Page 69 of Weekends with You

“Of course it is. Your word is good as gold, you know.”

I filled my mouth with another sweet, gingery sip, partially for the head rush, partially to avoid having to respond right away. The cup was packed with cucumbers, citrus, and loads of fresh mint. The flavors reminded me of springtime, the season of new beginnings, which made me think maybe I too should let go and start again. Hen and I could be proper friends at least, couldn’t we? We were roommates, after all.

“Any time I see flowers like this, I think of you,” he said, gesturing to a stall dripping in fresh blooms. It was almost like he knew I was just beginning to reconcile a platonic friendship and decided to thwart those plans. “And I stayed in Amsterdam for most of April, too, so I’ve been seeing quite a lot of them,” he continued. When I didn’t say anything right away, he turned to face me. “Honestly, Luce, it isn’t just the flowers. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you at all since the moment you left. You’ve been on my mind every single day, and I’m terrible at fighting it.” It would have been better if he’d just ripped the thorns from those stems and pressed them directly into my chest.

“Hen...,” I started.

“I know, I know, I lost my opportunity to say things like that a while ago. I just thought you should know.”

We stared at each other in silence just long enough for it to hurt before I took out our list and refocused our attention to the safety of the task at hand.

“Right, well, thank you. For letting me know, I guess,” I said without looking at him. I felt myself slipping right back to that familiar place, and I knew I couldn’t. And besides, I had Oliver now, so this was meaningless. “I think back over there, near that Italian butcher, I saw a vendor with a ton of cheeses. He must have both of these other ones, then we can head over to Spitalfields. Shall we?” He nodded, seemingly disappointed to be back to business.

After securing what we needed at the last vendor, we took another silent tube ride to Old Spitalfields, staring at our phones despite the fact that we didn’t have an ounce of service.

Like Borough Market, Old Spitalfields was teeming with people. We confirmed our readiness with a silent nod, then headed into the masses. This time, we were engulfed in smells of fresh paint, authentic leather, and patchouli oil.

A young woman playing a guitar crooned from the entrance, and Henry stopped to throw a few quid in an upturned hat she had on the ground.

“Just the candles here, then we should be good to head home,” I said. “Any idea where the others are?”

“If I had to guess, Mar and Liv are home already, Cal and Jan are somewhere in line with us, and Raja and Finn have murdered each other and one of their bodies is floating in the Thames.”

“Dark,” I said, trying not to laugh. “But probably true.”

“But on the off chance Margot and Liv aren’t getting along today, we owe it to ourselves to leg it.”

“I hate it when you’re right.” We flashed a smile at each other, finally, then took off in the direction of the candles.

“We have to find something good,” I said. “I hated the ones Jan brought home last time.”

Henry laughed, surely remembering their smell, reminiscent of burning tobacco and gasoline. “Here,” he said. “Close your eyes.”

I did, feeling particularly vulnerable standing there without being able to see, waiting for his next move. He floated a candle underneath my nose.

“Guess the scent,” he said.

“Eucalyptus,” I said immediately, then sniffed again. “With a hint of lemon?”

“Bloody hell,” he said, turning the candle over to reveal the scent: Eucalyptus Lemon Balm. “How on earth?”

“I’m a florist, Hen. I’m buried in these smells every day of my life.”

“Oh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Duh.”

I laughed, and instructed him to close his eyes. “Your turn.” I pulled one that was called Cinnamon Sin andreached up to hold it under his nose. I studied his face as he inhaled, clocking the way his dark lashes spread across his freckled cheeks, the way his bones took sharp turns, the symmetry of those angles.

“It smells like Christmas,” he said, without opening his eyes.

“You’re close,” I said.

“Has to be pine.”

“Pine?” I laughed, and he opened his eyes at the sound.

“What? What’s wrong with pine?”

“It’s cinnamon, you sod. It smells nothing like pine.”

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