Page 16 of Caught in Us
If I go back to the room, I’ll only think of him. I miss Chase in a way that can’t be healthy. An ocean apart and everything I see or do reminds me of him and the time we spent together. The quiet only wavers my unsteady resolve.
He’s called and texted and left voice messages, but I delete them because if I don’t I’ll be tempted to call him. To tell him everything. About my father. About my heart. And if he asks me to get on a plane, I don’t know how I’ll refuse.
“Hey.”
“Oh, hi.”
“I would ask if I could buy you a pint, but you don’t seem to be much of a beer drinker.”
“How can you tell?”
“That thing’s been sitting in front of you for at least an hour. Going on two.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to come over here for just as long.”
My body flushes under the compliment. I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little enchanted by the accent. And his eyes. The man is handsome and he probably knows it.
“I’m Simon.”
“Alicia.”
“A good Irish name.”
“Is it? I guess so, though I’m American, and my dad—” I swallow back the thick emotion that comes from thinking about him. “He’s from Spain.”
“Well, you are beautiful and I’m properly charmed. Can I get you something else to drink?”
“No, thank you. I should probably head back to my hotel.”
“Leaving so soon? Damn it. I should have got the nerve to come over here sooner.”
“Believe me, I’m not good company.”
“Let me guess,” he says, staring into my eyes. “It’s a man.” Before I can answer. “Or is it family troubles?”
“Would you believe both?” I sigh.
“Oh, that’s rough. Lay it on me. I promise I’m a great listener.”
“You don’t want to hear my sad story.”
“What if I do?” There’s a sincerity in his offer that catches me off-guard. It’s unnerving really and knocks down a little of the guard I thought I had firmly erected around my heart.
“You’re going to regret this,” I tease.
“Try me.”
So I do. I unload all of my shit on a beautiful, perfect stranger. To his credit, he doesn’t run or act put off in the least. Instead, he takes my warm beer and sips it down, listening intently to every word I share. He interjects with questions but not so much it’s annoying or distracting. The bartender calls for the last orders just as I fill in Simon to the present day. “So that’s why I’m not drinking and sitting alone in a pub in the middle of London on a . . . shit, what day of the week is it?”
“Sunday.” He grins, finishing off the last of my beer and setting it down on the counter. “You know what you need?”
“What’s that?”
“A distraction.”
“I think that’s why I’m here.”
