Page 6 of Knot Just A Fan

“Why?” I stuttered. Not why was he quitting his Guild job. Wanting to focus on his band if they were getting traction made sense. “Why are you trusting me so much when we’ve just met?” I couldn’t stop myself.

“I like an artist who knows their mind, and will stand up to defend what they want to do with it. I really believe that no one else should ever tell you what your art should look like, or what connections it should make. Only we should have that power. And I want to make sure you get to keep it.”

I left the meeting in a daze. I texted Cami and walked in circles out in the courtyard by the Guild’s small canteen. I twirled my light brown hair that had been dyed lime green at the time into a messy bun. Cami arrived breathless, took one look at me, shouted, “Shit, I forgot my phone!” and ran back to grab it. So I texted her my exact thoughts before I lost them.

I met someone who’s going to break my heart. But I have to know him first.

CHAPTER 3

Briella

NINE YEARS AGO

“Areyou ever going to confess you want to pin him against the wall and make passionate love on that janky sofa in the staff room?”

Cami was taking a break from her latest commission, a family portrait of eight Alphas and their (very busy and, I expected, exhausted) Omega, based in Cardiff. She’d come back on the train after sketching them in person then working from still shots she’d taken on a camera I’d loaned her.

“Yeah! I’ll just text him that right now, why don’t I?” I said, digging out my phone.

Cami snorted. “You’d never, that’s your problem.”

We were strolling along the canal just outside out building, getting a breather. I’d been hunched over my laptop sorting through shots for the last four hours on my designated edit day of the week.

After a year and a half of working with the Guild, we were well into a routine. I was scheduled for gigs on most Wednesdays through Saturdays, took Sunday and Monday to edit and shoot landscape photos in nature or urban walks, depending where I was. Tuesdays were my straight-chill days.

Cami and I both traveled constantly, so we grasped whatever time we got together with both hands. Sadly, we spent most of our time texting on trains to catch up. One of my prized digital possessions was a folder on my phone’s photo app titled “Cami’s Train Selfies.”

Lately, our catching up time seemed to consist of her indulging me in conversation about Grayson, while seemingly making little comments that indicated she was really over hearing about him, but loved me anyhow.

“Why text him? Aren’t you doing their gig tomorrow?”

“No, ugh. They cancelled it. Ronan’s caught the flu, and the others are exhausted so probably have it as well.”

Cami threw her black sleeved-arm out to stop me. There was a grey heron about 20 yards ahead on the path, neck bending in its s-shape as he eyed his lunch swimming in the canal.

“Oh, he’s a beauty,” I said softly, reaching for the camera on my shoulder just as a teenage boy came hurtling along the path. The heron made a disgruntled noise and took to the sky.

Cami gave a little groan. “Damn kid.”

“Eh, he’ll probably be back when we turn around,” I say.

We carried on, kicking up rust-colored leaves toward the canal-side coffee kiosk we liked to stop at for hot chocolates by the water. But today, something in me saidkeep going.

I didn’t know if the voice was my head, or my pent-up energy from being in the flat a record three days’ running, or something more sinister. I’d had a headache and needed the fresh air, and now my legs seemed to want to listen to the voice.

“How about we head to the park and back before stopping?” I suggested.

Cami shrugged, then bent to pick up a bright leaf of red, yellow, and green. It looked like something out of a storybook.

“This needs to be painted.” She tucked it in her tote. “Sure, let’s go further.”

Ten minutes past the coffee kiosk, more cyclists and walkers started to appear. It was pretty along here, especially in the autumn, but with two playgrounds nearby and more benches, it was a busy hangout. When I spied a dark head of hair seated on a bench, leaning forward with hands clasped over his knees, I knew that little voice had been intuition. Because I don’t believe in luck.

“Fuck! He’s there,” I hissed to Cami. She looked up at me then bobbed her head around the groups of families out with kids, people on rental bikes, and children feeding ducks.

“Where? I can only assume you’re talking about Mr. Co?—”

I shushed her and gestured toward the bench. I’d know the back of that head anywhere. I held up a finger to Cami and approached him. As I came around the side of the bench cautiously, so as not to startle him or interrupt if he was deep in thought, I was rewarded with an immediate smile.

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