Page 68 of Weekends with You

“How do we know you and Jan don’t have the easiest list?” Finn asked.

“Because I assigned them blind, you wanker. And unlike everyone else in here, I’m not a cheater.”

“Ah yes—Callum, our moral compass,” Raja said.

“You lot are relentless. Are we doing this thing or not?”

“We are, we are, let’s go,” Margot said, pulling Liv by the hand.

I turned our list over in my hands before following them out. We were all being sent to some combination of markets fairly distanced from the apartment; Hen and I had Borough Market and Old Spitalfields. It appeared we were supposed to get most of the cheese for the charcuterie from Borough, and afew candles and some incense from Spitalfields to replace what we’d burned through at home.

“Lucy, we don’t have to do this if—”

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “It’s all water under the bridge, anyway, isn’t it?”

“Hardly,” he said, looking around to make sure we were out of earshot of the rest of our roommates. They were all but out the door, so he continued. “Listen, Luce, I know I really hurt you. And I just—”

“Hen, please,” I said. “It’s over. Just a bruised ego, that’s all. I was fine then, and I’m fine now.” The lie tasted like copper on my tongue. “The only thing I’m not fine with is losing this competition because we’re standing around having a chat instead of getting our asses on the Tube.”

Frustration clouded his eyes, but I could tell he had nothing else to say. And even if he did, I wasn’t going to let him. I was finally healing, and the last thing I needed was to rehash what had happened in Amsterdam. Even if he was on the brink of delivering a well-deserved apology.

The tube ride was mostly silent, both of us careful to keep our fingers from touching on the pole. We caught each other’s gaze more than once, quickly averting our eyes to our shoes, other passengers, the maps we knew by heart. The more crowded it became, the closer we were pressed together, and the more difficult it was to hate it.

“Right, then,” Henry said, holding the list between us as we approached the entrance to the market. We put our heads just a bit too close, and his scent floated into my nose: heady and familiar, warm spices and soap. “Cal really is sending us on a ride, isn’t he? D’you recognize the names of any of these cheeses?”

I grabbed the list from his hand, giving it a closer look. “I do, actually. But that’s probably because I don’t live on takeaway curry and frozen pizza.” It was hard not to slip back into our usual banter.

“Ouch,” he said, bringing his hand to his chest. “Lead the way, then, lady.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The market was bustling, and we bobbed through lively throngs of people in search of the right stalls. Winning might have been the only thing we could agree on, but it was the only thing that mattered for now, so that was enough.

Intoxicating smells of fresh-baked bread, ripe citrus, and foreign spices swirled around us in a potent cloud. I looked back at the list to focus.

“Okay, so we need to find a Durham blue, a Red Leicester, and a Camembert. Easy enough,” I said, scanning an opening in the crowd for a dairy vendor.

“Up ahead,” he said, nodding in the direction of a stall he could see but I couldn’t. “Two o’clock.”

He stepped ahead of me, and I resisted the familiar urge to reach for his hand. We wound around slow-moving tourists and bustling Londoners, and he checked behind him once or twice to make sure I was still following. I contemplated reaching out to touch his elbow, just to stay together through the crowds, of course, then all but swatted my own hand away. I couldn’t let Jan be right that this was to be a mistake.

“Good find,” I said as we approached the stall.

“Maybe I’m not useless after all,” he whispered to me, then ordered the Durham blue from the seller. She didn’t have the other two cheeses, so we ducked back into the throngs, on the hunt again.

“Lucy, look,” he said, nodding to a stall with dozens of small plastic cups nestled in an ice bath at the front. “The Borough Market Pimm’s Cup is back.”

He must have remembered me raving about it on one of our FaceTime dates, and the recall sent a flutter through my chest.

“My favorite,” I said, contemplating it. “But we’re in a race, Hen. We gotta find these cheeses and get the hell out.”

“Oh, come on, Luce. It’s one drink,” he said, already halfway to the stall. “We can drink on the road.”

“Just one,” I said, following him. I couldn’t resist. The Pimm’s Cup, that is.

He paid for two drinks, one for each of us, and we paused our cheese hunt to bask in the glory of the first sip.

“Well?” I asked. “Is it as good as I said it was?”

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