Page 15 of Weekends with You

“So is it ruled out of places to live, then?” he asked.

“Sadly, I think so. Bit too remote for full-time, and I’m not sure I would do well with all that darkness. The search continues. Next month I’m off to Berlin, so wish me luck.”

“Has the constant traveling been hard at all?” Liv asked, wide-eyed.

Henry laughed, swirling cheap wine around in his glass and following it with his eyes. “Sometimes,” he said. “If I stay focused, it isn’t difficult, but that’s been a bit tougher in the past few weeks, if I’m honest.” He raised his eyes from his glass, letting them float in my direction.

I tried to clear the lump from my throat, but really all I did was draw more attention to myself.

“Is that so?” Raja asked, running her tongue over her teeth and glancing in my direction herself. “And why might that be?”

“Just some new perspective in my life, that’s all.” He brought the wine to his lips, staring Raja down with some sort of mutual understanding. My skin all but caught on fire, so I kept my gaze locked on a plate of soup dumplings to avoid having to face either of them.

We had hardly known each other more than a few days, really, so I would be getting ahead of myself if I thought I might have been the “new perspective.” After so much time working at the Lotus and making endless bouquets that had probably ended up in the trash, I knew what it looked like when someone was getting their hopes up. I vowed a long time ago not to be that person. That only ended in disappointment.

But every time he relaxed back in his seat and slung his arm on the booth behind me, I slipped dangerously close to hopeless-romantic territory. My body betrayed my brain, inching ever so slightly into the space between us, wondering how I would fit into the crook of his arm.

I let a cool sip of wine settle on my tongue, hoping the acid might burn away the desire. This was a recipe for disaster, and I needed to make sure I wasn’t distracted by any “new perspectives,” either. I ran my fingers down the length of my chopsticks, over the hairlike splinters, trying to bring myself back to the present.

The remainder of the meal was not unlike the ones we usually had in the flat, although the food was in another league. We ate off each other’s plates and argued over which dumplings were better, Finn charmed the server into a few free samples, Jan drank one too many, and we laughed so hard we cried.

“Bloody nice when Henry comes home, isn’t it?” Finn asked with his mouth full as Henry handled the tab. I watched as Henry made small talk with the server, his single dimple appearing in his flushed cheek, his body dangerously close to mine.

Bloody nicewas an understatement.

The sun blasted into the flat long before any of us were ready to be awake. I shuffled into the kitchen for a cup of tea, having to actually shield my eyes from the reflection off the chrome giraffe head perched high above the door. Thank god the disco ball wasn’t in the line of the sunlight.

While I stood by the stove waiting for the decrepit old kettle to boil, my thoughts floated to work. As always. I had promised Renee I wouldn’t come in today so I could be fully present for Warehouse Weekend, but the Fall Fest was the next day, and I hated not being there to finalize things. Even though we’d both sworn up and down that we’d finalized them yesterday.

I grabbed the kettle the second it began its gentle whistle, trying to keep it from waking anyone else. We had more teain the flat than in all of London, but none of it was kept in the same place. Some was in jars beside the jars of fermenting vegetables, some above the bread bin, some in the makeshift plywood pantry. I had thought the bathroom would be the most hectic part of having seven roommates, but the kitchen proved me wrong time and time again.

By the time I settled on a breakfast tea and a few cookies, the sun had floated higher than the giraffe head and I was able to curl up in the living room, glare-free. We had an eclectic collection of throw blankets from everyone’s previous apartments, all of which smelled like acrylic paint and burnt sage.

“Early riser, then?” Margot’s voice was even drier in the silence of the morning.

“Oh, uh, sometimes,” I said. “Couldn’t fall back to sleep with the sun in my eyes.”

“At least your room has a window.” She had a point.

“What are you doing up so early on a Saturday?”

“Had to finish something for work.” If there was anything I knew to be true of Margot, she was a woman of few words. “You can see it if you like,” she said, her tone noticeably softer. She must have seen me glance toward the studios and knew I was curious.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude, I—”

“Come on,” she said, motioning for me to follow her. Was it that simple? Cracking Margot was just taking an interest in her work?

She pulled back the curtain of her studio space to reveal what looked like backstage at a West End show. Luxurious fabric clung to mannequins, metallic pins littered the countertops, and blinding painters’ lights illuminated a small platform in front of angled mirrors. For two months, I’d been curiousabout this studio, as it was the only one shielded by a curtain, and it did not disappoint.

There was a mannequin on the platform, clad in oxblood velvet and deep emerald costume jewelry, standing in a pool of pins and measuring tapes.

“It’s for a period piece,” she said, watching me admire her work. I knew she was talented, but I hadn’t expected this.

“Margot, this is—”

“Isn’t it?” She cocked her head to the side as if she was seeing it for the first time.

“Thank you for letting me in. To see it, I mean.” The studio alone revealed more to me than Margot had herself in the months I’d been living here. It had a certain chaos I didn’t expect of her, and frankly, it was humanizing.

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