Page 84 of Handle with Care
“I believe he is in, but he has appointments scheduled.”
“Right. Okay. Thanks. I’ll try again later.”
We hang up. I continue to stand staring at my dark phone, unconvinced she’s going to pass along the message because honestly, it sounds like a crank call. If I were her, I’d have some doubts on forwarding my message to the gallery director too.
Which is about when I decide that instead of going home or haunting the street outside of Will’s dark flat, it’s time to go to Cambridge.
I get myself to the station in record time, figuring out the route on my phone app as I go. Only when I’m on the train headed out of town sometime later do I sit and take a deep breath, watching London glide by my window. Tan and gray brick buildings line my view on the way through London, and I take stock of the colorful graffiti on brick buildings along the route between stations, eventually giving way from the sprawl of the heaving city to green, broad pastures and pale skies.
Naturally, I don’t tell Stephen where I’m going, because he’s sleeping right now, and also, he would tell me I’m out of my head for this guy. Which, really, is true.
I might not have any better luck going to Cambridge than I did going to his flat, and he might be really upset I’ve gone to this length to find him, but at least I can feel like I tried everything in trying to find Will. And he can tell me to go away to my face.
But—my heart twists—I want to tell him everything about how I feel. Which is just as terrifying as losing him for good. And returning, alone, to Canada.
Chapter Thirty-Four
By the middle of the afternoon, I’ve reached Cambridge’s bustling rail station, heaving with students and tourists. Once I’m outside, I remember the hectic car park I navigated with Will’s Land Rover to meet Gray. Except this time, I figure out where I am and where I need to go. It’s not that far, and after sitting on the train for a while, I could use a walk. On my way out of the station, I stop long enough to grab a snack, eating as I head into the town center.
Cambridge is busy with people, especially with lots of tourists as I get closer to the center, where the gallery’s located. The afternoon is hot. I’m still dressed up for work from the meeting with the director. And my messenger bag, laden with snacks, my work laptop, and books, is seriously heavy. Probably I should have taken the bus in, but I’m committed now to walking.
When I reach the center, I’m stunned by the colleges, especially King’s College, near the central Market Square. I get a little turned around, especially without Will to navigate this time, so I’m relying on my app. But paying too much attention to my map in my hand distracts from all the cyclists, and I nearly get struck by one.
“Watch where you’re going!” someone shouts over their shoulder.
The good news is that there’re no cars in the center at least, but lots of pedestrians. And, apparently, cyclists.
Amid the chaos, I find the gallery up Rose Crescent.
“Thank God,” I breathe in the heat, standing in the shade. It’s muggy. I check myself out using the camera on my phone, neatening my hair slightly and taking off my sunglasses, putting them on top of my head. At least I look peak professional. “Good enough.”
At last, I enter, feigning Will’s work confidence. I’m an extrovert. This is meant to be up my alley. Except a lot’s riding on this. And I’m nervous.
The gallery is beautiful, not large, but there are a few stunning abstract paintings hanging on the white walls, with pale maple floors. There’s a reception desk to the side of the entry, and I can see a couple of closed doors beyond.
And behind the desk is presumably the woman who answered the phone earlier.
“Hi,” I say brightly. “I’m Dylan Alexander here for Gray. I called this morning.”
She looks startled. “I didn’t expect you to turn up in person. I’m afraid he’s in a meeting, as I told you.”
“When is he finished?”
She peers at me, probably wondering why this guy can’t get the hint. “I don’t know. He didn’t give me the complete details of his schedule.”
“It’s important,” I try.
“Your art emergency.”
“Right, that.” I nod, giving her an entreating sort of look that usually works on people. I give her my best smile, which I’ve been told in the past is pretty great. Right up there on the charm scale with Will’s. “It’s a terrible art emergency.”
Which amazingly isn’t actually a pile of lies. Because I tried very hard to get myself fired this morning over the missing fashion exhibits, which I would say is at least an art-adjacent emergency.
“I’m afraid we don’t offer conservation or restoration services. If you insist, I can refer you to someone we work with on restorations.” She’s already handing over a business card.
I blink, taking the card for a conservator and looking at it in confusion. “Sorry?”
“For your art emergency?”
