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Colin wished he wasn’t in London. What a time to find himself with a break in projects? Wall-to-wall funeral coverage. He couldn’t turn on the telly or the radio without hearing yet another opinion about grief. He couldn’t go to the shops or onto social media without seeing some ridiculous sign about respect. There were black bows all over the porticos of Mayfair’s most expensive residences. What was the point of running away if mourning was going to bite you in the arse the first time you’d been home for more than 10 days in over a year?
The 24 hour news cycle meant that nothing was ever really over. Not if there was footage. He supposed that if he was someone else, an ordinary punter, that it would be understandable, natural even. The Queen had died, her funeral was this week. It meant people thought about other royal funerals. That meant they thought about Diana, which led them to Harry and Will walking behind her coffin, the victims of royal grief. He could even see that if you were a news producer in need of b-roll and content that this would make you reach for the coverage of Edmund Bridgerton’s funeral and the footage of 7 photogenic children standing in the rain, each one smaller than the next, like steps of stairs. The Bridgertons always provided a good visual and there they were, in the background of all the channels, his sad relations following his father’s hearse while their shoes filled up with water.
Benedict had texted to say some of them were going out for Mongolian food but Colin left him on read. It’s not like him to refuse a meal but he wants to be in this stupid, bare apartment tonight. He wants to be in, in case. In case what he’s really hungry for comes over.
It’s not like he doesn't understand why he’s here all alone. Maybe he was too young for it to work out? She wasn’t even though she’s younger than him. He knew that she would have been able to keep the good love from going wrong, if he’d been old enough to let her. Instead he’d packed his bags as soon as the first restrictions lifted. He took assignment after assignment turning in copy about post-Covid tourism from everywhere in the world he could think of, as long as it wasn’t a short flight from London. But he was too old for it to have been casual. He was too old to actually outrun her. Tonight, like most nights, if he was honest, she was on his mind.
Why did he feel that if he opened the window, letting the rain in, that somehow his dream, that he had her with him, would find her? Why was he certain that she’d seen those news reports too, that she knows how much she’s needed?
When it had started it felt like maybe the world was ending in the most boring way possible. He was stuck in London, stuck in this ridiculous boxy four walls and he thought he might go mad. She lived round the corner in a flatshare she didn’t enjoy. They started by taking turns shopping for each other so they both had to be exposed less often. Then they started to bend the rules and cook together. By the time they declared themselves a bubble they’d been lovers for almost a month. It was fun. They were young, they were stuck in this ridiculous situation and they had bodies that wanted each other very badly. He thought it was a good distraction from impending doom. He’d been blind.
Where was she tonight? Maybe she was at the Mongolian place with the others? It was a slim possibility. He could tell from socials that she went to Bridgerton events less and less these days. That was the damage he’d done. Not just him but everyone else had to live without her too. Eloise had been vocal on the subject of his massive stupidity. Eloise had been very clear about exactly who she would choose if the “shittest idea you’ve ever had” didn’t end well.
He’d thought they were both looking for some fun. What could be more fun that having amazing sex with one of your best friends? It passed the time excellently. He couldn’t “work from home”, he’s a travel writer but he could use the time to take an advanced degree in her body. He could map it from memory. He’d learned her but not himself. He wasn’t sure when exactly he’d started to burn. Whenever it was, it hadn't stopped.
By the time it got to that summer there wasn’t a real reason for it all anymore. He sleep-walked into it. He took short-hop jobs around Europe and they socialised outside pubs and restaurants with different siblings, partners and friends when he was home. He got used to slinging his arm around her shoulders on a summer’s evening and always getting two drinks every time he was at the bar. Travel became a faff. Every country had its own restrictions and sometimes a weekend break ended up being 14 whole days without his lover. She used to call the days he got out of isolation his “sweet return”.
He made his bed. Literally. If she did come over, if somehow she knew that he burned for her, he wanted the flat to look like he wasn’t slowly going insane without her. He was, of course. He’d made his metaphorical bed too and now he had to wake up in it alone. He has no-one. He’d love to blame fucking Fife, if only it was actually someone else’s fault, but all Fife had done was ask a question while Colin was still sleep-walking, before he was awake.
“That’s nothing. There’s no-one special” was what he’d said. That’s what she’d heard him say, when they’d been sleeping together for almost a year, when he’d started to think of being her lover as his full-time job. He hadn’t known enough to hold on tight, to declare how he really felt loudly. She’d cleared out her drawer that night. Her products disappeared from the bathroom. He was left in an empty box of an apartment again. He woke up to no-one but himself and packed his suitcase immediately.
Colin lay down on the tidily made bed. Sleep wouldn’t come, it rarely did these days, not without her. He knew that Eloise would warn her that he was home. She definitely knew he was here. Was it possible that she couldn’t feel his yearning? Maybe that’s not how it worked even with the love of your life. Maybe opening the window to let the burning out to find her wasn’t enough?
He took out his phone and typed the same message he’d sent around this time every night since his first night home: “Could you come over? If it’s not too late?”
He would wait. It will never be too late for him.