Page 19 of The Meet Queue-t

“Oh. That.” He looks around, and there’s the same quiet contemplation on his face that’s reflected in themuted conversations around us. Everyone is excited about what’s coming, and maybe a few people are nervous. Ahead, a woman silently wipes under her eyes.

Thelma was wrong. Death might be inevitable, but that doesn’t make it any less sad. Any less of aloss.

“It’s like living history,” he says, and shakes his head. “I can’t explain it. Like we’re on the cusp of something. We’ve left an era and we’re about to walk into a new one, and being part of this gives the limbo meaning. In the future, people will write about this moment. It’ll be documented for the ages to find and interpret. People will study Queen Elizabeth II’s reign the same way they studied Queen Elizabeth I’s. So much hashappened.” There’s quiet wonder in his voice, and even though not everything the Queen did wasgood, the fact remains she saw so much happen over the course of her lifetime.

“It feels like being part of something bigger,” he finishes after another moment, one so delicate I don’t dare break it in case it shatters. “And I guess that’s special.”

“It is special,” I murmur. “Are you glad you came?”

His gaze drops from my face to take in all of me before finding my eyes again. “Yeah. I’m glad.”

I look away before I can blush. The queue is moving forward with more direction and purpose now, and every step is bringing us closer. Ten more minutes, maybe, and then we’ll be inside.

My stomach drops at the thought. Despite my exhaustion and the ache in my feet, I don’twantthis journey to be over. I don’t want to walk in there only to leave and for that to be it. So much is riding on this being theclosure I need, but what if it isn’t? What if I walk out of there and it doesn’t changeanything?

Oliver’s looking at me now, but I don’t dare look at him in case he sees everything I’m afraid of written across my face. “What about you?” he asks quietly. “Are you glad?”

Even now, I don’t have the courage to confess my innermost thoughts. “Yeah,” I say after a second. Then with more conviction, “Mum would’ve loved it here. Everyone coming together. The energy. The queueing all night. She’d have written about it in her journal and brought it out at every family gathering between now and her own funeral. This would’ve meant a lot to her.” My throat closes. I can’t finish my sentence, but I think it into being anyway.And I wish she could be here.

I wish it wasn’t just me doing this without her, thinking of her,missingher. Every day, I think surely it’s going to get easier. That one day, I’m going to stop thinking about everything we missed out on, stop going to message her a meme she’d enjoy, or tell her about something funny that happened.

She would’ve loved Oliver, too.

His hand finds mine, just for a second. It should be weird, but we’ve spent so much time together over the past few hours that it doesn’t. His skin is warm and smooth against mine as he squeezes and lets go. “I’m sure she’d be proud of you,” he says, and the lump in my throat swells again. All I can do is nod.

He gives me time and space to recover. We approach the doors to Westminster Hall. I want to turn and run.

“Tess,” he says. “I have a question. About . . . after.”

Oh no. Anxiety clutches at my heart. “What do you mean, after?”

“After we’ve seen the Queen.”

“Yes, but what do youmean?”

Maybe picking up on the tone of my voice, he tilts his head, glancing down at me with a line between his brows. “I mean I have today off, and I figure you do too, and I thought—”

“I don’t see how that would work,” I say, each word brittle like frozen glass. “We don’t live in the same parts of the country. You live inYork.” I say it like he’s in another country, not a couple of hours away by car. “And we barely know each other.”

He looks at me steadily. “Is that what you think?”

“We just—” I wave a hand, gesturing between us, panic rising in my chest. It swallows all other feelings. The memory of how it felt for Brandon to hurt me. The fear of falling again, because it would be soeasyto fall for Oliver, and I’m too trapped in anxiety and self-doubt. He’s a professor, and I’m lost. I’m a mess. Battered and bruised and still figuring out what living means. It would be stupid to pursue the possibility of anything with this wonderful, unattainable man.

But I want to. I desperately want to keep talking and laughing, putting off the moment of goodbye until saying goodbye would be unthinkable. I want to kiss him, to let him hold me, to learn how he tastes and sounds. Brandon had killed desire in me—or so I thought. But Oliver’s mouth, soft and warm, and the way his breathsmells like coffee and chocolate—everything about him makes me want in ways I’d forgotten.

He makes me think I could be whole again.

But at what cost?

I don’t have room in my life for any more heartbreak.

None of this makes it easier to say, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .” I close my eyes. “You’re a nice guy.”

A pause. Then he sighs, so soft I barely hear it. “And I know how you feel about nice.”

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