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“Oh…you have no idea,” I smirked, just like I do the second I find a channel that’s not announcing some sort of football match as we begin our trek.
God, with Warren’s radio history, I’m totally convinced he’s never heard a pop song in his life.
He purses his lips together and presses his tongue against his cheek, a telltale sign that he’s trying to suppress a smirk. Ashe clutches onto the steering wheel, my eyes are drawn to the vascular veins that start in his hands and disappear beneath the cuff of his sweater.
“What?” I fall back into the seat, exhausted by the look of him. “I’m just trying to find a song.”
He peers over at me momentarily before his focus falls back onto the road. I’ve never hated road safety more in my life. “I’m not laughing about the radio,” he responds, explaining nothing.
“Then what are you laughing about?”
“It’s strange, that’s all.” He responds. “Hearing you call herMom. I’ve never called her that once in my life.”
I fall into slight laughter. “Well then, welcome to my life these past few months. Half the time, I have no idea what y’all are even saying. Ponse, chuffed, wanker, daft?” I rhyme off the list of sayings I’ve been delighted to add to my vocabulary. “I’m certain you guys have made half of these words up.”
The rehashing of such statements actually forces a real laugh out of Warren. It’s a noise I hadn’t thought I’d ever have the privilege to hear—I mean, it’s one I’m sure far, and few people have. Yet it’s a sound I’d listen to over the radio any day.
To my surprise, these past few weeks with Warren have been a breath of fresh air. So much so that completing my job has hardly felt like work at all. I’m happy, and despite my earlier reservations, Crawley has grown on me more than I thought was possible. Yet, it’s not just this town that's changed their tune—it’s Warren as well.
I think he thinks I’m oblivious when it comes to the way he’s been acting around me when in reality, I’m just really good at hiding my emotions.
Since our talk at the field, I’ve noticed him crack day by day. Want to know what’s been the chisel to the ice?
Dresses—form-fitting dresses.
Heels—four to six inches at minimum.
Repetition—the way I’ll knock in a pattern on his door, unallowing him to say “come in” before I take the liberty to do so myself.
Greetings—a cheerful hello as I carefully take my time to stroll past his office in the morning.
Changes—the occasional change of lipstick and perfume. All things I’ve noticed he takes an extra second to inspect, whether he consciously recognizes he's doing it or not.
Warren is intent towards me, and he has been from the moment we first met. He’ll often emit a gaze of sheer wonder. I know this because it’s a look that I recognize well—a look that I see reflected back to me in the mirror every day.
My whole life has been a journey of self-discovery, yet being here in Crawley has felt like a whole new awakening. I’ve never been one to fit in easily. Being here has been a true test of that. But for the first time, I’ve stuck this through…battled out the growing pains, and now I’ve found myself here.
Somehow, on my way to spend a couple of nights with Warren—I don’t think we both expected this to happen.
“We’ll be there in about an hour,” he finally answers my question. “So sit back, relax, and enjoy the view.”
I glance over at him as he speaks, and part of me doesn’t believe what I’m seeing could possibly be real. The sun is setting across the horizon, causing honey-hued rays to filter through the windows and bathe Warren in golden-hour sunlight. His jawline is accentuated by the gentle shadows playing across his face, a dreamlike glow cast over his features.
He looks almost ethereal, like something from another world.
I’m well aware that the view he’s referring to is the beautiful countryside we’re driving along. Yet, little does he know, the real view isn’t a mixture of cliff sides and fields.
It’shim.
SIXTEEN
D E L A N E Y
Warren’s mom’s…mum’shouse is situated on a quaint street surrounded by abundant greenery. Flowers, shrubs, you name it, Ms. Park has got it. I’ve grown to love the architecture here. It’s something we don’t have back home—character in the most ordinary of things. England immerses you in its history, teaching you that sometimes, the most simplistic things have the greatest beauty.
The car rocks back and forth as Warren pulls into the gravel driveway, giving a slight wave of his hand to a few neighbors as we make our way down the street. The drive over was pleasant, not nearly as long as I’d anticipated. As we made our way through the town, I noticed a sign that read “London Borough of Enfield.”
“Is this where you grew up?” I couldn’t help but wonder, watching the familiarity in Warren’s eyes as he scanned through the neighborhood. I could only imagine some of the fun he got up to around here, not to mention what memories were racing through his mind.
