearly as tight as the coils of her short black hair. "Now let's fast forward. You take this girl to dinner—you catch a crush on her—and you ask her out again. This straight, young, wannabe-movie star—"

"I didn't say she was straight."

"You said she was surprised you were gay! Haddaway, man! Any queer girl on the planet could look at you and know you were into kissing fish half a mile away. Unless this one's plain micey, she's straight. Straight or stupid."

Dillon busied herself digging the lime out of her seltzer, wondering why she'd ever brought the subject up in the first place. Or flown to London at all. She could be sitting on a beach in Key West right now, swimming in the balmy Florida shoreline. Anything other than trudging through the rain of an English October, listening to Sam's voice of reason remind her of why she was such a plank.

"So," Sam resumed after draining her beer, "you go out the next night and drag her along on some romantic hike—"

"There was nothing romantic about it—"

"I know you better than that—now zip it, and let me finish my assessment; you see her making moon eyes at you, you bide your time, pour on your charm, and kiss her." She paused for nothing more than dramatic effect. "This straight girl. Who ran you over. From Hollywood. And you're surprised she buggered out the next morning?"

When it was put like that…

But no matter how right Sam might be, it would be a cat in hell's chance before she admitted it.

"You weren't there, mate. It wasn't as simple as that."

"No, of course it wasn't. You're bloody Dillon Sinclair. Nothing's ever simple."

Dillon downed her drink, fished a tenner from her pocket, and dropped it on the table. "Good talk, Hunt."

"Oh, come on, man." Sam caught her arm before she could stand. "I'm taking the piss out of you, is all. It's not like you to get up a height. This lass has really wound you up, eh?"

Between the thirty-six hours of travel, jet lag, and her lack of sleep, Dillon didn't have the energy to deny it.

"I don't know—she was different. I just…" she shrugged. "I really liked her, I guess."

Sam sprawled back in her high top stool, a trenchant smirk working its way to her lips. "I cannot lie. I love seeing you flustered. It happens so seldom—"

"Right—I'm done. I'll ring you when I'm back from Florida—"

"Oh, belt up and sit down, Sinc. You aren't so delicate as all that. You came barking up the wrong tree if it was sympathy you wanted. But you already knew that."

She did know that.

Sam Huntley had once been one of the greatest footballers to ever play the sport. A world-class striker, one of the most prolific goal scorers of the century. She'd been at the top of her game—in the prime of her career—when a lorry slammed into her on her motorbike at a traffic light. She'd broken nineteen bones, collapsed both lungs, been on life support for three weeks, and by the time it was all over had lost her right leg above the knee. The accident had robbed her of everything she'd ever known, including a tragic end to her career.

She was not the mate you came to for sympathy over trivial matters.

Like a girl who'd stood you up on a non-date in Hawaii.

Dillon begrudgingly kept her seat.

"Good." Sam steepled her fingers. "Now that we have that settled, what's her name?"

"You know damned well I'll never tell you. Besides," Dillon picked at a lime seed that had dried on the table, "I don't even know her last name."

"But she left you her mobile number, yeah?"

She had. A detail she now regretted telling Sam.

"Let's give her a bell—"

"No!"

"C'mon, marra—a text at the very least. Or, even better! Let me send her a selfie. Let's face it, you just may not have been her cup of tea—perhaps she'd prefer someone with a little more flavor than your white, skinny arse." She made a grab for Dillon's phone, but Dillon was faster.

"You've lost your edge, Hunt. Too slow." She slipped her phone in her back pocket.

"We'll see about that. Kyle knows her name, yeah? How long do you really think it will take me to track her down—tell her how deep under your skin you let her?"

Dillon looked up too quickly. "Not a word to Kyle. I'm serious."

Sam's wicked grin only grew. "He doesn't know anything about this?" She drilled her fingers against the peeling laminate of the table. "Oh, this gets richer and richer."

"I mean it, Sam."

"I can see that. You don't want him thinking you're as daft as I do?" Her eyes were glowing with her impending victory. They both knew she'd found her edge—and won. And as much as Dillon loved her longtime friend, she really wanted to get up and throttle her.

"Here's how this is going to go," Sam crossed her brawny arms. "You take out your mobile. You punch in her number. You shoot her a text. Doesn't matter what you say—it was nice to meet her, you made it back to London, you had a bloody grand time snogging and wish you'd taken it further—whatever you want. End of story. I leave you alone about the whole situation."

"And if I don't?"

"Oh, you know the deal. I tell Kyle. The two of us hound you relentlessly. We track down Mystery Reckless Motorist and broadcast your pining obsession. The whole shebang."

"Sometimes I hate you, Hunt."

Sam smiled, but this time the loftiness was gone. "No, you don't. You flew eight thousand miles just for this. To sit here and have me tell you exactly what you knew I was already going to tell you to do. Now quit being a proper doylem and text the girl."