“I mean it. I will slam my bedroom door shut with a very heavy hand, and I will blast angsty music for ages.”
“Which you are within your rights to do,” I agree. “I did trick you into this, after all.”
“I will also write a scathing journal entry that centers on you. I may not even talk to you for an entire day, and I will only forgive you once you present me with an apology mix CD that musically transmits how sorry you are and how much you miss me.”
“Okay, has this happened to you before? Because all this is starting to sound like a detailed memory from your teen years that you’re now projecting onto me.”
“I am just trying to very clearly communicate the kind of emotional support I will require when this ship goes down, as it surely will.”
“Well, let’s just focus on the positives at the moment. We have a name, we have a town, and we have a place of business. I’m going to pretend to be interviewing Paul for an article on the university he works at until I can feel him out. If it doesn’t seem promising, we bail.”
“We bail,” Liam reiterates. “We quickly and quietly bail.”
“Absolutely. I’m not looking to kick down his front door and make a scene. That’s not my style.”
Liam scoffs. “No offense, but that sounds exactly like your style. You’re the female millennial version of a gunslinging cowboy in one of those old westerns who travels alone because you’re a loose cannon and all the other cowboys are afraid to befriend you.”
“Um, was that supposed to be an insult? Because I’m taking it as a full-blown compliment.”
“Take it as you will, desperado. Let’s just make it back to London in one piece.” He’s gripping the wheel so tightly, you’d think he was on a roller coaster right before the big drop, and I have to say...it’s completely adorable.
“You’re very cute when you’re being dramatic,” I tell him. “Maybe you should have gone into theater, after all.”
“The only place I’m going into after this is a military-grade oxygen chamber. I think I’ve experienced more stress in two and a half weeks with you than I have in the past ten years.”
“Oh yeah? Does that make you wish we never met?”
Liam’s face softens as he steals a peek over at me. “Quite the opposite,” he says. “I wish I met you sooner.”
My stomach flips despite myself, and I shake my head as I look away. I’m starting to like him way too much.
“You stress me out, too, buddy. I promise you.”
“Good stress or bad stress?” he asks.
“All the stress.”
Liam laughs softly at that, and after a while, we fall into a cozy silence. One hour and one puppy pit stop later, we arrive in Abinger. The village is so lovely and picturesque that if Hugh Grant doesn’t stumble out of a bookshop and fall madly in love with me at first sight, I will genuinely be upset.
“Where should we start?” I ask Liam as he parks the car.
“Know that I’m saying this with the intention of being helpful and not just wanting to calm my frazzled nerves, but I think we should start at the pub.”
“Good idea,” I tell him.
We head down a decent stretch of road, walking up to a charming bar called The Hatch. It’s Tudor-style perfection with overlapping gables and wood framing for days. All the windows have diamond-shaped panes, and the stone doorway contrasts beautifully with the white stucco facade. There are several picnic tables outside, which a handful of patrons are occupying, and a wooden door—one that wouldn’t be out of place on a medieval castle—leads inside. Liam, Ollie and I stand a few feet away, pausing side by side.
I’m the first to speak, saying, “I guess I’ll just go in, then, and put some feelers out.”
“You want me to go with you?” Liam asks.
“No, I can do it alone. You stay out here with Ollie.”
“Alright. Good luck, Winnie.”
“Thank you.” Taking a breath, I stride confidently into the pub, trying my best to take on the self-created role of Fiona, friendly journalist who has recently moved across the pond. As I step deeper into the space, my heart skips a beat. If I thought this place was beautiful on the outside, the inside is the manifestation of a Pinterest post entitledDreamy Pub Aesthetic. I try very hard to exude the vibe of a local and not at all the enthusiasm of a tourist who desperately wants to pose for pictures in front of the fireplace, the vintage bookshelves and the thick hundred-year-old beams that are lined across the ceiling (which I obviously do). Instead, I only allow a small smile as I walk over to the bar and catch the attention of the bartender.
“What can I get you, love?” he asks.
