Page 67 of When London Snow Falls

“How about lunch? Two o’clock? I could have a surprise.”

I perk up. “A Scottish kebab?”

“You’ll have turn up at mine to find out. Could be fish and chips. Bring a wee soundtrack. You’ve got a knack for them.”

I flush, pleased Ben thinks so. Confirmation, then, that he listened to the collection I’d made for him.

“Deal.”

“Bring an overnight bag when you come,”Ben instructs me with a cheeky grin.

“Oh, I’ll bring more than a bag.”

“Can’t wait to see you.”

“I can’t wait to see me too,” I quip back, grinning lazily at him.

“Haha, very funny.”

“I know. I’m a riot. Can’t wait to see you. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

We exchange good nights and I settle into bed.

It’s going to be brilliant to wake up with him again. Ben’s eased my nerves some about our first date. Heady talk with him about kebabs can do that to a man.

…

The next day on the beach, Carys and I take turns chasing each other. She’s bundled into a hat that Emily’s knit for her, a coat zipped to her chin, and bright red boots tracking tiny prints in gray sand before the waves wash them away.

It’s hard to imagine that one day she’ll no longer be a toddler. She’ll grow into a little girl, then a teenager, then a fab woman like Emily. One day, I’ll be old, and will she be proud of me? Or embarrassed?

Will I be alone? Will I have a partner who’ll be like her dad too? For a moment, I dare imagine it’s Ben, as seagulls reel and cry overhead while the sun breaks free from the clouds. An impossible thought.

I’m on Carys’s heels, holding her hands as she jumps and splashes us in the waves. She’s having a brilliant time. After a particularly big splash for a small person, I scoop her up in my arms as she squeals.

“Too much cold water for December,” I tell her cheerfully, shifting her in my arms as she slides an arm around my neck.

She whimpers a protest. “Later?”

“Probably not later,” I concede. “Because it will be dark. And the sun will be sleeping and so will you.”

“Tomorrow?” Carys entreats hopefully with big eyes.

I’m not sure how up she is on the concept of time. Her “tomorrow” could be in five minutes, five hours, or five days. Probably not five months, though, with the promise of warmer spring days pushing into summer.

“Tomorrow,” I agree. Tomorrow I can do, because I’m still here. But when she wants me to go play with her the next day, I’ll be gone. And it’s a terrible thought, twisting my stomach around in strange shapes. Leaving my little girl behind will be awful, even with the promise of Ben like his own change of seasons awaiting me in London. Getting something that I want always seems to mean leaving the people I love behind. A Charlie of divided loyalties, divided lives.

Chapter Thirty

I drive back to London in sleet and fog, grateful for the excellent tires on Ben’s van. Emily kept referring to it as the Posh Van, and now it’s stuck. Posh Van is safely returned to Ben’s home without incident—which is not even a flat, I realize now in the full light of day, but a proper house in central London. Wanting to keep things without incident, I ever so carefully back the van into the garage under the stairs. I put the keys through the mail slot after a long waffle by the front door over whether that’s the right thing to do, or if I should keep the keys until I see Ben.

There’s a brief moment when I’m tempted to go into the flat, but it feels too much like a violation of Ben’s privacy to go in alone. I feel bad enough about going into the garage alone without him or Molly, like I’m trespassing. After, I take my two suitcases and head for public transport back home to my room in Finsbury Park. I’m back home only long enough to drop off my suitcases and have a quick shower before I’m back on the tube again, guitar in hand for tonight’s rehearsal out in Stoke Newington. It’s only twenty minutes away by bus, which is nothing by London standards.

It’s nice to have a little time on my own in the city to help come back to myself, reacclimatize myself with London. After Wales, everything’s brighter, louder, and far more hectic. Headlights dazzle in the rain. Cars slosh on. Colors are spotlit and striking: the red of the bus, traffic lights turning green, reflective signs sharp in the dark.

At the rehearsal studios, the gang trickles in for our 6:00 p.m. session.

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