Page 44 of When London Snow Falls

A message like that has to be better than ghosting someone, right? At least it’s a confirmation that I disappeared. Not that I really want to disappear. I want to be here. Or there, with Ben. Just…not so overwhelmed with everything.

Speaking of overwhelmed, there’s yet another scheduled rehearsal. Jackson went wild booking us into studios ahead of the break since there won’t be much time once we’re all back after Christmas to get ready for our gig.

Still feeling wretched, I call him as soon as I get on the bus.

“It’s got to be serious if you’re actually calling me straight out.”

“I can’t make it tonight. I’m screwed on this essay, man.”

“I thought term was out for you?”

I shift out of the way as a passenger clomps past me with an armful of colorful bags. Christmas shopping, I bet. “Nah, especially not for me. I get to make up shit that I missed last month ’cause of working too much and Carys. My lecturer was sympathetic ’cause he’s a dad too, but I still gotta do stuff before I go to Wales. So…I hope you don’t hate me for canceling again.”

“You do what you need to do, Charlie. We’ll make do.”

When we hang up, it’s no comfort knowing he wasn’t exactly mad, but not enthusiastic either.

Work passes uneventfully, and when I return home after picking up a couple of gifts on the way, I get back to my schoolwork with renewed vigor. It’s satisfying to check off a couple of things on that too-long whiteboard list. All that’s left is the big essay.

I pull out my suitcase as a reward for getting at least some of what needed doing done. My freshly washed clothes from the earlier round of laundry are folded on the desk. Beside the clothes are a couple of small stocking stuffers for Carys that I’ve picked up in recent weeks. I may as well close the loop and start to place things in a suitcase. I find gift wrap for the presents and start in on that too.

The day has been rough, but I’m starting to feel like I’m back to the comfort of my usual routines. I always feel better when I do. No more upheavals. No more spinning thoughts. No more feeling too much, like there’s an expanding universe inside me, vast and uncomfortable. Just wrapping presents and packing.

When I check my phone an hour or so later, there’s a text from Ben.

How’s your day? Want to come over? x

That’s when I die about a million times because fuck yes, I want to go over. Like, right now. More than anything. But that’s impossible, because I need to finish my essay before I leave. And this is getting dangerous. Way too dangerous. Too fast, too much, too intense.

I mean, I have a schedule. A plan. No dating. And I might be able to fool myself into a weekend of Fridays, but it’s the middle of the week—a Wednesday. A day entirely meant to be sensible, and very far from the weekend.

Standing back, I look critically at the curtains over the kitchen sink. Too much dust. Clearly the way to deal with this dilemma is to wash them along with the bedroom curtains, because no man can fall in serious like with another man who has dusty curtains, and I swear that’s no kind of euphemism. I bet Ben’s curtains are perfect. To be honest, I didn’t get a chance to look around much when we were together, because we could have been on the moon for all I noticed. Everything was Ben and fucking incredible.

With a sigh, I climb onto the counter to take down the curtains.

All I want is Ben. And it’s impossible. With a gulp, I send a text back.

I can’t. I’m leaving in a couple of days and I’ve got a lot on for Christmas. You’re brilliant. I just think you and me, I don’t think this can happen. I’m sorry. x

Staring at the phone, I don’t know what to say to make it better. It’ll probably just make it worse. And yeah, it’s gonna suck, but I have a whole set of reasonable, responsible Wednesday activities that’ll keep me busy. Busy and safe. Because routines are safe and obsessions with gorgeous guitar players are not.

To be honest, I want Wednesday to fuck off and die, but it doesn’t.

I feel like complete hell when I hit send.

Chapter Nineteen

Later that evening, I sit, sick to my stomach. Seriously, something’s wrong with me. Well, obviously—and officially—there is. Anyone else, say Lars from the café or Briar from the band, would probably say I need to live now and go for it, but they don’t have the responsibilities I do. But it doesn’t change what I want right now—Ben. Geography will have to help me get back on track: Ben will be a distant memory by the time I reach Wales for Christmas.

Reaching for the phone again, I call Emily as planned at 7:00 p.m.

“Hiya, Charlie.” She smiles as we do our usual video call, sitting in her gran’s bright and modern front room.

“Hey.”

She’s quiet for a moment, wise in the million silences of one Charles Renfrew, so I’m not surprised it takes her a nanosecond to figure out I’m more out of sorts than usual.

“How are you? You look a bit rough. Is everything all right?” she asks with a slight frown.

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