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Like the first morning, I woke up to the muffled sounds of the street below, and warm sunlight. It seemed like Pierre had gotten up before the alarm, because it went off a few seconds after I sat up and put my feet on the floor.
With a groan, I scoured for my phone under the pillows, and turned off the alarm. After rubbing at the corners of my eyes, I looked around for Pierre.
“There’s a free concert in Hyde Park,” his voice came from the bathroom. I realized the water had been running, and now that he turned it off, I smelled his sweet shampoo circulating through the steam from the shower. A second later, he poked his head out from the door, his hair uncombed and sopping wet. “It starts in like an hour. So get your ass out of bed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I yawned, raising my arms for a good stretch. “What kind of music?”
“Jazz.”
I smiled, and pushed myself up from the mattress. He knew me so well.
About twenty minutes went by before the both of us were bundled up in our coats and scarves, ready to brave the windy London weather. According to Pierre, it was going to rain around noon, so we’d go duck into a restaurant or pub and eat something there.
We took the tube south toward Hyde Park, snuggled up close together on the hard plastic seats. While Pierre spent the whole ride pointing out every bit of our surroundings, I just listened quietly, soaking it all in, relishing in the sound of his voice and its enthusiasm, which was so rare.
But in spite of my best efforts to get lost in the history of the city that Pierre held so dear, my thoughts turned to Elliot. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I missed him—the slight rasp in his voice, his silky curls and the fierce look in his gaze. His touch. His scent.
I wanted to see him so bad.
By the time we climbed up the escalator to the park, my mind had turned to something else. Pierre must’ve noticed my unusual silence, because he hopped in front of me and laid his hands on my shoulders. I had no choice but to look into his eyes.
“Hey,” he said with a slight smile. “Is something wrong?”
I wanted to snort at the question and provide him with some half-assed sarcastic answer, like, Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Just everything that happened in the past few days, and how it’s been slowly, painfully eating away at my insides.
“I was just thinking about Luna,” I said with a sigh, mirroring his reassuring grin. “Like, are you still going to talk to her, or …”
Pierre shook his head, squeezing my shoulders in his hands. “Hell no, Kat. She’s nothing to me now. I was stupid to believe that she was real.”
“She is real,” I said, raising an eyebrow. Pierre shook his head.
“You know what I mean,” he replied, his grin falling lopsided. I reached up to push his bangs back from his forehead. “Not real, as in, not genuine. I got catfished. It happens.”
“I know,” I said, and linked my arm within his. We started walking toward the music. “It just seems like a huge coincidence that you, of all people, would end up talking to her.”
Pierre remained silent after that comment.
“How’d you guys meet online, anyway?” I prodded. “I mean, I know you’re not going to go ghost, but you never exactly seemed like a fan of online dating.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I hate social media. But I happened to open up my Instagram and saw a follow request from her. I was like, what the hell. She’s cute. And I’m lonely as fuck.”
“And you were on Instagram, because…?”
“To check up on you,” he answered, grinning at me. “Why else?”
Shaking my head, I looked toward the group of people forming in front of us and smiled. “Stalker.”
Pierre gave me a light jab in the ribcage for that, but it’s something I deserved, for one thing or another.
We settled down onto the concrete along with a dozen or so other people. The concert had been in full swing for a few minutes, but only now it seemed that other people, like us, were just making their way to the open venue. Within minutes, I had lost myself in the alto sax and keyboard, the streaming rhythm of the high hat. It was a little more upbeat then I was used to, but I was loving it.
“These dudes are great,” I said, leaning in to Pierre. But I caught something out of the corner of my eye. He hadn’t seemed to hear what I said. Over his shoulder, I saw he was typing something on his phone. I couldn’t tell who it was, but I caught sight of the last couple of texts.
And my gut froze.
Don’t listen to what she says, wrote the sender. She’s manipulative.
Says you, was all Pierre wrote in response.
