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Maybe it’d be nice to hang out at the flat tomorrow instead of go out for coffee. And he’s probably exhausted after bucket list-ing and packing. ‘Yeah, no worries. You can stay at ours.’
‘Cool,’ he says, and I can’t quite figure out his expression. ‘Thanks. I promise I’ll be quiet in the morning when I leave. You won’t even know I’m gone.’
And with that, the plan is in motion. I realise I’m just delaying the inevitable, but I find I can relax a little, knowing I don’t have to say goodbye just yet. We sit at our rickety table for hours, chatting and drinking, and when Julien and Finn spend half an hour trying to one-up each other with embarrassing stories from their childhood, I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. Then Josie gets involved airing our ridiculous moments in uni halls and I saturate a napkin dabbing at my eyes.
The sun’s long gone by the time we start saying our goodbyes, and there’s a pain pulsing at my temple from too much laughter and too many Aperol Spritzes.
Finn hugs Rory, slapping him on the back and saying, ‘Look after Julien, okay?’
‘Always,’ Rory replies. ‘Come back and visit.’
‘I will.’ Finn smiles and then looks down at Rudy, clenching his fists to hold back from petting him. ‘Bye Rudy.’
‘He says he’ll miss you. And I will too, so come here.’ Josie goes in for a hug. He whispers something in her ear and she smiles as she replies, ‘Of course.’
Julien and I don’t get the heartfelt goodbyes from him because we’re seeing him tomorrow, but I still make the most of our embrace, however brief, inhaling his comforting smell, the scent of a swimming pool never quite fading from his skin.
‘How are you getting back?’ I ask, the last one out of the door he’s holding for all of us.
‘I think I’m gonna walk home. Might look at the stars.’ His eyes flash to mine. ‘Or aeroplanes, maybe.’
Under the streetlight, I study him; messy hair, open face, warm and patient and earnest. ‘Did your wish ever come true? The one you made that night?’
He puts his hands in his pockets and looks directly at me too. ‘I’m not sure yet.’
When the intercom buzzes the next day, sometime in the early evening, I let Finn up. He’s lugging two massive suitcases behind him, a rucksack slung across one shoulder, a Tesco bag on the other arm. He’s unusually dishevelled, with wonky glasses and hair askew. I take one look at him and cover my mouth to catch the laugh before it leaks out.
‘Did you take the stairs?’ I ask, completely bewildered. ‘Why not the lift?’
He follows my gaze to the metal doors in the hallway and lets out a tearless sob. ‘For fun. I saw it and I thought, “nah, not today”.’ He drags the cases in behind him and closes the door.
‘Did you not get the lift up last time?’
‘I’m gonna be honest, I don’t even remember how I got here last time. I was a little preoccupied.’ It was the night after we kissed. The night we ended up doing a lot more than kiss. I let the memory fizzle out when I realise he’s still talking. ‘I wasn’t even sure if you’d let me in that night.’
I reach forward to pull one of the suitcases further into the flat. ‘Well, at least you made it today.’
‘Barely,’ he mutters, following me into the kitchen and leaning against the counter like he always does at City Roast. Alwaysdid, I correct myself.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I pull out glasses from the dishwasher and inspect them for any grossness. ‘We still have some stuff left over from the party. There’s wine, rum, the shitty sambuca—’
He crosses his arms, eyes twinkling. ‘Does not-shitty sambuca exist?’
‘Unsure. But what do you want? Water? Tea? Coffee? Milk?’
I’m not quite Josie when it comes to hosting, and his laughter lines deepen at my aggressive hospitality. ‘Did you really just suggest milk?’
‘Oat or cow’s.’
‘Ava, I’m not drinking a glass ofmilk.’ He blinks as he thinks through the onslaught of options and proceeds to take a completely different approach. ‘No squash?’
‘If you’re being facetious,’ I dig around one of the cupboards and pull out a bottle of orange and pineapple, ‘it’s not working. I live for squash.’
‘I was being serious,’ he says through a laugh. ‘I remembered they don’t have it in the US and I wanna fill my quota before I leave.’ We take our drinks to the sofa and he says, ‘I have something for you.’
‘I have a gift for you too. But you go first.’
‘Okay wait, no, it’s not actually exciting.’ He empties the contents of his Tesco bag onto the coffee table, following it with something akin to jazz hands. It’s multiple family packs of crisps and popcorn and, inexplicably, a handful of carrots.
