I sank down on the edge of my bed, Isha’s every word slamming into me like a freight train. I’d silenced his calls and deleted other messages he’d sent to my phone without reading them, but I’d left WhatsApp alone, as if I’d planned on hoarding heartbreak.
Drama queen.
Truth. But I couldn’t hide from Isha’s pain. Hurt that I’d caused him by shutting him down, and then ghosting him from my life. I’d done it to protect us both from an imagined clusterfuck. Likely, but not certain. But perhaps all I’d achieved was to fuck over a man who had brought me alive in ways I hadn’t known I wanted. A man who was still texting me ten days after I’d walked out on him.
My phone was to my ear before I truly knew what I was doing, but Isha’s number went straight to an automated voicemail. I tried twice more, but each time the robotic message kicked in after one ring.
I typed out a message. Erased it. Picked up the phone and called again. “Um, hey,” I said after the beep. “I got your messages. I’m sorry for being a dick and ignoring you, I…fuck, I don’t know. I thought it was for the best, but I’m starting to realise I’m an arsehole. So…yeah. I’m sorry too, and I do want to talk. Bell me when you’ve got a minute.”
Ending the call punched me in the gut all over again. I wrote a third message and hit send before I could delete it.
Jude:I’m sorry too. Call me?
The message didn’t deliver.
* * *
“How long willyou be gone for?”
“I don’t know.” I shouldered my way through the end-of-day commuters at Bletchley station. “I mean, I’ll be in tomorrow, I just don’t know what time.”
Shaqueela sighed. “So why come in at all? The vivarium set-up is all done, and I can stay for the whole day. Don’t stress yourself out about it.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that flapping over the shop was the only thing keeping me calm. She didn’t need to know that running off to London to find Isha and tell him I loved him was giving me a fucking heart attack.
After agreeing to stay away for an entire day, I ended the call and jumped on the next train to Euston. It was jammed with people I presumed were either heading into the capital for a night out, or worked outside of the city. I had to stand, which I didn’t mind, but the closeness of packed-in bodies, and the thrum of conversations I couldn’t quite catch, got under my skin. I wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but my brain did funny things when I was stressed. I heard sounds others couldn’t, and saw flashes of light that weren’t there.
By the time the train rolled into London, only the prospect of a repeat journey stopped me catching the next train straight home. I fought my way out of the station and tried to remember which Tube line would take me to Primrose Hill—the only place in the city I could think of to look for Isha.
It took ten minutes of staring at the map to recall that trains didn’t run directly into Primrose Hill. That I’d have to go to the nearest stop and walk the rest of the way.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture the imposing townhouse Isha called home—the huge windows and ornate front door. The wrought iron railings. But I couldn’t see any of it, and the harder I tried, the less clear it became. I could see only Isha, Tam, and Delilah.
Their smiles.
Their laughter.
It drew me into the Underground as if I was pulled by an invisible cord. I caught the Northern line to Chalk Hill, and somehow found myself on a street I recognised. The houses were identical, but Isha’s had a stone snake on the front steps, weathered and chipped, as though it had been there a lifetime before we met.
Perhaps it had.
I opened the gate and jogged up the steps to the front door. The doorbell was one of those flashy electronic systems with a camera that likely connected to Isha’s phone. Even if he wasn’t home, he’d know I’d come to his door.
The thought alone had me swallowing hard, and the urge to run was strong, but if the ads for the doorbell systems were to be believed, chances were, Isha had already seen me.
I rang the bell. A blue flash lit up the shadowed porch, but made no sound as I waited with bated breath. The seconds ticked by, each one a scratch on my already flayed nerves. There was no sign of activity in the house, but it was a big house. Isha could’ve had a dozen visitors upstairs—though I somehow doubted it—and I’d never know from the outside.
Either way, no one answered the door. Blowing out a breath, I fished my phone from my pocket and called Isha. This time it didn’t even go to voicemail. It was as though he’d dropped off the face of the earth, or maybe that he simply didn’t want to speak to me. That I’d blanked him one time too many and he’d finally had enough.
The rational side of my brain knew that was unfair. I’d been hard on Isha as many times as he’d been evasive with me. But standing on his doorstep, clutching my phone so tight it creaked in protest, I didn’t feel rational. I felt lost, and out of control, and the prospect of another fraught train ride was a hell I couldn’t contemplate, though the thought of my terminally empty bed was worse.
I abandoned Isha’s doorstep and wandered aimlessly along the affluent street. In my heart, I knew I’d been a fool to assume Isha would be home, but that he hadn’t been was more devastating than I cared to admit. My WhatsApp message was still undelivered, and my calls weren’t connecting. Had he blocked my number?
My phone rang before that particular bullet hit. Daring to hope, I answered it without looking at the screen, but it wasn’t Isha. It was Rae.
“There you are,” he said. “You’ve been ignoring me, and when Cash stopped by the shop today, your girl said you were in London. You avoiding me, mate?”
There was laughter in Rae’s tone. He didn’t know I had been avoiding him, because I couldn’t face anything or anyone who was remotely connected to Isha. I hadn’t even handled Isha’s favourite gecko.You sad fuck. “Of course I’m not avoiding you. Why would I do that?”
