As the wine flowed, Jennifer leaned in more. Brushed her foot against his leg. Played with his fingers across the table. Smiled like she’d already decided how the night would end. Once, he would’ve loved that. Tonight, it just made him tired.
Outside the restaurant, the chill of the London night wrapped around them.
“You know,” she said, tilting her head, “after this, we could go back to my place. Open a bottle of wine, and…you know.”
Her cheeks flushed. Gosh, she was so flirty and eager and he felt so numb.
Alejandra, what did you do to me?
He ran a hand through his hair, the way he always did when he needed a second to think.
That tiny movement made her pupils dilate.Of course.That was the curse of becoming hot after a childhood of being bullied: women threw themselves at him now, and half the time, it felt like a joke. Even with Alejandra it had felt like it. Like a dream. How could a chubby kid from Wales pull the hot surfer from Spain with a freaking hot accent and an even hotter mind? It felt unreal.
“I think we should call it a night,” Callum said gently.
Jennifer blinked. “Excuse me, what?”
“I just prefer going home tonight. I’m not in the right headspace.”
“Oh.” She stiffened. “Well… goodnight then, Callum.”
“Goodnight, Jennifer.”
She paused, her voice softer. “If you ever need someone to take the edge off, I’ll be available.”
That was the difference, wasn’t it?
He could haveavailable, but after Alejandra, he didn’t wantavailable. He wanted that laugh, those lips, that fire, that mind.
He walked instead of taking the Tube. Let the cold night air cool the noise in his head.
His phone buzzed, and he rolled his eyes when he saw Asma calling him.
“Callum Jeremy Evans, what was bloody wrong with Jenni? She’s great. Exactly your type.”
“Who is my type, A.?” he shot back, not in the mood to hear Asma. He wanted to sulk in his own personal disappointing life spent between walls of a high rising in London, a burnout, and no Spanish surfer in his life.
“You can’t still be thinking about Alejandra.”
“What if I am?”
“This can’t be like after Vanessa,” Asma sighed. “We are worried about you. Since the wedding you are…sadder.”
“Since the wedding, Asma? Are you sure? Because I’ve been feeling empty inside since before it, and Alejandra had been the only light in a very fucking sad ordinary life.”
Asma scoffed. “Callum, you are being hypocritical to the life you’ve built yourself. You have a very nice apartment, friends and family who love you, a job that’s doing amazing.”
“Maybe that’s not everything I want, Asma,” he declared. “But before I say anything too upsetting because I’m in a terrible mood, I’m going to hang up. I love you, Asma, but I need some time for myself.”
Before she could reply, he shoved the phone into his coat pocket and kept walking, the city around him spinning in slow motion and his hand itching to call that fucking number and stop this nonsense. But every time the itch arrived, he cowarded. Because she was recovering, because she needed time, and he wasn’t a fucking vulture. Or maybe he wasn’t brave enough to go for something that could make his life better. Maybe he hadn’t been brave in a very long time. Maybe since the accident, he had let his life guide him, and he hadn’t made a single bloody decision in all that time, and now it seemed he had forgotten how to make one.
16
ALEJANDRA
Sevilla - Marta Santos
Seville was alwaysa good place to return to, even with her left arm in a sling and scratches covering her body. She had grown up between Seville in the winter—where she briefly went to school before turning pro at eleven—and Conil, in Cádiz, where her mother’s family was from and where they spent their summers.
