Page 95 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

How many people did Blake say lived in this city? Twice the size of London, at least. And how to find him through all of this?

If I was Blake, where would I be? Where do actors hang out?

I refresh his Instagram, then sit bolt upright.

It’s a bloody miracle. Have the social media deities been paying attention to my suffering?

He’s at the New York Public Library, the big one with the lions under the evening sky. At last, a photo with landmarks. And it’s just been posted.

Time to read some of my favorite poets, says Blake’s caption.

I gulp.

I needed to catch a taxi ten minutes ago.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I race to the taxi queue outside of the hotel, barely remembering to take my wallet and key cards as I head out. The evening’s warm and close. I slide into the next available taxi.

“To the library on Forty-Second Street in Manhattan, please.” I’m breathing hard from my sprint as I attempt to settle into the back seat. It’s exciting—till we’re caught in a traffic crawl.

Unfortunately for us, New York traffic is as dreadful as London’s no matter the time of day. Eventually I give up on the taxi in favor of my chances on the subway. I’m blindly relying on the map app on my phone. It’s not far on the subway, but this is the most off-script thing I’ve ever done in my life. There’s fares and gates and far too many people—people who clearly know where they’re going.

Before long, I rush up from the subway to the library. Looking wildly around, I scan the scatter of people for Blake, but of course he’s not there. Granted, his photo updated at least an hour ago, and he probably didn’t linger outside in the very unlikely event I appeared out of the blue, unannounced, to pounce on him.

After a lap of the imposing library building and even a peek inside, I’m Blakeless.

Glum, I sit on a bench.

Idly, I scroll through the phone again. I need a new idea. Maybe casting calls? There’s a website that’s got loads of casting calls, but it’s hard to figure out where they actually are without signing up and getting screened in. Hopeless. I don’t think I could convince anyone, least of all myself, that I’m an actor. I might be able to fake being a musician for about five minutes, but that’s about where my performance skills end.

The madcap adventure was all madcap and for nothing.

Do I stay to keep looking or do I leave? Is there any point to holding on to the unlikely hope that I’ll find Blake in a city of millions?

I have no idea where he lives, aside from his family being back in Georgia. I don’t know the name of the town, even if I drove the fourteen hours down south to make a grand spectacle. If he was there. But that seems like a more unlikely scenario than the current one, so I stay here.

How could I have such strong feelings about a man I know so little about?

In the hotel that night, I toss and turn, not just from the jet lag, but because my brain won’t stop. Where exactly did my feelings start to change? Was it the first date dare? The dancing that night? His challenges to me? Like he could see some part of me that slumbered for ages like a hibernating animal.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to give up.

I don’twantto give up.

…

Early the next morning, I shower and go for breakfast at a little café not far from the hotel. The night passed one restless hour after another while I tried to figure out how to find Blake. Even the impressively comfortable mattress, an entirely different universe than my old sofa bed, couldn’t lull me into sleep. By morning, I have a plan. Better yet, I have a growing constellation of plans, because I’m determined.

I look over the detailed list of casting calls, agents, and local studios I put together over a pot of tea. I’ve made five calls so far without any luck, but I’m going to call every last place an actor might be connected with if I have to. I don’t care how many people I have to call. I’ll even try Alice Rutherford, the set designer from the last film, if I need to. Or media Andrew, who brought the news to us back in London that dreadful day about the paparazzi photos.

Last night, I also tried to sort out what to tell him when I find him. In my head, I replayed my speech a hundred times. Every time it sounded daft. But I need to tell him in person how I feel, no matter who’s there. Obviously, I won’t burst onto a film set mid-scene, but if I can find his location, and with a little luck on my side, I might get to talk to him.

I miss Blake so much. His energy, kindness, fun. The bean jokes. The drawl of his voice. The taste of his kisses. I miss his ease, the fun we have together, his attentiveness. His kind heart and living with such openness.

The way it feels to lie in each other’s arms, in turns debauched and reverent.

In two short weeks, he made a permanent mark. Indelible. Not that I want Blake to be delible—not even close.

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