Page 78 of And Then There Was You
“It’s not good,” she said, looking up at him now. “It’s not terrible, but it’s not a Sean Adler film.”
“What’s a Sean Adler film?”
“Full of angst and gore and too many wide shots,” she teased.
He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Too many wide shots, hey? You know I do love a wide shot. Give me a fish-eye lens, and I am a happy man.” They grinned at each other. “Will you get in trouble at work for not selling me on it?”
“Yes. But he’ll get over it. Maybe one day I’ll send you something good, through your agent, of course.”
“Why don’t you send me a Chloe Fairway script? That’s something I’d like to read.”
“I don’t have one,” she said, then paused. “But I will.”
“Well, when you have an idea you want to work on, why don’t we knock something about together?” He looked at her with a steady gaze now, full of sincerity. “I’d like that.”
She leaned into his shoulder. “I’m so proud of you. I really mean that.”
He gave her a squeeze. “Where’s Rob?”
She shrugged, not knowing what to say.
“You know, he’s not who I picture you with,” Sean said.
“Who did you picture?” she asked.
Sean squinted in contemplation. “Someone more eccentric. Old-fashioned. When I imagine you as a grown-up, I see you in a thatched cottage, some higgledy-piggledy house stuffed full of books and instruments, weird sculptures made of driftwood and cheese.” She burst out laughing. “You have kids with names like Persephone and Winter. You put on family productions every Christmas, where you take it in turns to reimagineA Christmas Carol.”
“That sounds delightful,” she said with a sigh, but it was tinged with sadness because he still knew her so well, and they had lost all these years of friendship.
“Lovely as Rob seems, I don’t see him improvising family productions,” Sean added.
“You might be right,” she said.
“I guess I saw you with someone more…impish,” Sean said, putting a hand on each of her shoulders and turning her to face him. There was a flicker of something in his face, regret maybe. “I’m sorry if I got in the way of that back then.”
“I think I might have burned my bridges there,” she admitted.
“Because you brought some Calvin Klein model to humiliate us all on the dance floorandthe sports field.” He threw her a mock-jealous growl. “Free up your dance card and see what happens.” Then his eyes shifted to something serious. “You know he’s a pacifist though, right? If you’re waiting for him to challenge your boyfriend to a duel, you might be waiting a long time.”
She nodded, a smile tugging on her lips. Sean went on: “Plus, you need to know you’ll always come third after music and Richard. He’ll disappear for weeks, on some niche adventure. You know he missed my thirtieth because he suddenlyhadto see some three-thousand-year-old trumpets they found in Tutankhamun’s tomb?” They shared a laugh at this because it wassoJohn. But beneath the laughter Chloe felt a private stab of pain because she didn’t know if she had the words to make it right. Yet the version of him that Sean was describing—the man who got lost in his own obsessions, who moved through the world with quiet conviction and peculiar joy—thatwas what she wanted. She wanted someone with his own interests,passions, a view of the world that was different from her own. She loved that John lived life in the footnotes, tucked between the lines, always curious, never needing the spotlight. But the horror on his face last night still haunted her. What if she had missed her chance?
“Well, good luck,” Sean said, patting her on the back. “I gotta run. I’ve got a taxi taking me to Heathrow.” He kissed her on the cheek.
She smiled. “Safe flight back to LA. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
Once he’d gone, Chloe turned back toward the chapel. Music was still playing as people lingered by the entrance. She walked through the main door, then peered around the screen to see the organist—but it wasn’t John, it was a young female student.
A new urgency seized her. She sprinted to the porter’s lodge, breath ragged in her throat, eyes darting over the list until she found his name. Room fourteen. She bolted again, across Grove. Katie and Amara called to her, but she didn’t stop, she kept running, up the far stairwell two steps at a time, heart pounding with something that felt like hope and dread tangled together. She reached his door, barely pausing to knock, only to find it already ajar.
The bed was made. The towel neatly folded on the chair. He’d gone. Her stomach dropped. She was too late. A flush of heat spread across her chest, prickling at her skin, chasing cold fingers of panic up the back of her neck. She pressed her palms against her face, trying to hold herself together. She knew she could call him, but the fact he’d left early without saying goodbye felt horribly significant.
With heavy feet, she walked back to her room. Rob hadpacked their belongings, stripped the bed, and cleaned the surfaces. He stood by the window, dressed in a fresh shirt and blazer, patiently waiting. She had not seen it before, but in this light, he looked like a giant Ken doll.
“Hello. Are we leaving now?” he asked plainly, and she nodded. She didn’t like seeing him like this—so, well, robotic.
She slipped the watch back onto her wrist, reached for his arm, and powered them on together. She needed him to be at full capacity for the journey home. Her watch turned blue, then gray.
