Page 12 of The Meet Queue-t

“Heart attack,” someone says, and the word spreads like wildfire.

“An ambulance is coming.”

“At least he’s still conscious.”

“Do you think they’ll close the queue?”

My breath catches in my throat and my chest pinches. Surely not. Surely they won’t close the queue because someone got a heart attack. That sounds callous, and maybe it is, but we’ve all come here for something. For me, it’s Mum. If they send us away now, if I came all this way for nothing—

The panic spreads, hot and uncomfortable in my chest, burning right down to my toes, and I hop off the wall. If I can’t fulfil this last dream of hers, how can I move on? It’s not like I’d make her proud any other way—she wanted a teacher or a scientist and I’m neither. I dropped out of an English degree, for God’s sake. Started baking cakes because I didn’t know what else to do.

Shoulders tense, I pace back and forth in my little section of the queue. People are bunching up now, and concern emanates from everyone around me. The couple ahead are praying for the man with a heart attack. The mum behind me is fending off questions aboutwhat’s going on from a boy who should have been in bed many hours ago. My feet ache.

Still no sign of Oliver. What if he got kicked out? A pulse of irrational fear rocks through me, and I pull out my phone to distract myself. A string of unwelcome texts from an unknown number sits in my notification bar.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:It was good seeing you today.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:I hadn’t realised how much I missed you

UNKNOWN NUMBER:You look amazing btw

Brandon. Gross. I don’t even want to know what he thinks he’ll achieve with these messages. Wrinkling my nose, I block his number, then delete the messages. He doesn’t get to text me like he didn’t burn down our life together. I hope Gracie dumps him. Publicly.

With that done, and the wail of sirens in the distance, I have nothing to do but wait for Oliver to come back and try to ignore the awful weight in my chest.

According to time, as mutually agreed upon by society and recorded on my phone, Oliver takes eleven minutes to return.

According to the stress in my body, he’s been about three days.

“Everything’s okay,” he says as he jumps down from the wall beside me. My knees go embarrassingly weak with relief. “The paramedics are there now.” His gazeroves over my features and whatever he was going to say next dies away. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”No. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I think so. There was a doctor already at the scene, so I just helped out.” He shrugs modestly. “I have a first aid certificate.”

I give a slightly wet laugh. God, have I been crying? “Dr Oliver Murphy, saving people every day.”

“Tessa.”

I recognise that voice, the one people use when they know something’s wrong and they’re trying to cajole you into telling them what—all concern and half pleading. I hunch my shoulders and do the thing I know best: deflect. “Do you think they’re going to close the queue?”

“Not unless people start dying of exposure.” He gives me a reassuring smile, and like the idiot I am, I cling to it, needing the reassurance. Stupid, maybe, but sometimes we all need stupid things. I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to stave off the goosebumps. He’s right that they wouldn’t close the queue unless people were getting hurt in related incidents, rather than a probably unrelated heart attack, but I can’t help overthinking.

So many things could go wrong before I get the closure I need.

“Tess? You’re shaking.” Oliver runs a hand up my arm to my shoulder, and when I don’t flinch away, steps closer. This is how close we were on the wall, but this time the energy is very different. He smells offensively good. Instead of kissing him, I want to burrow my face in hisshoulder and never emerge again. Maybe I can cocoon in his warmth and just stay in stasis.

When he slides his arms around me, pressing me against his body in one gentle but smooth motion, I don’t fight it. Just let him hold me. One hand soothes across my back, thumb tracing slow lines. His cheek rests against the top of my head.

I relax into his embrace, which is a mistake, because then I make a noise that sounds remarkably like a sob. My voice cracks.

He just holds me closer. Waits. One hand rests on the nape of my neck. Not too much pressure—I could pull away if I wanted to—but just enough to make me feel wanted. Secure. If my knees were to give way, I think he might catch me.

I raise my hands to his waist, fully intending to push him back, but I end up fisting the material there instead.

“Brandon said something about your mum,” Oliver murmurs into my hair. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I think I might understand, at least a bit.”

That’s the thing that breaks through the last of my inhibitions. Because even if his mother hasn’t died, he’s still lost her, in a way. Maybe even in a worse way. If anyone is going to understand grief, it might just be this man.

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