Nathan

The stench of fresh fish from the shop on the corner wafted over the heads of the crowd. Usually, I didn't even notice it anymore. Today though, I couldn't handle it at all. My stomach churned, readying itself to throw out the coffee I'd had earlier, a cup of black that'd tasted stale, like they'd used old beans. It didn't help that there were so many people here, hundreds of them, all seemingly with a set destination in mind. They seemed to be everywhere, popping up in front of me without warning.

There'd been a pounding in my head all day; it was becoming more blaring with the second. My night of no sleep was catching up with me fast. Hours of staring at the ceiling, wondering if Charlotte was still awake, if it was safe to grab my phone from the nightstand and unblock June. Each time I'd felt myself slipping away, half-dreaming of eager kisses and big brown eyes shimmering with little lights, guilt had given me a slap on the wrist, pulling me back to reality with a jolt. What kind of guy did that make me?

There were too many people here. I couldn't remember ever having seen so many before. The older woman elbowing her husband as they passed by a girl in a bee costume, muttering something disapproving. The group of teenagers occupying two benches, typing away on their phones or showing each other videos to loud shrieks and hysterical giggles, blasting fast rap songs from a cheap speaker. The man in a suit nearby, sending them annoyed glances as he talked into the microphone of his earbuds. High-pitched laughter. Crackling plastic bags slamming into each other. Thousands of thudding footsteps.

The noise they made all clashed together, echoing inside of my mind like sharp stabs. I looked up, but even the familiar skyline, with its mixture of brand-new tall office towers and centuries-old churches and palaces, didn't settle me down. The buildings seemed to move, towards me and away again, like I was transported back to the days grandpa would push me as I sat on the swing — no, don't puke.

Shouldn't have gone into the office this morning. I'd figured it'd drive me wild if I'd sit around the apartment all day, alone with my memories, and the only distractions I had here were work, and Charlotte.

Charlotte. She didn't trust me anymore, for clear reasons. She'd made up some excuse about returning a scarf to Anne, just so she could accompany me to the firm. The situation felt bizarre, even though I couldn't really blame her for linking her arm through mine, or for not talking to me the whole way there. Not when I was still thinking about that other girl I'd kissed, the one who wasn't her.

I needed to do something about this. This wasn't fair to anyone. I needed to think, make decisions. Not here, though, and not when I was about to empty my stomach.

Out of the blue, something collided with my calf, sending a stinging pain up my leg. What the hell happened? I turned around, immediately being met with a wrinkled old lady. She was pushing a walker, stoically looking the other way as she went on, shuffling onwards through the swarm of people by driving the wheels into their unsuspecting ankles. So much for British politeness.

Seemed like she wasn't the only one whose patience I was testing. I'd been standing here for a while, motionless, probably blocking everyone's path. Come on, man. Time to get home and figure out what I was going to do. I took off again, a little too fast: almost immediately, I bumped into someone, their backpack practically sweeping me off my feet. Fucking tourists with their red hoodies and water bottles — there'd be a lot more space around here if they'd just disappear. "Beg your pardon," a low voice said as the man caught hold of me to steady himself. He gave me a slight smile.

"That's alright," I was about to say — only it wasn't.

My pocket was suddenly suspiciously lighter than it had been before.

Great. Got my wallet stolen too. Just what I needed.

Bitter disappointment came over me, thinking of the credit and debit card I'd need to block, the visa that would have to be replaced, all the trouble that'd go with it —

Fuck.

The recipe cards.

They were in there.

My heart shot to my throat, beating frantically. I spun around, eyes traveling over all the shoppers, tourists, and employees heading home or to work — he couldn't be gone, he just couldn't... Backpack, red hoodie, backpack, red hoodie...

A shock flashed through me — there he was, right next to the little girl in the bee costume. Asshole... He'd chosen the wrong wallet this time. I fixed my eyes on him, approaching him slowly but surely, unceremoniously shoving people aside. This was more important than their indignant protests. I couldn't lose sight of him.

"Watch out!"

"Bugger off!"

"Watch where you going, you wanker!"

I didn't care. The red hoodie was the only thing I saw, an unmistakable beacon in a greyish blue sea of coats and sweaters. He turned around, and before I could decide on the right course of action, police, statements, investigations, court, I launched myself at him.

Both of us tumbled to the ground, him giving a surprised yelp, landing on the paving stones with a hollow thud. Screams erupted around us, but the girl stopped crying all at once.

Ugly, narrowed eyes stared up at me, a hidden smirk hanging around his mouth. He was lucky he was wearing that backpack, or he would've had a hole in his head the size of an egg. June. He'd taken my cards.

Even though I hadn't run at all, my breathing came ragged. Blood rushed to my ears, giving off a weak zooming. His gaze flickered to my hand, which, unexpectedly, was raised in a fist. Don't hit him, Nathan. Don't. I had the bastard. He couldn't go anywhere.

"Where — where is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, mate."

"My wallet! You stole it! Where... is it?"

No answer. He only looked up at me, as if he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Trying to make me angry, huh? Make me lash out? Well, he was dealing with the wrong guy. That didn't work on me. Three and a half years of knowing Lena had fine-tuned my self-control. Each time she'd tried to push me away by doing hurtful shit, I'd gotten stronger. And this guy? He was never going to be able to outdo her.

Okay. If he wasn't going to cooperate, I'd find it myself. A tiny voice in the back of my mind told me I could get arrested if I wasn't careful, but I ignored it easily.

There, in his hoodie.

I sighed in relief. I had it back. It was alright. He hadn't gotten away with it. My fingers shook heavily, and when I got out the cards, I almost lost my grip on them. Almost. They were all there. All three of them.

Thunk.

What the...? For a moment, I didn't understand what was happening, only flying backward, my teeth clashing together as a solid pain shot through my jaw, accompanied by a quick dizziness.

He punched me. The asshole punched me!

By the time I got my head straight, the red hoodie had disappeared into the masses. A circle of people was standing around me, pointing and talking rapidly, some asking if I was okay. I nodded, not able to pay them any attention. He'd gotten away... He tried to steal my cards, and he'd gotten away...

The cards.

Where were they?

I jumped to my feet, inspecting the ground near me — please, not the cards, not the cards...

"Looking for these?"

It was the mother. She was watching me from a distance, her arms protectively wrapped around the bee girl, holding her small body to her legs. And there, in the outstretched hands of the kid, were the three cards.

Although my instinct wanted to rip them from her fingers, I managed to approach her slowly. I'd probably terrified her, attacking a guy for no apparent reason. To assure her I meant no harm, I waited for her to give them to me. She glanced at me, then stuck out her tongue and clumsily passed them to me. "Thank you," I said. "That man had stolen them from me. And they're very important."

Her eyes lit up with curiosity. "Why?" she asked, with a thick accent I couldn't place.

It was like that one word hit me all over again, only this time, it didn't hurt. Because they were Christmas presents, I'd wanted to answer. Only, that wasn't the whole truth.

Turned out, I was still a fucking fool.

"Are you alright?" The mother's voice came from afar, like I was back on the plane and my hearing was muffled.

"Yeah... I'm fine."

The girl sent me a shy smile, making her the most unforgettable bee I'd ever met. Her mother seized her by her arm and hastily dragged her away with her. Flapping wings faded into suits and grey coats, although the smile stayed imprinted in my mind.

Why?

Not just because they were Christmas presents.

Because they were made by June.

Because she was the girl I loved.

The sole idea of losing the cards, of never seeing them again, had been a million times worse than being disbarred and ending up in jail for assault. And it made complete sense. It was irrational and confusing, and yet, it made complete, perfect sense.

Millions of memories broke free, showing me reasons, reasons I should've seen before. Had I become so used to her being there, always, so used to loving her, that I hadn't realized how deep that love ran? I should've known, every time she'd been singing in the car, with all her enthusiasm and terrible voice. Every time she'd laughed, head tipped back, those lights shining in her big brown eyes. Should've known that time she'd cursed loudly at the heap of sugar at her feet, or that time she'd tripped over the edge of the carpet, almost smacking into the TV. Or when she'd read in the lounge chair next to the pool, elbows propped up awkwardly, her mouth open as she followed the lines, fingers so anxious to turn the page her arm disregarded her completely and decided to fling the whole book aside. Or at the concert, her in my sweater, as she gushed about Eddie Vedder's performance, not even caring about the people peering in our direction to locate the source of that strange sound. When she'd explained to me why you should only add salt after boiling pasta, not before. When she'd point out a grammar mistake in my paper, shooting me a satisfied grin. And when we danced, and she relaxed under my touch, and she smelled so damn good.

A few days ago, when she hobbled back into the house with my shirt stuck to her skin, her long curls dripping with water.

When we kissed, and she brought me back home.

June.

The cards shook in my unsteady hands, making the instructions unreadable. Every part of my body seemed intent on proving me I was alive — my heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty, and I felt slightly faint, but not like before.

Why hadn't I realized yesterday? Why hadn't I realized when I saw the ring? Why hadn't I realized when I'd confessed my crime?

I didn't love Charlotte. Not like that. Yeah, I cared about her, and there'd been feelings in the beginning. Not now, though. Not for a very long time. We'd bled dry a long time before I cheated on her. It still wasn't right, although it did make sense.

That was also why she didn't seem to hate me. For that to be possible, she'd have to have loved me in the first place. And I wasn't sure if she did, even if she told herself otherwise.

Then there was June, and with her, there was lots to love, more than I could possibly count. How could I've not seen it before? If there was someone who knew me to the bone, it was her. She was the one who nudged me in the right direction, who ushered me to get out there, try new things. To speak the truth. She'd been the one who turned this switch from static to alive, who showed me there were things out there that were worth living for. It was her I'd taken to see the eagles, her who'd understood, her who'd never treated me like some fragile being doomed to fall apart.

Finally, I had an answer to that one question.

What kind of guy did that make me?

A guy who loved a girl more than he loved anyone else. And it didn't really matter what else it meant.

I loved her, and I had to get back home so I could kiss her again, or at least explain why I ran away that morning, and Sam just had to get used to it, and everything, everything would make sense.

If she could ever forgive me for leaving her. Twice.

If she loved me too.

Maybe I hadn't imagined it after all, last June, at the airport — maybe it hadn't been a side effect of me going to miss her. Maybe she'd really wanted to kiss me that time.

I should've stayed. Both times, I should've stayed.

The realization was like arriving back to a sunbaked California after weeks of struggling through a rainy, misty London. While descending the stairs to the platform, I dug up my phone, intending to send her a thousand apology messages — for ditching her like that, for ignoring her, for not discovering how I felt about her sooner. Chilly air sneaked under my coat and blew through my hair, sending shivers down my spine. Humans weren't meant to live in such a cold place, never mind to be this deep in the earth. No wonder Albert had wanted to escape to a warmer part of the world.

Blocked calls.

There were four of them, the last attempt at two pm, only a few hours ago. Six am for her, then. I released a shaky breath. Good. This meant she still felt like hearing me out, whether it was to shout at me or give me a chance to explain. My fingers had trouble pressing the green icon, almost like I'd become her, and then...

No service.

You were in a metro tunnel, you damn fool. Why did you keep on forgetting that? As I dashed back up the stairs, I thought of how June would hate these stations — there were no elevators here, and the steps were so small and overcrowded she'd have to hold onto me tight in order not to lose her balance and fall. But she'd do it, she'd make it. She might complain about it afterward, but she would make it.

As soon as I reached the top, I tried again. This time, I was met with the satisfying sound of ringback tones. Please, pick up, pick up, pick up...

"You've reached June Mercedes Guevara Aranda. Apparently, I can't talk right now, so leave me a message after the beep, or send me a text. End of message."

Of course. She was probably at work, seeing how this week was midwinter break. I called her a few more times, furiously hoping for a miracle, or at least so I could show her I seriously wanted to talk to her. What else could I do? Who could I try to contact? Not Sam, obviously — he'd sooner jump off a cliff than pass her a message from me. I didn't have Hayley's number, and even if I had, would I've had the courage to explain the whole deal to her? Valentina wouldn't be able to reach June any faster than I could, and I wasn't sure if I'd like her response to my confession anyway. Mrs. Aranda was out of the question, so that left...

Mr. Guevara.

The story.

In a flash, I remembered him standing on the porch with me, smoke rising from his cigarette, recalling how he'd worked five hours away from his wife when he was younger. "Nothing clears up the mind better than a fresh perspective," he'd said, as if he was bestowing some grand wisdom upon me. And he had. I just hadn't understood at the time. It'd never been about Charlotte. It'd been about the girl I'd left behind, about June, even then. He'd known. He'd known long before I ever did. It shouldn't have surprised me. He was a Guevara after all, and although he'd never gone to college, he was one of the smartest and sharpest persons I'd ever met.

Without thinking, I selected his name — and was directed to voicemail again. He was probably at work. He was always working. June and me, we should take him on a holiday sometime, if she wanted to. Maybe to Parral, in Mexico, the city of his childhood and the setting of most of his wonderful tales. "Luis," I said into his voicemail, "Luis, I get it now. The story. About you and the Mrs. and the five-hour commute. You were right. I'm coming home, and I hope... I hope I'm not too late. I hope she wants to be with me."

Only when I'd hung up, did it dawn on me I'd just confessed to the father of a seventeen-year-old girl I was in love with her, and that there was no undoing it. I wasn't even sure if he liked me or not, let alone if he'd approve of something happening between his daughter and me.

It didn't matter, though. All that mattered was June, and me telling her what she meant to me, and what would be her response, if she felt the same — she probably did, did she? Why would she have kissed me if she didn't?

Was this completely irrational?

At that moment, my phone rang. A large smile covered my face, wide enough to hurt my jaw. Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I got punched. Supposed I needed to thank the guy for that. Without him, it might've taken me even longer to figure this out. My hands were sweaty, nearly dropping my phone. One look at the caller ID cured me. Not June.

"Hey, Albert."

"Where are you?"

Although his voice was as steady and deep as always, I could detect some annoyance in there. Shit. I was supposed to have contacted him yesterday, something about advising him on where to buy a house, and I completely forgot due to... June. I held back a sigh, running my hand through my hair. "London," I said. Silence. Just be honest. Like the Guevaras. "I know that wasn't part of the plan, but I had to go back to break things off with Charlotte."

I pinched my nose, ready to receive a well-chosen word of critique, when: "Good. Done yet?"

"What?"

"Should've never dated her."

I shook my head, a small laugh escaping me. That was by far not what I'd expected. Had that been what he'd thought all along? That we weren't right? I had no idea what to say to that, and apparently, he wasn't in a patient mood: "How's June?"

It was like he could read my mind. I felt myself flush, something that hadn't happened in years, and a giant grin took over my face. I couldn't hold it in, not to him, one of the few people in my life I looked up to. He'd find out soon enough anyway. "I kissed her."

There'd be a dumbfounded silence, or a protest like Sam's, or a reference to her age — I was sure of it. Instead, he said: "About time."

"Wait... what?"

He sounded absolutely bored, like I'd brought him last week's news. Had I been that oblivious? He'd never even met her, never even seen me with her. How?

"Thought you'd never figure it out. Good you did, because we need you here. They want you to start earlier."

Everything he said confused the hell out of me, and I couldn't think. "They?"

"You got the job."

"I got the job?"

"Yes. Congratulations."

A strange feeling spread itself through my chest, like it was filled with air instead of blood and organs. I got the job. I had a house. And I might even get the girl. What in the world did I ever do to deserve all of that? How on earth could life get as good as that? "I — wow, I'm just... Thanks, Albert. For giving me a chance, and dragging my ass back to where I need to be."

It took me a while to understand the lack of an answer wasn't shyness or another question: he'd simply ended the call.

There wasn't anything more to say anyway. Everything important had already been laid out on the table.