ON TUESDAY MORNING, I take the other test. It’s negative.
It gives me a sense of finality and relief, so I put on my big girl pants and head down to the store for my shift. I’m surprised to find that Henry isn’t there. George is sitting behind the counter.
“Where’s Henry?”
He smiles. “Moping.”
“Moping?”
“Yes, well. Technically he’s off mudlarking with Sanjay, but I suspect he’s still moping.”
I don’t ask why he’s moping, and I refuse to let myself hope it’s because of me. Before I can ask what mudlarking is, George sidetracks me.
“Do you think you can handle helping him open and close the store for the rest of the week? I have to go away and sort some things out for our vendor spot at the Boomtown Festival in the fall. I’ll be back this weekend.”
I stare at him. What am I supposed to say? No, please don’t leave me here alone with him?
“Of course we can handle it.” I give him my best smile. I guess we’ll do what we’ve been doing: ignoring each other.
He beams. “I have some things to take care of in the office this afternoon. I won’t leave until he gets back.”
I nod as he stands from his spot and goes into his office.
Instead of obsessing about the coming forced proximity, I spend the day helping customers and doing whatever busy work will distract me. Today, that means being extremely creative since the inventory crew left things pristine. Once I’ve cleaned the glass on the listening stations, swept the floor, and pounced on every customer in an overzealous car salesman way, I go in search of more busy work.
I’m re-sorting albums when Henry jogs down the stairs. I never even heard him come in.
My heart plunks down, through my feet, through the floor, all the way to the earth’s mantle at the sight of him. Dark jeans. Blue Henley. His hair is damp as if he’s just showered. He pulls out the counter stool and plops down, flipping through the pages of the inventory report. I’m halfway across the store, but I swear I smell his soap. He glances up at me over the rim of his glasses. I look away quickly and stumble into an endcap.
How did I ever function around him before?
A few minutes later, as I’m dusting shelves for the hundredth time, George emerges from his office with a rolling suitcase.
“I’ll have my cell if you need anything,” he tells us. “Behave yourselves.” He points at Henry when he says this, but Henry ignores him. I wave to him as he disappears into the hallway. The back door shuts behind him with a thud that shakes the building.
After that, the quiet becomes deafening.
I spend the rest of the afternoon re-alphabetizing the punk rock section. It’s already pretty alphabetized, though, so that only consists of me finding a misplaced Gorillas album between The Chefs and Chaotic Discord, and putting it back in the correct section.
Ten minutes before close, I’m out of things to do, so I close myself inside a listening station at the front of the store. I pull the folded green flyer from Saint Catherine’s out of my back pocket, where it’s been since I put it there.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what it would be like to take a photography class and extend my time in London for the remainder of the summer. Not that everything is going swimmingly here or anything, but I’m also in no hurry to get home. Nothing waits for me there but drama.
I google neighborhoods near Saint Catherine’s and think about where I’d even stay if I did the workshop. With Patrick ready to come home now, it’s not like I can ask him to come back to London and sleep on the couch in his own house. I’d have to find someplace else. I could use the rest of my cash to stay in a hostel, maybe. Or a cheap hotel.
As I’m checking the area for accommodations, a text dings in my hand. My heart skips a beat when I read it.
The ludicrousness of texting him from the same room—the empty room we’re alone in—isn’t lost on me. But he’s talking to me again, so I’m not complaining.
I open the door to the listening station and walk over to him. His expression loosens with every step I take towards him. I stop on the opposite side of the sales counter. We stare for a moment. He doesn’t say I’m a dick for not responding to your text the other day. And I don’t say Yes, you sure are. Not out loud, anyway.
I hand him the flyer. My heart won’t stop beating itself bloody in my chest. If I can barely get through wordless conversations like this, we can never, ever speak of what happened at Glastonbury.
He peers at me through his lashes. “This is a good opportunity.”
“I have to leave before it starts, though. My mom probably wouldn’t let me stay longer. And Patrick will be home by then, anyway, so I won’t have a place—”
He cuts me off. “You could stay in my room.”
My eyebrows shoot into orbit.
“I won’t be here then,” he quickly adds. “I’m moving back to Bristol after Patrick gets back. My classes start in a couple of weeks.”
Though I’m floored by his offer, I’m still a little doubtful I could make it work.
“I only have my cell phone camera,” I say. “So I’d have to buy a camera. And I wouldn’t really even know what I’m doing.”
He smiles. “That’s the point of taking a class, love. To learn.”
I balk at the softness in his voice. Love?
“I guess I just hate being the only person in the room with no talent.”
“You have talent. I’ve seen your shots.”
I shrug. He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding something. “I have an extra camera. Let’s close up shop here and go shoot some stuff. If you want to.”
All the moisture in my mouth evaporates. “Actually, I was going to check in with Nigel this evening and see if he and Walter can meet.”
“Oh.” Henry’s face falls.
I weigh my options. Which would I rather do? Take pictures with Henry? Or go sit in a puddle of my own snot and tears and talk about my dead dad? It’s not like Nigel ever bothered to call me back.
“You know what?” I amend. “That can wait until tomorrow.”
A smile dawns over his face. “Brilliant. I know exactly where we can go.”