“It’s just I’ve been researching England, and everybody keeps saying Greggs is like the shit. Like people from the north go crazy for it.”
I’m unable to fight a smile. The car trudges along, the sunlight gone.
“I fucking love Greggs,” I admit, copping to the stereotype.
“I’m sorry we don’t have it,” Luis says. “But anytime you want to go to Pret a Manger, you just let me know. I’ll get you there as soon as possible.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, he’s so boyishly endearing with his declaration. The pricks of water at the corner of my eyes hit me like a truck, ramming into me.
Luis notices. “You okay, Blue?”
I’m rapidly blinking. My flushed cheeks are a result of the baby pink blush Adeline patted onto my cheeks.
“Blue?”
“Yeah.” Things blur outside the car window, my mind suddenly dizzy.
All those years ago, I showed up in New York City, and I didn’t miss England. I didn’t miss the shitty fights with my mum back in Yorkshire. I didn’t miss the constant money worries just so I could keep paying for a shitty flat in the shittiest parts of London.
I miss my sister.
Tightness constricts my ribcage.
I don’t miss the crowded trains I’d take to visit her in Oxford. Or her stuffy friends or the way people judged me against her. I was the sister too northern and too stupid in comparison to Sammie’s intelligence.
But I miss my sister.
I miss Greggs, of all fucking places.
And I miss Ren, who is off in Alaska with her boyfriend, who will naturally replace me as her best friend.
Why the fuck is Luis being so goddamn nice, offering to take me to a Pret of all places? Like it’s the one final piece of England that I’ll ever get.
“Blue, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
My jaw is sore, my throat tingling. “Nah, you’re all right. I got something in my eye. Mascara, you know."
Luis loosens his grip on the steering wheel, though he doesn’t stop watching me via the rearview mirror.
“You ever been to this part of town?” I ask, forcing my voice into something natural.
“Not really,” Luis says before launching into a list of his preferred bars.
Harry is at the curb, waiting for me.
“You really didn’t have to,” I tell him while slipping out of the backseat before saying over my shoulder, “Thanks, Luis.”
“Remember the panic button,” he replies, shooting me a serious look.
I slam the door shut, a response not to him, but rather his cousin. Panic button, my ass. I’ll be fine.
Harry offers me his arm. “You look wonderful, Isolde.”
I hook my elbow through his, wondering how long we’re going to walk around like a couple from a Jane Austen book.
“We’ve got a booth.” He points to a far corner. Since it’s a Wednesday night, most people are still in business smart, their work bags beside them, but it’s still pretty full. “I’m grabbing drinks. You want a pint?” He grins knowingly.
“Thanks, next round is on me.” Harry is sober, so I’ll get him a Coke.
