Page 90 of Counting Down To You

“It’s okay,” I say, realizing I haven’t engaged with James’s question. “Pays the bills, you know.”

I can’t face filling him in on the sabbatical, or what’s happened over the last few weeks. It’s not exactly first-meet-up kind of chat.

“And you?” I ask. “What do you do these days?” He’d been a graphic designer for a company in London, but obviously when he left he quit his job. A clean break.

“Still graphic design. Freelance, mostly.”

“Still enjoy it?” Because he had done, while he was in London. We’d both agreed, on that holiday in the Lake District, that we were not office sort of people. I’d obviously completely backtracked on that, but James had managed to mainly work from home, meaning, technically, he wasn’t doing an office job. I suppose being freelance and moving around so much allows him to avoid the monotony of the 9–5.

“Yeah. Yeah, I enjoy it.”

I look around the room for the waiter. Why is the sangria taking so long?

On the table, my phone buzzes and I grab it, pathetically grateful for the interruption. Only I’m not sure I should be grateful when I see who it’s from.

If I come to London, will you see me?

He’s been quiet today, and I thought maybe he’d given up messaging me, got the hint through my complete lack of response. I stare down at the screen, fighting a whole host of conflicting emotions that are swirling inside me, vying for attention. The now-familiar anger, that he lied to me. The betrayal, the hurt. But then…

He wants to see me. He’s willing to fly to a different country, to talk to me.

“Everything okay?” James asks.

“Sorry. Yes. All good.” I place my phone face down on the table. I’ll deal with Leo later. One problematic relationship at a time.

We are saved from stringing out the small talk by the arrival of the sangria. It’s not the waiter carrying it, though. Instead, it is someone I recognize. He walks with a long, quick stride, like he is always in a hurry to be somewhere, though Robyn and I learned from experience that this never seemed to be the case, because he’d happily stand chatting for ages. His eyes are dark brown, hair a salt-and-pepper gray. Lines are set around his mouth and eyes, giving the impression of someone who has spent a lot of his life laughing.

“Ali!” Arlo sets the jug down on the table, then leans down to kiss me on both cheeks, like we are old friends.

I smile up at him. “Hi, Arlo. How are you?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” he says, beaming down at me. He turns to James. “And who is this handsome man?”

“This is my brother. James.”

“Welcome,” Arlo says, with such sincerity that it’s obvious why they don’t need a website—anyone who has been here once is bound to return.

“How is your daughter, Arlo?” I ask. “Is she still playing the violin?”

“The violin?” He frowns like he has zero idea what I’m talking about. Then he blinks, smiles. “Ah no. She has decided she does not have the musical ear. But she is working on her gymnastics now.”

I can’t help grinning, imagining what Robyn would say about this latest hobby. Neither of us ever had any idea how old his daughter was—for all we knew she could be five, or twenty-five, and still trying out various hobbies.

“And business is good?” I ask while Arlo pours the sangria into two glasses. James immediately takes a sip of his, no doubt feeling out on a limb.

“It keeps us going. We are as busy as we want to be, and that is more than most can say.”

“Well, that’s good,” I say, though I’m replaying that sentence in my head to try to figure out what it means.

Arlo sets the jug down, then reaches down to take my hand from the table and hold it in both of his. His dark-brown eyes meet mine. “I am so sorry to hear about your friend.”

To my alarm, my throat tightens. I gave myself a talking-to before I left. No matter what this place meant to me and Robyn, I was not to cry in front of my brother.

I nod, which is about all the response I can manage, and Arlo lets go of my hand, while James looks at the table. Arlo gestures over his shoulder, and a waiter appears seemingly out of nowhere at his side, carrying three shot glasses.

Arlo sets a shot glass down in front of me and James, picks up the third. Tequila, by the smell of it.

“A toast,” Arlo says, “if you’ll allow me. It’s Mexican, I’m afraid, but Robyn liked it, yes?”