Page 85 of Handle with Care
“It’s, um, a different kind.” I lift my head to look at her.
She narrows her eyes ever so slightly. “What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Fashion related, actually.” I try the charming grin. “I’m from the London Art & Design Museum.”
If they haven’t fired me, that is.
“I’m here on business.” It’s a very convincing lie, I think.
She sighs. “He finishes after 4:00 p.m. or 4:30 p.m. You can try returning then.”
“Great. I’ll be back.”
Judging by her expression, that’s the worst sort of news she’s heard this afternoon. Meanwhile, a couple of tourists who are in the gallery come over.
“Excuse me,” I say to the receptionist. “Thank you for your help.”
And I slip outside to the shelter of a café nearby to wait till 4:00 p.m.
I pull out the big museum practices book that Will read cover to cover, noticing the sticky notes throughout. I flip to one of them. I see he has written careful notes throughout about the text. It’s totally like him to not want to mark up the book.
And then I realize he’s put notes in like a journal entry. About what we did each day. Where we went. One says:Dylan’s busyupdating the spreadsheet, and I’m meant to be working, but all I see is him. Another sticky note reads:Dylan had me take the tube with him today for pickups. It’s easy to say yes to him when it would be a hard no for anyone else. And I didn’t fall over and it was totally fine.
Like a diary of the summer together.
It’s everything I can do to keep it together in the café, goose bumps covering my arms as I carefully turn to another page. He has incredible little sketches on sticky notes on the pages: me, him, even his McLaren that first day splashing me. His drawings are amazing. There’s another sketch where we sleep together in a too-small bed, captionedCumbria. And the smallest, tiniest heart beside the word.
“Will…” I can’t help but whisper, shaking my head as I stare down at the book open flat on the table. Beside me, at the next table, two women around my age glance over.
My heart might burst. Like this is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. No wonder he was struggling with me leaving.
The truth is, I don’t want to leave him either. He’s everything to me.
My head’s somewhere up in the clouds by the time I remember I’m supposed to be keeping track of time in the hopes of catching Gray. I make my way back up the cobblestone lane towards the gallery.
Then I lurk a little further down Rose Crescent from the gallery’s glass windows to attempt to be not too obvious. Judging by the look of the picturesque lane, I doubt very much there’s a back exit. So he’s got to come out sooner or later, I reason.
I find a shady spot between shop windows to lean against the cool stone wall between lush planters that brim with flowers. And I wait.
At about 4:30 p.m., I see Gray leave the gallery, and I perk up instantly. I can see him looking around, presumably for me, and I flag him down, hurrying over.
“Gray! Over here.”
Gray turns and smiles like he’s actually happy to see me. Though there’s a slightly stressed undercurrent in his body language, something in his posture. He adjusts his messenger bag over his shoulder.
“Dylan. I received a message that you had called, but I didn’t have your number. And then Linnea told me that you had stopped by the gallery in person. I hoped you hadn’t disappeared back to London quite yet.”
“Not at all. I wanted to keep out of the way and not interfere with your business more than I have already today.” I give him a wry smile. “Sorry. I think your receptionist hates me.”
“I don’t think she hates you.” Gray considers me, now with a slight frown. The breeze ruffles his blond hair. “Aren’t you meant to be at work today? I must admit I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Funny story…” I cough, shrugging expansively, gesturing with my arms. At what, I’m not sure exactly. “I’m not there. Uh, day off.”
“Is the show installation over?”
“Yeah. Last-minute things, you know.” If anyone would know about last-minute prep before an exhibition opens, it’s Gray. Even if his gallery is much more compact than the museum and its warren of offices and galleries.
“I heard you had an art emergency.” His mouth twitches, his eyes hinting at humor.
