Page 90 of When London Snow Falls

“I am angry. I’m hurt. I thought I mattered to you—”

“Ofcourseyou matter to me!”

“Then what the hell was that in there?” I burst, my own tears mixing with the rain. It’s so cold that I’m beyond shivering at this point, even with the stint at the pub to attempt to warm up.

“It was nothing! Just Max being Max. Dramatic. He’s not you, Charlie.”

I stand there, shaking my head. “Look. I see why you’d want him. I mean, fuck. He’s a legend. Hot. And I’m nobody, just fucked-up Charlie.”

“That’s not it at all! I mean, why wouldyouwantme? I’m not clever like you, with your uni and your books. Just a man with a guitar who can pull the odd pint. And sometimes too much swagger that gets me in trouble.”

I laugh and cry. “See? Except for the run-ins with trouble, we’re opposites. Plus, I have Carys to worry about. She’s everything, you know. I have to work and go to uni to take care of her and Emily and do right by them. And what the hell am I doing getting on a train on a whim? It’s exactly this sort of thing that had me getting shitfaced not that long ago—”

“I love that you came up. It’s brilliant. I’m just so sorry that Max—that it’s just not what it looks like.”

“What is it, then? What?” I stare at him, defiant. “Like I imagined all of the flowers and that look on his face when he looked at you?”

“That’s all him! Not me. Please believe me. I didn’t know he would do that.”

“But you didn’t tell me about him.”

We’re both crying, out here in the January wind and bracing chill.

“I didn’t talk to you about Max because that’s in the past. I just want you, Charlie.”

And I surprise us both when I’m able to speak again.

“That’s not true it’s in the past. He’s headlining with you tonight. And whatever he’s doing, he’s fucking with your head. And mine. Whether you’ve told him about me or not.” I take a long pause to steady myself. “Sometimes…sometimes wanting someone isn’t enough. Words just aren’t enough, Ben. No matter how pretty. No matter how much I like hearing them. It doesn’t mean anything, does it?”

“It means everything. You mean everything.” Hurt is plain across Ben’s face. “Don’t you see?”

“I guess I don’t. I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.” My voice breaks on the last word.

Don’t look at him. Whatever you do, don’t look at him.

Shaking, I turn. It takes everything I have to keep from going back to him, to the man I’m wild for, left slump-shouldered in the rain. And I make myself walk, one step after another. I turn off my phone.

It’s late, but the coaches run all night from the station. And it’s a miserable trip alone back to London.

Chapter Forty-Four

At work on Monday, I’m extra grumpy. Even Jasmine gives me a wide berth. Lars gives me the side-eye. Everything’s terrible. The rain is terrible. The over-the-top orders are terrible. My uni assignments are terrible. And the most terrible thing is the ache where Ben should be, left like a wound in my life.

I hate it.

Part of me can believe that it wasn’t Ben pulling the Saturday night drama in Liverpool. Or at least part of me wants to blame it exclusively on one Maxim St. Pierre, suave musician and heartbreaker. Naturally, I spent Sunday torturing myself with endless internet searches.

It escalated something like this:

Maximus St. Pierre

Maximus St. Pierre guitar

Maximus St. Pierre boyfriend

Maximus St. Pierre Ben Campbell

Maximus St. Pierre Ben Campbell breakup

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