Page 72 of Handle with Care
Still hurt after the earlier awkwardness in the morning, I check my phone, but there are no messages from him. And I’m too confused to message either. My phone remains dark.
Shit.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The next day, I’m somewhere out past Epsom, doing the various collections drop-offs from the last show, making the south of London deliveries with an art transporter. Today, we have several boxes and crates of items to return. We listen to the radio, neither one of us up for conversation, which suits my mood on the gray August day with its low cloud.
We then go on to Haywards Heath, then finally end up down in Brighton, on the south coast. It’s our last drop at 4:00 p.m. after a full day of deliveries. With extra care, I take all the paperwork with me, safe in a folder in my backpack. Everything went smoothly and without incident. And we part ways in Brighton, with my plan to catch the train or coach back to London later so I can look around Brighton for a little while since I’m here and I’ve never been before. Plus, I don’t have to rush back tonight since tomorrow’s a night where I work late, but right now, I have some time.
When we finish up our deliveries, it’s drizzly and on the cooler side, but I don’t mind. My mood lifts a little at being in one of the UK’s queer hotspots that I’ve always wanted to visit. Except I wish Will were here to share this with me. I gulp at the realization.
Gray’s probably right. This feeling means more than casual dating at this point. I’m only kidding myself that it’s not. Obviously, Will’s been telling me for a while that our being together, what’s going on between us over the last few weeks, means a lot to him. Something I find the courage to acknowledge to myself is something that very much looks like the start of a relationship. Except a relationship with a communication breakdown when we only have had a limited amount of time together. And a relationship with a limited lifespan.
I rub my face, caught out in the mist, as I wander through the Lanes and its shops. Eventually, I get down to the pebbly beach to walk along the seaside path, headed for the wooden pier as my destination. For extra measure, I take a couple of selfies out there on the pier, with the flamboyant signs that say Brighton Palace Pier. I text one to Stephen. And the other goes to Will, along with a message.
Hope you’re having a good day. Thinking of you x
Nothing comes for a long while. Not until I’m holed up in a pub to have a pint before I figure out how to take the bus to the station and back to London.
I searched everywhere but no luck today. Working late tonight.
I swallow hard. Well, this is not looking promising for us. Either on the Vivienne Westwood front or for our fledgling relationship vibes.
Miss you
Nothing comes for a long time. I’m about to give up on him when a message lights up my phone.
Miss you too. Sorry for snapping at you yesterday. I’m very stressed out.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and sit back in my chair at the old pub table.
I definitely don’t want to fight with you. It doesn’t feel good
We have a very serious problem.
I groan. Like I need the reminder of our impending doom.
There’s only so long before Lily will want to set up the exhibits as the crew paints the gallery and sets up the exhibition displays that they’ve been fabricating off-site to her specifications. We’re supremely fucked at this point. The museum gods have to show mercy on us.
But then, what if the very serious problem Will mentions in his text isn’t just the exhibit problem—what if it’s about what’s going on between us too? Resigned, I sip at my drink and work on my chips.
We’ll figure things out.
I don’t know if we can.
Will’s reply is prompt this time.
And leaves me feeling worse as I think through the last few days and earlier. We went out to get the exhibit with other exhibits that day. Obviously, the transfer receipt shows Will signed for the Westwood exhibits.
But then a terrible thought occurs to me. Or a terrible series of thoughts, which comes out of some anxious part of my mind. Will’s stress is contagious.
Such as wondering if someone’s actually stolen the exhibits. Even so, it doesn’t explain the missing section in the spreadsheet. I’m so careful about updating it. We both are. We’ve got the routine down. It’s true we handled several collections that day, but we do similar things most days.
What if it’s an inside job?
Only an insider would know where the collections were or even what the collections are—and it would have to be someone on the Curatorial team. It’s a small team, though. Or possibly Security, because they’re the only other people with access to the collections areas.
An even worse unwanted thought comes: what if Will’s behind the Vivienne Westwood items going missing?
