In all, the flight was good. I have only one complaint, and it relates to the person sitting in front of me, a person pushed their seat back to recline, which took away a good six inches of space from me. Space I couldn’t really afford to lose. It’s rude. I wish they didn’t even have that feature. So, if you’re listening out there, please think of those behind you the next time you decide to recline. Please be kind, don’t recline. Catchy, right?
When it’s my turn to exit, I grab my small carry-on and make my way to baggage claim. I brought a smallish suitcase, but I must have packed a lot of heavy things, because it weighed almost fifty pounds. If I buy any souvenirs, it’ll be over the limit on the way back. I’ll have to figure that out later. Right now, I just want to get my bag and hop into a taxi. I’ve got Cooke’s address memorized, sort of like Dory had the dentist’s office memorized inFinding Nemo. “35 Haliburton Road, Twickenham, TW1 1NZ. 35 Haliburton Road, Twickenham, TW1 1NZ.” See? Memorized.
Outside, I find a long row of taxis, but they aren’t like the yellow ones you see in the US. No, these are mostly black, and they look old, like from the 1940s, even though they’re new. I guess you could call them retro.
When I get into the line of people waiting for a taxi, I bite my lip and run my tongue over my teeth. I feel gross. I should have stopped in the restroom to brush my teeth and clean up a little bit. I feel airplane cooties all over me. But there’s no time.
Sliding into the taxi when it’s my turn, I bite my lip again, worrying about how far away Cooke lives and how much this is going to cost. “35 Haliburton Road, Twickenham,” I say to the driver. I attempt to sound assured, like I know where I’m going. I’m not sure I’m convincing, but only time will tell.
As the car moves along, I stare out the window. The area around the airport is all hustle and bustle, but it doesn’t take long until we’re driving through a more residential area. It’s almost provincial, with quaint brick homes and a few with thatched roofs. I love it.
In less than thirty minutes, the taxi has stopped in front of a two-story brick home. “There you are, miss.”
I blink at the driver, then back at the house. This isn’t what I expected. I assumed he’d live in some sleek, modern building with a doorman or something. He’s famous here, yet he lives in a somewhat modest home. Granted, it’s alargemodest home.
“That’ll be twenty-six quid, miss.”
I turn to the driver. “Oh, right.” I pull out my wallet and count out thirty British pounds. Luckily, Tayler reminded me to get some currency from the bank before I left Iowa. Handing the money over the seat, I open the door and slide out as the driver jumps out to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk. “Thank you,” I say with a smile.
“Good day, miss,” he says with a little bow.
I smile, then turn to face the house. I’m not sure what to do now. I was so frantic to get packed, email my professors, get currency, find my passport, and explain to my parents about my impromptu trip without telling them too much that I didn’t consider what’d I do once I got here. I mean, what if he hates me? What if he takes one look at me and slams the door in my face? Or hell, what if he’s not here? He could be anywhere, and since he never replied to my text, who knows what his reaction’s going to be?
“Only one way to find out.”
Pushing my shoulders back, I grab my wheeled suitcase, hitch my other bag over my shoulder, and march toward the door. “Here I go,” I murmur.
Passing through an adorable metal gate, I step onto a brick walkway right up to the door. I scoff. “You’d think he’d have security.”
Then it hits me. What if this isn’t even his house? What if he just gave me some bogus address because he really did think I was a stalker?
I roll my eyes. Of course he didn’t give me a bogus address. I sent him the Iowa State rugby tee and he got it. “Duh.”
Talking to myself is not wise at this juncture. I look sort of crazy as it is, with my hair like a rat’s nest on top of my head and wrinkled clothes as a bonus. “Why didn’t I tell him I was coming?” I groan.
Because you were afraid he was going to tell you not to come.Yeah, that’s why.
“Just do it,” I say determinedly.
So I do. I step up to the door, raise my hand, and grasp the brass knocker tapping it against the door three times—tap, tap, tap. I let my arm rest at my side and wait. Leaning in, I attempt to listen for footsteps, anything. I hear nothing, so I repeat the knock—tap, tap, tap. When I hear nothing again, I’m tempted to bend down and push the mail slot open to yell through it. Something like “Hello? Does Cooke Thompson live here?” But then I decide against it.
There are two glass panes on either side of the knocker, but they aren’t clear. They’re more like stained glass with lilies or irises or something.
I chew on my lip, trying to decide what I should do next. I could walk down the road to see if I could catch another taxi, but where would I go? I could try texting Cooke or maybe try to FaceChat him. But first, I’ll try knocking one more time.
I raise my hand and blink because I see a doorbell on the right side of the door, hiding in some ivy. Instead of knocking, I press on the button and hear a pretty chiming sound coming from inside the house. I do what I did before, leaning in until my ear is next to the door and listening for movement. I smile because this time, I hear something, and that something is getting louder the closer it gets to the door. I still don’t know if Cooke lives here, but it’s something.
As the door begins to open, I open my mouth, prepared to explain who I’m looking for, when I see him. Cooke Thompson. The first thing I see is the crutch at his side and the long cast that runs from his foot up to his knee. That’s not the part that makes me pause, though. It’s the other thing on top of the cast. It reminds me of a metal armature used in sculptures. An armature is an internal support, only this one is on the outside. I want to bend down and look more closely at it, because from here, it looks as though there are thin metal rods going into his leg. Into. His. Leg.
I quickly let my eyes move up his body. He’s wearing shorts and a loose tee that appears to have some stains on the front. When I finally see his face, I’m speechless. He’s got an almost full, scruffy beard, but that’s not terrible. It’s the rest of him that looks, well, like utter shit. Worse than me after flying for sixteen hours.
“Cooke?” I ask softly.
“Quinn?” His voice sounds hoarse. “You’re here?”
“I am. I’m sorry I didn’t know about your injury, I—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence because he’s got me wrapped up in his arms. I hear the clatter of something metal hitting the ground and realize it’s his crutch. He’s holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. That’s okay. I don’t need air right now. Not only that, I’m positive he’s crying.
