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‘I think we could all do with being a little more selective when it comes to choosing who we spend time with.’
‘When you said earlier that you got a job interview, was it atthe UN by any chance? Because that was a lesson in diplomacy. And complete bullshit.’
‘I just mean,’ his head tips back on a laugh, ‘that we should be focusing on quality over quantity.’
‘And yet, here I am, with you.’ I shoot him a grin.
‘Hey, you asked me to join you tonight.’ He raises a hand in surrender. ‘I initiated nothing.’
I purse my lips. ‘God, how much have you had to drink? I’d never do that.’
‘Admit it, you like spending time with me.’
‘Perhapslikeisn’t the word,’ I stomp my way along the pavement and he follows, ‘but I don’t dreadit as much as I expected to.’
‘Was that… a compliment?’ He steps in front of me briefly and even in the dark, I can see his eyes are alight.
‘It was compliment-adjacent. And if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.’ We keep walking, and every time we pass under a street light’s glow, I catch him glancing in my direction. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’ He snaps his head forward, the corner of his mouth lifting.
‘With those eyes.’
‘Sorry. I’ll try to look at you without my eyes next time.’
For a while, all I can hear is our steady muffled footsteps, until a different sound joins the mix; the quiet pitter patter of rain, barely even a drizzle.
But the moment Stockwell Tube station comes into view, the heavens open with a roar, the long-brewing rain finally tumbling from the sky in sheets and breaking the suffocating heat. We scoot to stand under the station’s overhang with fellow late-night rain-avoiders and watch as people open up umbrellas and lift hoods or,in most cases, continue walking down the street unfazed.
‘How far do you live from here?’ Finn calls over the din of cars splashing along the road, their lights bouncing off the wet tarmac like neon signs.
‘A six-and-a-half-minute walk.’
‘Thank god, thought it might be seven.’
‘Well, I’m walking. My bed is calling.’
I step out into the downpour and immediately regret it, but it’s too late to go back. Within a minute, it’s soaked me through, every step accompanied by a squelchof my boots. A car comes dangerously close to driving through a puddle and coating me in dirty road water, but I manage to avoid it. Or rather, Finn pulls me out of the way, somehow more aware of me than I am. By the time we hit mine and Josie’s street, the rain’s slowed back down to a drizzle, and I realise that if I hadn’t been so impatient, I probably could’ve avoided getting drenched. I snort at the thought, and then I look at Finn and even more laughter bubbles out of me.
‘Sorry, did youdrown?’ I manage to squeeze out between splutters.
This is not the same ironed-shirted man who strode into the coffee shop with Julien and Rory that first evening. He puts his hands on his hips, glasses tucked in one fist in a futile attempt to keep them dry, rainwater dripping from his head to his shoulders, shirt slicked to his chest. He looks like he’s just emerged from the sewer. But the surlier his expression, the more I laugh, and eventually his face splits into a grin, his own laughter forcing itself out in sharp bursts.
‘Remember when I ranted about London’s unjust rainy reputation earlier?’ he says. ‘I fear I may have unlocked something.’
He shakes his head to dislodge some water and I notice the rain’s brought out the texture in his hair, curls collecting dropletslike dew in a forest.
‘Oh my fuckinggod,’ I say, leaning one arm against a garden wall to keep myself upright as the torrent of laughter rolls through me. ‘You look ridiculous.’
He feels around his torso for any piece of fabric that might be dry. Eventually he lifts his shirt to ineffectively dry his glasses on the waistband of his boxers, and my drunken eyes cling to the strip of skin it reveals. When he returns his glasses to his face he takes a step back to look me up and down. ‘I look ridiculous?I am the onewho looks ridiculous? I cannot wait for you to get to a mirror, you bedraggled little gremlin.’
‘Fuck off,’ I say, noting how my hair is plastered to my head, fringe devoid of any kind of volume, skirt entirely stuck to my legs as we start walking again. We make it to my building’s entrance and I turn to him. ‘I’m sorry you got drenched while you were trying to be nice walking me home. It was kind of you.’
‘Your standards for basic decency are extraordinarily low,’ he replies, swiping away a droplet making its way down my forehead to my eye, so fast I almost miss it. But I feel the contact long after he’s put his hand back in his pocket. Before I have the chance to decipher it, out of the corner of my eye I spot something.
‘Look,’ I say, pointing to the sky, where a red light flashes; the last flight of the day coming into Heathrow. ‘Shooting star?’
‘You’re learning,’ he replies, a smile pulling at his cheeks. ‘What are you gonna wish for?’
