Page 4 of Best Hex Ever
With a fair amount of speed, weaving between slow-walking tourists—Scott could not abide them when they strolled off the escalator at a snail’s pace—he made it to Waterloo, catching the fast train to Barnes Bridge. He could already see Eric carrying a pair of oars across the bankside as he walked over the footbridge to the boathouse.
Eric looked up and saw him, taking the time to rest the oars against a wall before giving him the finger. Scott looked down at his watch. Twenty-five minutes late. Not unforgivable.
“I’ll buy you a beer after” was the first thing he said to Eric. Apparently everyone was getting drinks today.
“You owe me at least two beers and some chips. I had to get the trestles out of the back cupboard, the very spider-infested cupboard, and you know how much I hate it in there.”
“Two beers, chips, and I’ll be the trestle chaperone for the rest of the month.”
Eric pretended to consider the deal.
“Done. Go get changed. We have some last-minute wedding prep to get done tonight, so I can’t stay too long.”
“Anything I can help with?” As the best man at Eric’s upcoming wedding, Scott wanted to be as helpful as possible. That was much easier now that he was actually living in the same country and city as Eric, instead of gallivanting across the world for other museums.
Scott and Eric had first met when they were staying at the same hotel in Iceland, both on their gap years. Someone had rung all the rooms at two in the morning to let them know that the northern lights could be seen, but only Scott and Eric had heeded the call. In their haste to see the lights, neither of them had bothered to put on all their layers.
They’d stood outside in the freezing cold, both stunned into silence by the ethereal beauty of it all—completely at peace. After that, they’d stayed in the hotel bar drinking hot cider to warm up, and before Scott knew it they’d been best friends for over a decade.
Over the past couple of years, since the breakup with Alice, their friendship had struggled, and Scott knew he was to blame. When a job offer to work on a collection of artifacts from Petra in Jordan had come up, Scott had taken the chance to flee. He’d left his entire life in London, left Eric, left his mums. It was as if all he’d cared about was getting as far away from his feelings as possible.
But now he was back, his heart somewhat healed, and Eric was about to get married. He hadn’t even met Immy until he’d moved back to London less than a year ago, though he knew from their first meeting that she was perfect for Eric.
His friend waved a hand, interrupting his thoughts. “You okay?”
“I’ll tell you about it in the boat.”
The boathouse was theirs to enjoy on Wednesday evenings. The other regulars tended to live locally, and would take their boats out at lunchtime, and the schools that used it for practice were normally done by four o’clock.
Scott and Eric hauled their double over their heads and carried it down to the river bank. The water that splashed them as they lowered the boat was ice-cold—Scott thanked god that he had remembered to wear an extra-thick pair of woolly socks in his Wellington boots.
They sank into their routine of setting off with quiet ease: feeding their sculling oars through the oarlocks, Scott holding the boat steady while Eric clambered into the bow seat, Eric doing the same for Scott in the stern position.
Scott reluctantly tugged off his wellies and folded them into the little hold area of the boat, strapping his feet into the boat shoes, not relishing the bite of cold he could feel even through his socks.
The low-hanging late-afternoon sun bathed their backs in warmth as they pushed off from the riverbank and made their way under the shadow of Barnes Bridge. A train rattled overhead and droplets of dank bridge water rained down on them.
Scott had rowed this route hundreds of times, and yet every time it was a different experience. The slightest change in weather could be felt on the water, the city around him constantly shifting. He loved the way his muscles fell into the rhythm of each stroke, and how his breathing synced with Eric’sas they feathered each oar into the water, heaving against the current. There was no space for his brain to worry; there was barely enough time to let his mind wander back to the barista from this morning, and her beautiful brown eyes.
The river exhaled around them, and soon they were past the other boathouses, past all the buildings and fancy Victorian mansions that lined the riverside. Soon, it was just trees painted in autumn shades of orange and deep pink, and the sunset reflecting on the water.
“You’re being weirdly quiet,” Eric said after a while.
“Sorry, I’m just distracted.”
“Work stuff?”
“I guess. I had some good news today—my exhibition might have that global tour I was telling you about. There’s still a ton to do to get it ready in time for a winter launch here but nothing I can’t handle.”
“So that’s not what’s distracting you then?”
“Honestly?” Scott admitted. “I met someone this morning.”
Eric let out a whistle. “I thought you’d sworn off dating?”
“That was the plan. But then I went into this café near the museum earlier, and there was this barista and, well, I can’t get her out of my head,” Scott said as they paused for a rest, letting their momentum carry them along.
“Did you get her number?”
