Chapter Forty-Three Soundtrack: Don't Go by Kate Stephenson

This journey to Heathrow was much more successful. For starters, I slept in my own bed, not driven to the couch by the ghost of Ben's smell. My back feels great. Plus, I threw out every hand mirror I own. Probably my appearance will suffer but I can't risk another grenade.

And if I'm feeling a little smug, well, who could blame me?

My mum? Behind a safe boundary.

Ben's mum? Not my problem.

Nas? Good. Really good.

Well, I think so. We haven't actually discussed what we are.

But basically I'm not anxious or mentally ill at all, actually. I'm completely cured of all my problems. And I'm about to travel with a hot man who, if past experience is indicative, may kiss me again. He may even do more than kiss me.

Once again, though, he is late. I guess he couldn't be too perfect.

I buy two coffees without being asked. His has sugar, because I'm now sure that he prefers it.

And just as I've dropped mine and my white top is ruined, he appears. He's being ogled again, and five minutes ago, I would have found the competition sexy. Now I'm just acutely conscious of the spreading stain across my chest.

Nas spots me immediately and smiles. His dimple appears.

Okay, I'm not that annoyed.

As he strides towards me, he pulls off his jumper. In the smoothest move I've ever seen, he takes his coffee, slings my backpack over his shoulder, and pulls his jumper over my head. I emerge with tousled hair, smelling of his sharp warmth. This is a really soft jumper. Only the best for Nas, I guess.

Still carrying my bag, he enters the queue to order me another coffee. I sit and wait. I've literally been swept off my feet.

When he returns with the coffee, the barista's number smudged on the napkin, he finally greets me: 'We're flying business.'

'Your treat?'

'Always is, Eleanor.'

'In that case, we're late.'

He swears. 'Finish your coffee,' he calls over his shoulder as he walks towards the gate. I hurry behind him on my short legs. Damn his height.

But he waits before boarding, and still won't let me carry my own bag, and I guess that's why I find it so hot when, as we sit down, he murmurs, 'Do you still need to get laid?'

Yes, Nas. Yes I do.

*

We land in Helsinki a few hours later. There's a big premiere here this week, and Barry agreed, without checking the proposal properly, that Nas and I both needed to come for networking. When I sent the email, a few months ago, I resented that we'd be sharing an apartment. Only a wall between us felt unhygienic.

Now, sitting with my back to that wall, I'm acutely conscious of how close he is. Maybe his bed is against this wall, too. Maybe he's sitting on it, just like me, our backs separated only by plywood.

There's a knock on my door.

Okay, so he's not against the wall.

'Come in!' I call, my voice cracking, just as he calls, 'Shower's free if you want it!'

Oops.

'Thanks!' I shout.

No reply.

I do actually want a shower, but now I'm paranoid that I smelled musty for the entire flight. Maybe that's why he stared so intently at his book.

I grab my towel and head to the bathroom. There's no fan, only one high window that Nas has already propped open. Still, steam drips from the walls and wets my skin as I walk in. He likes a hot shower, I guess.

I strip and step in. The water is scalding. As it ripples down my chest and between my legs, my skin turns as pink as a lobster.

I don't lower the heat. I'm ready to feel clean, even if it scalds me.

As the water rushes over me, I think about the evening ahead. Tonight is the first of many drinks, with the big launch tomorrow night, but already I know how all of the conversations will go. I put on my mental armour against small talk. I wonder if Nas is doing the same.

Maybe he's sitting on his bed, running his hands through his still-damp hair, preparing to charm everyone he meets. Maybe he's still wearing his towel.

Maybe he stood precisely where I am now, only ten minutes ago, and the water dripped down his body, starting at his shoulders, pooling on his hips, dripping down his legs. Maybe he imagined me here too, and maybe the thought made him weak. Maybe that line of droplets on the tile is where he pressed his hand to keep himself upright as he—

I fall. Hard. And I squawk.

Another knock on the door. Damn, he's good.

'Ellie?'

'Hi, Nas!'

'What's going on?'

Don't say it. He doesn't want to hear that.

'I tripped! I'm fine,' I reply instead.

'Are you okay? Do you—should I come in? Or—'

Oof, he sounds awkward. I guess this wasn't an elaborate pick-up plot.

I peel my legs off the tiles and get my knees under me. With one hand after another, like the world's shittest rock climber, I pull myself back upright.

'All good!' I call. 'I'm back up.'

'You sound like you're in pain.'

Any suffering is not for the reason he's thinking. 'Fine,' I reply weakly. 'It's all fine.'

*

Without further injury, I'm ready in thirty minutes. Thanks to my new haircut, my hair dries effortlessly now, but it's still a little damp as I apply eyeshadow in the bathroom mirror. The steam lingers.

Nas appears behind my reflection. His linen shirt is rolled up to his elbows.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. My hand lowers from fussing with my eyelashes. Slowly, he walks towards me, and one arm cages around my waist from behind. I don't take my eyes off of his reflection.

He doesn't look away, either, as his hand creeps forward.

He grabs his cologne, in the little white bottle he's left by the sink, and sprays it onto his neck. I feel it land on my hair.

I inhale, deeply.

'What is this?' Maybe it's laced with some pheromone that will explain why I'm so attracted to him.

'You ask so many questions.' He demonstrates his boredom by kissing down my neck.

Tiny flickers of warmth, like a firework show alighting, begin in my joints, travelling down my neck towards my core.

With one final kiss, he pulls away. 'Come on,' he says, 'we're going to be late.'

*

As we walk to the bar, a text from Mei appears.

hi babe just checking that you haven't been taken over by a brain-eating parasite?? or a cult?? anyways i also think you're beautiful and smart and i got pretty emosh last night so thank you for saying that xoxoxoxo

PS i actually don't run marathons btw, just in case you didn't realise you were exaggerating. loved the energy tho xoxoxo

I responded simply: all good babe

Walking half a step behind, nearly brushing my lower back with his hand, I catch Nas grinning down at the text. As always, he sees more than I want him to.

We walk down the cobbled streets in the centre of Helsinki, dodging the bikes zipping pass, as the evening fades into the eternal twilight that will linger for most of the summer. It's not much further north than us, but I find it so disorienting: the space between awake and sleep, light and dark, all blurred into soft greys.

Much like our walk home from the gala, all those weeks ago, we aren't talking. But this silence is comfortable. This silence is weighted with the memory of his lips on my neck, his hand pressing my lower back to guide me here, the gentle brush of his fingers against my shoulders.

Probably we should talk about this. Probably we should ask what we are to each other. But Nas seems comfortable with touch alone. And God knows, I'm trembling at the prospect of speaking. Maybe we can figure this out nonverbally, somehow, and work this attraction out of our systems and find friendship on the other side. Because if I'm not brave enough to ask what he wants, I don't deserve the answer.

If this is what friendship feels like, then sign me up.