“This is it,” he says, reaching for a large brass handle on an inconspicuous wooden door.
The dark green paint is old and weathered, and a sign above says it was established over a hundred years ago.
It’s perfect.
“A table for two,” Dylan requests, holding me close while the man who greeted us leads us to a table in the back.
“What’s good?” I ask, picking up the menu.
“Everything, but you definitely can’t go wrong with the bangers and mash.”
So, that’s what we order and two pints of ale. We eat over candle light as conversation flows easily, as it always does.
“Tell me about college,” I prompt. He’s told me some, but I find myself wanting to know everything about him, all the small details.
“I’ve been there too long already,” he laughs, sitting back casually in the booth, looking like someone out of a fashion magazine. So effortless and easy. He’s a breath of fresh air, a spring day, and my favorite song all rolled into one. “I should’ve graduated last year, but I couldn’t decide on a major, plus if I’m honest, I’ve been stalling, looking for some kind of sign to lead me in the right direction.”
“Which is what brought you to London?” I remember him talking briefly about this before, but I want to know more.
“Yes, and the fact that I’d been stationary for too long and needed to stretch my legs. I’m a bit of a wanderer,” he laughs, rubbing his hand over his jaw and looking down at the table, like that confession embarrasses him.
“I think we all need some wanderlust in our lives,” I tell him, because that’s one of the first things I loved about him. It’s definitely not something to be ashamed about.
“My parents think a little differently. My mom says she’s just worried I’ll never settle down or be happy. I think she’s panicked she won’t get her quota of grandkids.”
I laugh, thinking his mom sounds familiar. “I think all moms worry about that,” I assure him. “I’m sure she just wants you happy.”
“Yeah, I think deep down I know that, but I also don’t want to disappoint them.”
I pause for a second, wondering how the man sitting across from me could ever be a disappointment. “You just have to be Dylan,” I tell him, honestly. “That will always be good enough.”
He takes my hand and kisses the top of it sweetly, such an old-fashioned thing to do and it makes butterflies explode through me.
We sit and we occupy the booth for over three hours. Our waiter, an older gentleman, continuously refers to us as “love birds”. Neither of us corrects him. We just smile and go back to whatever it is we were talking about.
Dylan tells me more about Northwestern and how he’s decided to go ahead and take the remaining classes to get his business degree. His dad owns a marketing firm in Chicago, and he knows that he can go back there and work for him if he needs to. One of these days, he’d like to go back and get his master’s, or perhaps his law degree. I like the way Dylan goes with the flow. He doesn’t take life too seriously, yet he’s still responsible and ambitious. I mean, come on, you can’t graduate from Northwestern and not be. He’s intelligent but unpretentious. He’s bigger than life but understated. And even though he’s a true free spirit, there’s still a level-headed thinker in there.
He’s such a good balance. A good person.
Dylan overheard my phone call this morning with Noah, so that brought on a conversation about him… what he likes, how he’s handling being a kid with divorced parents. It’s nice that Dylan doesn’t seem freaked out by any of it … the divorce or the kid. He casually mentions meeting him, and I’m not sure what the look on my face is like, but he must see something that makes him change the subject, while I’m left trying to picture how that would go. What would it be like for Noah to meet Dylan? Would they get along?
I shake my head, clearing those thoughts. I can’t let myself go there.
Dylan and I go for the bill at the same time, but he gently takes it from me.
“This is a date. I’m paying,” he insists, and I can’t refuse.
We venture back out into the night. The faint melody of brass instruments fills the air, and Dylan pulls me by my hand down the street until it’s closer and louder. When we reach the next intersection, I can see three older gentlemen sitting on the opposite corner, blowing into their trumpets and saxophones. The melody is familiar, and Dylan begins to hum along, taking me by the hand and pulling me into his chest.
“Dance with me.”
“Here?” I ask, looking around at the mostly deserted street.
“Yes.”
He holds me close, and we begin moving to the music. I can hear the light rhythm of his heart and feel the firmness of his chest as I rest my head there, engulfed in his presence, but also completely present in the moment.
“You’re ruining me.” The words leave my lips just as a tear slips out of the corner of my eye.
“How?”
“No other man will ever live up to this.” I’m only telling the truth, what I’m feeling in my heart. I guess I’m not just blatantly truthful when I wake up in the morning.
“That’s what I’m hoping for.” Suddenly, the world feels cruel and the what-ifs take over my mind.
What if he were older?
What if I were younger?
What if we lived closer?
What if, what if, what if …
I take a deep breath, immersing myself in Dylan, and push all of it away, if only for a night.
Carpe diem and all that jazz.
The ride to the airport feels entirely too short. I’ve been near tears since last night. Dylan and I haven’t discussed my departure outside of the facts—when and where. Even last night, as we lay there in the dark, neither of us said a word.
As the taxi pulls up in front of the departures gate, Dylan hops out and waits for the driver to get my bags.
“We can say goodbye here if you want,” I tell him, putting my brave face on and smiling up at him.
“No. You still have three hours before your flight leaves. I’ll stay until you have to go through security.”
“Okay.” I know the longer we prolong the inevitable, the harder it’s going to be. I don’t want to say goodbye. I can’t. I don’t really know what I want, but I do know I want to see Dylan again.
With as many conversations as we’ve had, we’ve never talked about what happens when we leave London. Sure, we’ve talked about what we’re doing when we get back, but not what we are doing. Me and him.
Can there be a me and him?
I walk up to the ticket counter and wait in line to check my luggage and get my boarding pass. Every minute or so, I look over my shoulder to make sure Dylan is still there. Just this little bit of distance has me on edge, and I kick myself for allowing these feelings to creep up on me like this. I knew I’d be going home. I knew this was just a holiday. I knew we would say goodbye and that this would always just be a fond memory.
“How many bags, miss?” The attendant checks over my passport and begins printing out my documents.
“Just two,” I reply, emotions already clogging my throat.
“Did you have a nice holiday?”
“The best.” I smile, even though I feel like crying, but the words are true.
“We hope you’ll be back to see us again soon.” She smiles and slides my tickets over to me, taking my bags and placing them on the belt. This is it. I’m going home. Leaving London and Dylan. I force back the tears that are threatening to fall and hurry back to where he’s standing.
We walk to the security line, and it’s long. I know I need to go. The last thing I need is to miss my flight. Actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
“Hey.” His finger tips my chin up. “What are you thinking about?”
“I probably should go,” I force out. “This line is really long. It’ll probably take me an hour to get through it.” More than anything, I feel myself unraveling and I d
on’t want Dylan to witness my breakdown. I’ll need a few minutes to pull myself together before I get on a plane full of strangers for the next ten hours. Maybe a drink.
“Yeah.”
“I guess this is goodbye.” I barely make it into his arms before my face breaks. I don’t want him to see me cry. I feel weak and vulnerable.
Dylan’s arms encase me, and he holds me so tight I feel like I can’t breathe. “Don’t hold me like you’re never going to see me again,” I tell him, pressed against his chest and wishing he’d never have to let go.
“Then don’t talk like this is goodbye,” he counters.
“This isn’t goodbye,” I retract, taking back what I said. I don’t know how I know, but I do. In this moment, staring up into his beautiful green eyes, I know that what we have isn’t just a holiday romance. It’s real, and there’s a chance we can make this work outside of London. It might not be easy or conventional, but nothing worth having is ever easy. And who needs convention?
“Until I see you again,” he says, smiling down at me, his arms still holding me tightly.
“Until I see you again,” I agree.
He nods, twisting his lips into a smirk. “It’s not going to be the same without you. These next few days are going to be hell, but just know that this has been the best three weeks of my life… best holiday ever.” The unshed tears in his green eyes make them impossibly more intense, more beautiful.
“I couldn’t have dreamed of a better one.” I smile up at him, trying to memorize everything about him. “I wish every holiday could be with you.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for.”
A clinical and ambitious surgeon destined to become one of his generation’s best doctors.
An intuitive and compassionate practitioner determined to improve the lives of her patients.
He repairs broken bodies. She heals broken souls.
Neurosurgery is his soul mate. Can she be content with being his mistress?
Everleigh first noticed him in the hospital cafeteria.
She was prone to people watching and the area, although clinical and uninspired, was not as dull as it sounded. During her residency, she’d witnessed many interactions in this unassuming room. It was a place where doctors, nurses, patients and their visiting relatives tended to let their guard down.
He caught Everleigh’s attention one afternoon by sitting down to an empty table. He wore scrubs and a white coat, just as she did. She knew the hospital and its staff well. There was no doubt he was new, so it wasn’t surprising when he sat by himself on his first day. As the days progressed, however, the scene repeated itself. He always sat at the same table near a window that offered a panoramic view of the city beyond the hospital. He always chose the same seat, and he always carried a book.
Over time, the man began to take up more real estate in Everleigh’s brain. Then one day, she sensed him standing just behind her in the cafeteria line. She already knew what he’d select to eat. While she was willing to try the daily specials, he stuck to the same four items. Everleigh was standing close to one such item now. Without thinking, she plucked a Granny Smith apple from the white ceramic bowl resting in front of her. She turned and set the piece of fruit on his tray.
He was tall and broad with thick, dark blond hair. She estimated his age to be a smidge beyond thirty. Above average looks, accompanied by a mysterious nature.
He looked down at the apple now sitting on his tray and then, very slowly, brought his eyes to hers. She watched his heavy eyebrows as they creased into a frown.
“Why did you give me that?” His voice was deep and smooth. Not angry. Not curious. Just confused.
“You have one every day,” she answered. “You’re a creature of habit. Although you’re running about ten minutes early today.”
“Is that so?” Everleigh had to hand it to him. If he was flattered in any way by the attention, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.
“Yes. I’m usually sitting down and eating by the time you get here.”
He blinked and then set his mouth into a hard line. “Excuse me.”
He cut around Everleigh without another word. His abrupt departure from the conversation should have pissed her off. But then again, if the tables had been turned, she would’ve likely accused him of stalking her. She decided to let him off the hook.
She gathered the rest of her lunch and took a seat at a table in plain view of his. In between bites, she watched him as he ate and read. He looked as if he was having trouble concentrating, until he looked up from his book and methodically searched the room, one table at a time.
Everleigh already knew he was trying to locate her, and when he did she was prepared. She smiled and waved. He stared back at her. His face remained somber, but his eyes were not impassive. She couldn’t quite see the color of his eyes and couldn’t recall it. She replayed their brief exchange from a few minutes before, but realized she hadn’t taken the time to memorize that particular detail. The two continued to stare at one another across the cafeteria until he stirred in his seat and resumed his reading.
She glanced at his book. He didn’t study like so many of their colleagues did. He read novels. For recreation. He was not consumed with cramming medical knowledge into his head at every opportunity. He was confident in his profession.
“This is ridiculous,” she thought. “We both work here. Why should he continue to sit alone?”
Everleigh rose and discarded her tray and garbage. There was still enough time for a Coke. She purchased a bottle and then carried it to his table. She drew his immediate attention. He waited for her to speak, staring at Everleigh with something akin to annoyed bewilderment.
“May I sit down?” She pointed to the chair his foot was resting on.
He considered her request in silence and then pushed on the chair so that it slid in her direction, his foot dropping to the floor in the process. He straightened up in his own seat as she took hers. He returned to his reading while she opened her bottle of soda. He was trying to pick up his story where he’d left off but her proximity, and her choice of beverage, distracted him.
He pointed to her Coke. “Don’t you know what that’ll do to your teeth?”
“You a dental student?” she ventured.
“No.”
She grinned, and took an exaggerated pull from her bottle. The intense carbonation was a welcome rush to her system. She swallowed and pointed to his novel.
“You like to read.”
He nodded. “Whenever I get a few minutes for a break.” He stared at her pointedly and it reminded her to pinpoint his eye color.
“Your eyes are hazel. More brown than green.”
His confusion returned. “Yeah …”
“I once read that patterns in the iris indicate certain personality traits.”
“Are you coming on to me?”
Everleigh ignored his question. “People with hazel eyes are independent. Witty. Sensual.” She arched a playful brow and watched as a mere hint of amusement took hold of his handsome face.
“Anything else?” he inquired.
She nodded. “They’re also restless, short tempered, and narcissistic.”
His amusement disappeared. Everleigh pointed toward his book once more.
“You change books a lot. You either read fast or get bored very quickly.”
He responded without any trace of humor. “I read one book every ten days.”
The revelation struck her as funny, but she held her composure because it was the smallest bit of progress with her new acquaintance.
“What if your book is a thousand pages?” she asked him.
“They rarely are.”
“Ah. But they have been. What do you do then?”
“I read a hundred pages a day, for ten days.”
Everleigh processed the equation he’d just given her.
“What if your book is only a hundred pages? Do you read only ten pages a day?”
“Exactly
.”
“Why?”
“So I can read three books a month,” he mumbled.
“You read three books a month? Every month? For fun?”
“Yes.” His patience was waning.
“Why not four books? There are four weeks in a month.”
He sighed deeply, but answered her once again. “I’d prefer to read six, but I have to work and study, too.”
Everleigh nodded in contemplation. Then she stood up and placed the chair so that he could resume his favorite position. She waited to speak until he did just that. “I should let you go. Don’t want to mess up your reading schedule.”
He grunted and lifted his book back up to its usual place.
“I’m Everleigh, by the way.”
At this, he looked up at her again, this time with an expression made up more of surprise than irritation.
“There’s a club with that name in Toronto,” he told her.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Its design was inspired by the Everleigh Brothel in Chicago.”
She smirked, unfazed by his remark. “And you know this because?”
His beaming smile transformed his entire face and weakened Everleigh’s knees in the process. She wasn’t susceptible to absent-mindedness or distraction, but she didn’t notice when he didn’t answer her question.
“I’m Grant.”
“Nice to meet you, Grant.” Everleigh waved and turned away from him without glancing back.
Grant’s eyes took in her retreating figure until she moved out of sight.
Grant was an intelligent man, and there was no doubt he was also a natural born doctor. Nothing he’d encountered in his chosen field of medicine unnerved him. Over the past decade, he had taken his considerable academic knowledge and his strong, steady hands and had become a gifted surgeon.
Well on his way to achieving his ultimate goal, Grant’s obsession in life was performing spinal surgery and he had every intention of becoming one of his generation’s best neurosurgeons. He didn’t want to simply excel in his specialty. He was determined to be innovative. He wanted to build a legacy.
What the Heart Wants: An Opposites Attract Anthology Page 12
