Page 14 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

No. Not going there.

Every time my mind went there, which was often, I scrubbed myself all the more vigorously. As though a shower could wash away the memory, even if it could wash away the sweat from the day, from—

Right. Toweling off, I struggle as I stand staring at the heap of clothes on the floor of my stockroom home. If I go downstairs in another set of clothes, Gemma will be suspicious. She’ll be suspicious why I showered. I mean, does she notice if I’ve showered? I don’t doubt I’ll get some commentary if I go back into the shop sopping wet.

I mean, it’s damned hot out there. Even for London. So I needed a shower in the middle of the day. Maybe she’ll buy it?

Probably not. She has a sixth sense.

So I dress in my slightly damp clothes and hope for the best when I go back downstairs. I’ll simply have to avoid her for the rest of the day.

…

It would be a lie that I walk in through the front door of Barnes Books with my head held high, and with Eli’s—or Blake Sinclair’s—confidence, like I own the joint. I do, but that gives me no strength today.

Instead, in my effort to avoid Gemma, I embrace hiding. I slink into the shop from the back stairs down to the pocket-sized kitchen. It’s generous to call it that, a nook fashioned into a makeshift kitchen, with a tiny sink and microwave and hotplate. Adjacent is my tiny office and overflow stockroom, partitioned off with a paisley green curtain. Even that looks wilted in the heat of the day.

I flip on the fan and park myself in front of it, both for the airflow and also in the hopes it will dry my hair enough just in case Gemma pays attention to me. Sitting down at my desk, I turn on the computer. Work in the office might also help me put some distance between me and what just happened this afternoon. There are a few emails: a special-order request, another email asking if there’s a certain book in stock. I get through them all too quickly.

I check my calendar and sigh. There’s yet another problem. In two weeks’ time, it’s my friend Ryan’s birthday. Which means a party. Which means a gift. If only there was an occasion gift for your ex’s new lover.

I mean, it’s not Ryan’s fault. Ryan’s lovely. Eli didn’t cheat on me. I didn’t cheat on him. Everyone’s perfectly agreeable. They look to be very well suited to each other. If only I could take the high road and move on, but I’m evidently not cut out for that.

I screw up my face. Ryan was my friend first. We met one day a few years back, when I blew a tire cycling home one night, going back to my old flat that I had with Eli. Ryan was also cycling home, living not far from me. At least he happened to be a prepared cyclist. He helped me with my bike and we ended up going for a pint, Eli joining us. That was before the accident.

Chewing my lip, I idly browse online for gifts. Getting a book would be a cop-out. I need to get something that’s artfully casual, not like I’m still obsessing over Eli.

I need something personal for Ryan, but not too personal. Something that Ryan would like. Something not stupid. A gift card is another cop-out. A card seems both too sincere and not enough. Like I forgot the gift.

The best I can do with my online searches is find advice on what not to buy your exes. Apparently, jewelry is out. Luckily, I’m not wanting a ring for Ryan. Or for Eli. No flowers. A T-shirt? Clothes are hard.

At least I still have two weeks to figure this out.

While I look for both appropriate and inappropriate gifts for Ryan, a new email chimes.

My inbox has a fresh message from one of the major chains about their July sale. The problem is I haven’t signed up to any mailing lists, so someone has done this on my behalf. Probably somebody’s sick corporate joke from one of the mega shops down the street.

Scowling, I hit delete.

Like I can afford to have a sale to compete. Shit. Another thing to stress about. If they’re having one, customers will expect it from me too.

Instead of a brilliant retail comeback, I do something even more daft. I search for Blake Sinclair. Worse, it’s an image search. And I gawp at the screen full of Blake Sinclairs beaming into the camera lens. Maybe he’s obscure, but there’s definitely proof of life out there.

Against my better judgment, I click on one of the top results: Instagram.

The top picture is of a shirtless Blake taking a selfie on a sunny balcony. The man’s fit. In the American sense. And the British sense too, I suppose: he’s well-toned and gorgeous and fuck, there went my resolve not to look.

Apparently, I’m doomed. If only I could give Ryan my brain as a gift. He might make better use of it. Oh well.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, along with the filming notice. I crumple the paper, dropping it on the desk. It’s a text from Mum, but I can’t face her quite yet.

Not when I can still taste Blake on my lips. Even post-shower.

I pop into the front of the shop where Gemma’s holding things down without any signs of the horsemen of the apocalypse having arrived for sales bargains—yet. She looks at me from the front display table where she’s neatening up stacks of books.

Before she has a quip about why I’m freshly showered in the middle of the afternoon, I approach, keys in hand. “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” I manage, handing her the keys. “I’m not feeling well.”

Which is a fair and true point. I have a serious case of Blake Sinclair to shake.

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