♫ I keep looping my memories of you in my head
I pretend that you want me ♪
Maroon 5—Can't Stop

Coralie struggled to pick out the right outfit for her dinner date with Michael. She browsed her closet to throw together something casual, simple but impressive. He'd always intimidated her despite his relaxed manner and easy-to-talk to style, and they'd only been around each other in work situations. He couldn't be much different in a more personal setting, right?

None of her clothes pleased her.

"But what if he isn't like I know him to be?" She changed her attire for the third time after modeling every piece for Delilah, who kept checking her phone and yawning. "What if he's taking me to some high-class rooftop restaurant with magnificent views and super fancy food?"

"Cora, honey." Delilah shot to her feet and shoved Coralie back into her room, pushing until they reached the walk-in closet. "Stop overthinking it. You said he was a hippy, vegetarian photographer, right?" Coralie nodded, and Delilah grabbed a strapless sunflower maxi dress and threw it at her. "This is what you want to wear, with a cute pair of flats. It's nice out, and he won't take you to some snotty five-star celebrity restaurant. So chill, will you? Jeez." She sauntered out and yelled a goodbye as she departed for whatever adventure she had planned for that night.

She turned out to be right. Michael didn't pick a snazzy jazz bar, but a low-key, up-and-coming vegetarian-friendly sushi joint that Coralie had always been hoping to try.

As they settled in the bright booth across from each other, Michael smiled. "You look beautiful, by the way." He rolled up the sleeves of his beige shirt, exposing his colorful tattoo that Coralie used to fawn over in secret. It was a replica of the first picture he'd had featured in a magazine—a San Francisco skyline, with the Golden Gate Bridge, and so much detail, one could get lost looking at every precise stroke of the needle.

She reached for her menu, scanning his clean-shaven face, his docile hazel eyes. "Thank you... and you look pretty dapper yourself."

Dapper? What the fuck was that?

He chuckled and browsed through the various pictures of sushi rolls. "I'm glad I finally did this. I'd been wanting to ask you out for a while, but with Jayden..."

She peered at him, half-hiding her flush behind the menu. "Really? That long?"

She recalled when Jayden had done a brief stint at the company, but after two months had stormed out because everything bored him. Michael, too sweet to comment on his attitude, had let everything slide and hadn't blamed Coralie for introducing them, but she'd always sensed an animosity between them whenever she spoke to Jayden about Michael, or answered Michael's polite questions about how she and Jayden were doing.

It was Michael's turn to fight a slight blush brushing over his cheeks. "Yeah. I'm not the bold type, as you might have noticed." He glanced at the table and tapped his fingers to an unsteady rhythm. "But I figured I needed to speak up now. Before you go and find another Jayden."

The menu fell out of her grasp as she gasped. "No." Fumbling to retrieve the thing before it knocked into her glass of water, she scrunched her nose. "Never again. That was a disaster."

Michael knew some of the details about their relationship, though not the more traumatizing parts. He knew of her near-rape, of her troubles with intimacy, and of her past life in London—because she'd blurted out a lot of it during her interview to work for his company. Yet he never judged her, never brought up delicate subjects that might bug her. Whenever they'd talked, he was discreet and friendly.

But not flirtatious, which was why it still shocked her that he'd recently stepped forward.

They enjoyed a no stress, uncomplicated meal together, and with every passing minute, Coralie felt more and more comfortable sitting before him. She'd been a bit unsure when getting into his car, seeing him again after their encounter at the bar. What were his expectations? Did he have any clue that she'd sworn off relationships, that she still had intimacy problems, and that she'd recently realized she still harbored intense feelings for a man from her past?

There were moments where Ryan forced his way into her mind, interrupting her peaceful conversation with Michael. Quick flashes of his smirk, visions of him making stupid faces to make her laugh, and the inevitable recollections of their beyond sexy exchanges. A few times, she drifted off into RyRy Land, and had to shake out of it to focus on Michael.

And Michael deserved her focus. Everything he did was interesting—from his creative captures of little known landmarks around town, to his eclectic tastes in TV shows and movies and music. Without forgetting his mellow lifestyle of skateboarding, exploring nature, and choosing to walk over driving if possible.

His voice was suave but not overly seductive. His short-cut, messy hair made Coralie want to shrug her fingers through it. He was well-built, charming, eccentric; and as he spoke, his lips captivated her and got her intrigued about how they'd taste.

When he drove her home, she almost wanted him to kiss her. She almost wanted to unbutton his shirt and see what was beneath, to press her hands to his chest, to let him tug her close. It was an arousing sensation that she'd thought reserved for Ryan, yet it bloomed in her for Michael, albeit less intense, more under control.

But a tiny pinch in her belly proved to her she wasn't ready to take action on such feelings. Intimacy with Michael did intrigue her, more so now that she knew it was reciprocated. But the notion of it actually happening prompted a discomfort to grow in her gut.

Michael, ever in tune to everyone's emotions and wearing his heart on his sleeve, seemed to sense her reluctance as he opened her car door and helped her out. As their hands touched, she felt the briefest of jolts, and a slight chill coursed up her arms, her shoulders, and nestled at the base of her neck.

Is that a good sign? Or a bad one?

"I had an awesome time, Cora," he said, keeping their fingers entangled as he closed the door. Their eyes met—his sparkled as the lamplights hit them, and the corners of his mouth tugged into a shy grin. "Again, I'm glad I did this. And even gladder that you accepted."

She bit her lip and looked down, struggling to not grin back at him. The jolt spread down her back and she suppressed the shiver it caused.

"Why would I not? You're one of the good ones, Michael."

He squeezed her hand harder and pulled her a little closer; close enough for his candy-mint breath to slither up her nose.

She braced for his lips to find hers and for them to fumble with a first kiss, for them to giggle at their shyness, at their clumsiness.

But he didn't dare it; instead he pressed those lips to her cheek, lingering there for one minute, two minutes, maybe three, before yanking away.

"Is it okay that I did that?" He winced and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets.

Sensing her skin burning, Coralie touched his upper arm. "Of course. I'm happy you did. Thank you for tonight, I also had an awesome time. You're an awesome guy."

He tipped his chin but gaped at her with a smirk. "Sweet. Well... don't go finding a husband in London, okay? Because I'd like to take you out again when you get home."

She tried not to cringe. Everything until that moment had been perfect—but the words husband and London in the same sentence reminded her of the other person who fascinated her. The one she'd fought all evening to keep out of her thoughts and that she had, for a while at least, forgotten.

"I'll do my best," she said, giving Michael a quick hug, and doing her hardest not to picture Ryan in his place.

***

One week later, packed and prepared, Coralie and Delilah departed from San Francisco International Airport, headed to Heathrow. Both were used to lengthy flights—Delilah had been to the Philippines on a few occasions—and had no issue with the ten hours of sitting and sleeping. They watched movies and indulged in minuscule alcohol bottles while gossiping about other passengers on the plane. They planned out their activities, and mapped out the places they'd visit, though Coralie had no doubt they'd fail to stick to a schedule, because Delilah was spontaneous and overly excited to inspect the city.

She messaged Michael every day until the departure and hoped to get together with him when she came home, but Coralie couldn't stop thinking of Ryan, as always. He hadn't said a word to her in weeks, though he'd liked her Facebook status reminding everyone of her imminent arrival to England.

She had less and less hopes of them meeting up, or even talking during her trip. For a few fleeting moments, she'd coerced herself into believing he might surprise her, might attempt to see her. After all, he'd never broken promises to her before, so why would he do so now? But then reality set in—despite his honest nature and his kindness, he had other promises to maintain, too. Vows—the ones he made to his wife, the ones he made to his children. If he feared his connection with Coralie was too strong, as he'd mentioned once or twice during their chats, he might have no choice.

The responsible side of Coralie almost wished for that. If he didn't contact her, if he didn't show up, it would be easier for her to detach from him and return to a normal life. Easier for her to envision a future without him, and with someone else; someone like Michael, for example.

She'd caught herself on many instances daydreaming about Ryan leaving his spouse, ditching his kids, and traveling the world with her. They'd sample decadent dishes in exotic countries, hike up enormous mountains, and roll around in satin sheets in penthouse suites in European capitals. She couldn't help but project herself, because a part of her had yearned for this for years. And though it was immoral and twisted her intestines into knots, she wanted him. She'd thought those emotions were gone, drowning somewhere in the pit of her stomach. But one wave from him, one confession, one show of his adorable face and his hot body had dragged them back to the surface, and now she was the one drowning.

Upon their arrival at the Keystone House, a hostel-hotel near King's Cross and St. Pancras, Delilah collapsed onto their shared double bed.

"Can we postpone brunch? I need a nap," she said, kicking off her Converse shoes and removing her sweatshirt.

Coralie logged into the Wi-Fi and typed up a Facebook post to announce their arrival.

"Well..." she squinted at the screen, waiting for Ryan's name to pop up, for him to like the status, for him to manifest some sign of life. "Sure, I guess a nap would be fine, for now." She had gotten enough rest in the plane, but Delilah had spent most of the trip flirting with a group of soccer players in Business Class.

"Wake me when there's shit to do," said Delilah, switching off the bedside lamp and burying her face into a pillow.

Coralie didn't nap. She flipped through the TV channels, desperate for something to distract her. A plethora of friends had commented on her status and requested to meet up and offered suggestions of the newest clubs to hang out at. She took notes, she researched, she replied—but the only person she wanted to speak to was Ryan.

Even Michael had checked in and asked about her flight and wished her a fantastic trip.

As she settled on a rerun of some old British show she'd hadn't watched in years, she internally insulted Ryan, wondering why he wasn't checking in on her, too.

How long does it take to compose one message, huh?

He had the time to post random crap on his page, to view her stories, to comment on everyone else's—so did that mean his wife was looking over his shoulder? Or did he feel extreme shame at the idea of talking to her as often as they had? Was he having regrets? Pulling back, reversing his decision?

"No, stop it," she later said to herself, as she applied another coat of mascara to prepare for her and Delilah's first night out on the town. They were to convene with Bella and a few of her friends at a rooftop restaurant and bar. As Coralie got dressed, the time difference weighed on her, provoking her overthinking tendencies. "He's not changing his mind, he's being cautious."

"Are you coaching yourself?" Delilah appeared behind her, decked in a satin burgundy dress that wrapped around her curves like a silky blanket. She'd strapped on her favorite sparkly black heels and smothered her lips in a rich shade that matched her dress. "You don't need to. You look hot. Let's go."

In contrast, Coralie chose something more demure, though she'd stand out in a crowd too, in her tight black high-rise skinny jeans, a short-sleeved shirt that dipped between her breasts, and velvety black pumps. Comfortable, but eye-catching in a more discreet way.

"I look like I should have taken a nap, but okay."

And so they went out. They drank, they danced, they laughed. Delilah flirted with everyone and garnered compliments from every man, while Coralie caught up with friends, pretending like her life wasn't falling apart with every breath she took.

She claimed her songs were thriving, when in fact she hadn't created a single poetic verse in weeks. She swore the bartending job was working for her, when in fact it drove her insane and caused her to hate each person that walked in and asked for some complicated cocktail they'd seen in a TV show. And she told them of her celibacy—her vow to stay single for a year and get to know herself.

What she didn't mention was how she'd opened herself to the possibility of dating Michael, and the slim chance of hooking up with her long-lost one that got away.

Each morning in London, she woke and grabbed her phone, desperate to hear from him. Desperate for him to at least warn her that no, they wouldn't be seeing each other during this trip. That no, he wouldn't be able to get away from his wonderful wife or his cute kids, that he had no means to justify a night out.

She moped about from landmark to landmark, and cried a few times in the shower, and often considered canceling plans to lie in the dark and be depressed. But Delilah wouldn't let her; she scolded her if she caught her browsing through her Facebook feed instead of rocking out on the dancefloor with her.

The drinking helped, if only a smidgen. After a few glasses of wine or a few bottles of beer or a few shots, Coralie was too blurry to think clearly. She got lost in the music or enraptured in deep conversations with Bella and her other friends or traipsed drunkenly down the streets, wandering from bar to bar, from club to club. By the time she sank into the mattress at three am, she was too intoxicated to overthink.

During daylight hours, she meandered around London's tourist sights with a raging hangover. Delilah squealed in her ears and snapped enough pictures to plaster into fifty different scrapbooks.

Despite the despair eating her on the inside, Coralie tried to have a good time.

And she did. The day before their return to San Francisco, as they sat at a café near Piccadilly Circus, sunglasses over their exhausted eyes and triple espressos in their hands, she concluded things could have gone worse. Delilah could have let her wallow, but she'd kicked her ass and ensured she had no opportunity to whine about not seeing Ryan.

Delilah rarely had hangovers, but slouched in her seat with a giant smirk. "Dude, this was the best trip ever."

With a playful sneer, Coralie sipped from her scorching beverage and clicked her tongue. "Because we didn't stick to anything on the itinerary and only did things according to your whims."

Delilah picked at the vanilla scone she'd ordered and scoffed. "Right, because my whims were cool, and your itinerary sucked."

Coralie was about to whip up some smart-ass reply when her phone pinged. She'd grown used to disappointment, so when she unlocked the screen and opened the chat, she almost choked on her own saliva.

Ryan Bennett: Cora, I'm SO sorry for only getting to you now. Work has been insane, I haven't had a moment to myself. And we've been moving around a lot with the family, so I had little free time. Please forgive me. I realize you're leaving tomorrow, but... do you have a spare hour or two this evening? Can we meet?

"Fuck." She put the phone down and groaned, but he sent another message before she could expand on the anger brewing inside.

Ryan Bennett: Please?? I'll make it up to you, I promise. I can't wait until you take another trip. And I don't deserve it, but I haven't stopped thinking about you, I swear.

"Is that him?" Delilah snagged the phone and wrinkled her nose as she read his words. "Ugh, the nerve. Oh," she approached the screen to her face and her mouth propped open, "um, he just sent a picture. Oooh, and it's hot. That bastard."

Coralie seized the phone and her jaw dropped at the sight of his pose. His chiseled chest, his sexy smile, his eyes that expressed so much desire and deliciousness made her wriggle about in her seat.

It was a bathroom picture, and he'd pulled his boxers down enough to show that enticing V below his belly button. Of course, Coralie fixed on the bulge a little further down, and she salivated.

"That fucker," she grunted, setting the phone down so violently the table shook and her coffee nearly spilled. "What do I do? Say no?" She smacked her forehead. "But I can't say no, and he knows that, doesn't he?"

She expected Delilah to slap her, to kick her back to the hotel and lock her in there to avoid running to him and prostrating herself at his feet and begging him to make sweet love to her.

But to her shock, Delilah sat up straight, removed her sunglasses, and pursed her lips. "You're going to meet with him."

"Huh?" Coralie cocked her head and crossed her arms. "Are you sure? You want me to?"

Rolling up her bulky sleeves, Delilah nodded. "You need closure. So go have a drink with him, get wasted, make out in some dark corner, heck—have sex, to get the desire over with. But don't expect anything else. He's married, and he won't leave his wife for you. This is his second chance, so he said," she grimaced, "but it's too late and he's not stupid. He won't abandon his current life for a question mark like you."

A question mark. I'm the unknown; why would he ditch what he has for me?

"Okay." Coralie sighed and plucked her phone from the table. "One meeting to let it all out, have some fun, then come home and move on, right?"

"Right." Delilah slipped her sunglasses on. "Wake me up when we're heading to the hotel."

After a few minutes of her fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to say, Coralie typed.

Coralie Amber Watson: Fine. Tonight. Where?

♥♥♥