Page 3 of The Meet Queue-t

He’s right that this is something momentous. Not in that the entire country is mourning a person that most of us never met, but a sense of unification, somehow.

“What about you?” he asks, breaking me out of my thoughts. “What do you do?”

“Me? Oh.” Well, let’s see. I started doing an English degree and gotso closeto graduating, only to drop out in my third year. Then, because I had no idea what to do, I went back home and worked in Granny’s bakery. “I’m a . . . baker, I guess.”

“You guess?” He frowns, and it’s kind of annoying how cute he is, to be honest. This would be way easier if he were intrinsically unattractive. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

“You’re not prying,” I say with a sigh. “I opened myself up to the question. Iama baker. The ‘I guess’ was because I’m not sure how much Iwantto be a baker.”

“Oh. Why is that?” He frowns down at me, Kindle forgotten in one hand, and it’s as though he really cares about the answer. The gesture is so unexpected, I don’t quite know how to feel about it. Or what to say. I chew my lip.

“I fell into it, really. And I never fell back out.” Before he can ask anything more about my hopes and dreams—which I amnotsharing with a stranger, no matter how adorable his floppy, too-long hair is—I ask, “What about you? Always wanted to study the plague?”

He chuckles, which gives me plenty of opportunity to notice how nice his voice is. Not too deep and gravelly, not too nasally. Just . . . nice. Which is weird, because I’m not usually into ‘nice’. My track record more features the ‘garden asshole’ variety.

“Who doesn’t want to study historical diseases, am I right?” He pats his pocket, coming out with a buzzing phone. As he stares at the screen, his smile dies. I don’t catch the name, but I do catch the way he hesitates before glancing at me, as though weighing what to say. “I’m sorry,” he goes with. “I have to take this.”

Waving at him to go ahead, I step away, giving at least the illusion of privacy. Not that there’s much to have here—I can practically hear the sweet nothings the couple ahead of us are whispering to each other.

Still, it’s the thought that counts, right?

I focus on the glittering water andnoton the sound of his voice.

It doesn’t work.

“Mum,” he says, a false note in his bright voice. A pause, where I pick a song in my head and attempt to listen at top volume.We Don’t Talk About Brunois the first one that comes to mind, so I embrace it. Mentally crank it up.

Despite my best efforts, I hear his exhaustion as he says, “No, everything’s fine. Where’s Dad?”

Another pause. I sing along to the music in my head under my breath.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “It’s okay, Mum.” A pause. “Yes, it’s Oliver. Your son. Yes. Can you fetch your husband? Do you know where he is?”

“I need a wee,” the boy from behind complains.

Excellentidea.

EvenEncantoisn’t enough to drown Oliver out. Or hide the way his brow creases and he glances uncomfortably in my direction. So, I take the opportunity to visit the pop-up toilets. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to give me this insight into his problems, and why should he? We’re strangers. Besides, I don’t have room for anything else in my life. Especially cute, nerdy men with parental issues.Especiallywhen, once this is over, we’re never going to see each other again.

Chapter Two

BythetimeI’mback to my place in the queue, Oliver has finished his phone call. He’s back to reading, but when I slide in beside him, his gaze returns to me.

“Hi,” he says. “Welcome back.”

“I recommend not peeing if at all possible,” I say. “The conditions are not favourable.”

“Noted.” He lowers the Kindle and clears his throat. “Sorry about . . . uh, the interruption.”

“It’s fine.” I glance up at him. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up all directions. Sighs. “No. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Hey, I’m just a stranger. You don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to, I can listen.” I gesture at the queue ahead of us. “And it’s not as though we don’t have time.”

His smile is small, but warm. “Thanks.”

I nod and turn back to the front, ignoring the loved-up couple. If he wants to talk about it, he can go ahead. If not, I’ll go back to doing my thing. There’s a large discography in my head just waiting to be played.

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