The bodyguards are polite to his fans but carefully untangle him, guiding him back towards the car that’s been abandoned by the side of the road.
It’s like watching a stranger. I can’t comprehend that the Gus I’ve been with for the last two weeks is the same one being treated like a royalty now. He stops to speak to his bodyguards, but they continue to encourage him towards the car.
He shakes his head, clearly irritated with their insistence to leave.
Before they can push him in, he pauses, searching the crowd. He leans on the open door. Some of the people in the crowd have followed him. There are so many phones out, filming. I swallow thickly.
And when his eyes find mine, I don’t know what to do. I stand there numb.
Gus nods towards the vehicle as if inviting me in.
I shake my head subtly.
I feel like an absolute coward.
But it’s asking too much. He’s asking me to step into the spotlight. And I’m not ready for that.
Because I never intended to join him past Barcelona anyway.
I barely know the man, not really. The rational part of me is already clocking this whole situation as a romantic, summer fling. It’s only… I’ve had them before and they’ve never felt quite like this, like we’re threads in a rope being unravelled and torn apart.
What good could come from extending this goodbye?
His stare holds mine across the crowd for the longest moment. He looks like he wants to run to me. It looks like he wants to say something he’s forgotten.
But, instead, he smiles sadly, nods and does one final wave before climbing into the car. Once the door is closed, I realise there’s no changing my mind. It’s like a wall has been built between the time that we’ve had together and the super celebrity who is so far out of my reach it blows my mind.
For a moment, I think I’m going to cry.
But I’m too good at evading tears, too practised and it passes.
Because I’m a grownup.
I am rational.
This will all pass.
And so, I join the queue for the Basilica like nothing happened.
Thirty-Two
When I arrive home in the middle of the night, the air is noticeably cooler in England.
I decide to watchPride and Prejudice, the Keira Knightly version,obviously– mostly so that I can pine after Matthew Macfadyen and his sexy sideburns – but end up falling asleep there on the sofa, only woken again by the morning light pouring through my open blinds.
I take a shower and then make myself a coffee, contemplating what would be best to do with my final day of annual leave when I see a message from Dad asking me to call him when I get a moment.
He answers on the first ring. “Hello, darling.”
I smile but hearing his voice makes me wobble. A tiny part of me wants to tell him everything, to reveal all the messy feelings that are making my head and heart ache. And yet, I know I never will. Because it’s not who we are, even if I want it to be. “Hey, Dad.”
“How was your holiday? Millie was sharing the photos with me.”
“It was…” I take a steadying breath. “…like a dream.”
“You deserve it. I know you don’t tell me anything because you’re worried this old man won’t be able to handle it but I’m not stupid. You’ve had a tough time. And you needed a break.”
I try to brush it off. “Yes, old man. It doesn’t stop you from being nosey though. What’s this call really about?”
