“Easy,” he says, “Haydn’s Trumpet Concerto. It works so well with the rest of the orchestra, and it’s technically intense. It takes major trumpet chops. I always had this idea that I’d show I could play it in some solo performance, and they’d have the whole orchestra play it and give me the solo.”
“Wild and crazy fantasies over there.”
He kicks me under the table. “Stop your cheekiness right now.”
After we’re done eating, his phone buzzes on the table, and he steps outside to take the call.
Our waitress stops by the table with the check, and I hand her some cash.
“Oh, was something wrong with your food?” she asks, seeing that I’ve barely touched it.
I shake my head. “No, it was great. I ate before I came,” I say, though in actuality, I had a banana for breakfast and nothing until right now. “Could you bring me a box?”
Wasting food makes me feel uncomfortable. But eating food makes me uncomfortable. I fully plan to “forget” my box here. That way, the waitress will judge my forgetfulness, not my disregard for the hungry. A few minutes later, Pierce comes back in, visibly shaken. He’s clenching his fists as he approaches the table. The mood changes. He looks at the table, sighs.
“I should have told you, my friend here—the one we were supposed to stay with?—he’s a total flake. He told me we could stay, then just called to say he’s actually in Canterbury for the night with his mates. I gave him a fucking earful, but I don’t even think he cared. People are the worst.”
I place my hand on his, in an attempt to calm him.
Though I’m a bit freaked—I can’t miss my FaceTime call with Megan and Skye. Not again. It’s somehow already ten at night here, so I’ve got two and a half hours to be somewhere with Wi-Fi.
But we can figure it out. It will be fine.
I hope.
“Sorry your friend’s the worst. What are our options?”
“It’s too late notice to look for an Airbnb. We could get a hotel, but that’d be a couple hundred pounds this time of year. I don’t know about you, but I can’t swing that.”
I pretend to do the math in my head, but I know that would take about a third of my remaining funds, and I still have no source of income on the horizon.
“I don’t know. That’s a lot of money. You don’t know anyone else here?”
“Do you?”
I slap his arm. “Don’t get fresh with me.”
“Did you just slip into nineties lingo?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Sometimes my dad says things so often I think they’re phrases people still use today.”
“That’s wack.”
“We don’t have time for this,” I say, with a hard eye roll. “I hate to suggest this, but any way we can make it back to London by twelve thirty?”
He lets his head drop to the table. His muffled voice breaks through. “It’s our only choice, though, innit?”
I give the back of his head a scratch, because it feels right. It feels like what a boyfriend would do right now. Then I pull out my phone and try to find Wi-Fi. After a few unsuccessful attempts—why is your internet unlocked if you’re still going to ask for a damn password? answer me that, restaurants—I find one that connects. The signal’s weak, but I can tell it works when a couple of emails and texts come in.
I type out an email to Megan and Skye.
Hi guys,
Pierce (yes that guy) and I were going to FaceTime from Brighton (which must be the gayest city in the UK) but our lodging plans fell through, and we need to go back to London. Might be late.
Marty
I take a deep breath and slide my phone in my pocket. The panicking side of me is always there, looming in the shadows. And that side is telling me to worry. That the car will comically break down or we’ll get stuck in traffic and I’ll never make it. My brain races for backup plans, but there aren’t many to be found.
As Pierce walks us toward the car, he places a palm on the small of my back. I look to him, but his gaze remains forward. His confident stride throws me off. It’s like he refuses to acknowledge that our plans have changed, or that anything is up in the air. It also comforts me, and his calming presence tells me everything’s going to be fine.