sailboat and a yacht.
Then I looked at the time and saw that only fifteen minutes had passed, and I groaned. I’ve never been good at waiting.
As I was thumbing a quick text to my trainer, asking whether he wanted to work out with me for a few hours, a call flashed across my screen, and my heart stopped.
There was no mistaking whose number it was.
Not caring that it looked like I was just waiting by the phone for his call, I answered it right away, but it took me a second before I found my voice.
“Tim?”
“Hi! Shit… Hang on,” he said, and there was a loud surge of voices that cut out a moment later when he put me on hold. A few seconds later, Tim returned, and he sounded a little breathless. “Sorry. Sorry… I should have waited a few minutes before calling.”
“How are you?” I said, sounding stiff and awkward.
I hate you for making me wait. I am furious at you for all the lonely, stupid nights we could have been spending together instead. I have never been so angry and sad and hopeful in my entire life. I will break. I will crumble to dust. Do you want to be with me? Can you be with me? Be with me. They were all things I had written to Tim, twenty or so emails sitting unsent in my drafts folder, ranging from long, bitter, hurtful rants to the single word that neither of us had any business using after knowing each other for less than a week.
“I’m glad to hear your voice,” I added hastily.
“So… Are you tired of waiting?” asked Tim. There was so much hope in his soft voice that the relieved sigh I let out was almost cartoon-like in its exaggeration.
“Yes! Good Christ, yes. Blast me if I ever let you put me through the like again, you bastard. You gorgeous bloody bastard.”
Tim laughed, and I quickly clicked over to the flight information I had saved on my laptop.
“If I can get to the airport in time, I can hop on a plane and be in Montreal before midnight,” I said, squinting at my screen. “Or… if I—”
“Uh, Stu…” said Tim, and I heard a loud, echoing woman’s voice in the background. “Here’s the thing: I did something really crazy last night.” There was another rush of noise and someone called out. It was an incredibly, impossibly familiar sound. My pulse, already speeding along, seemed to double.
“Tim, where are you?” I could barely breathe.
“Um. I’m at Heathrow,” replied Tim with a smile in his voice. His excitement was palpable.
“What? How?” I was gripping my phone so hard that the case creaked in my fist.
“Overnight flight. Oof… Talk about jet lag.” Tim chuckled, but there was a strained quality to it, like he was trying to keep it together. “I actually missed my flight in Toronto, otherwise I would have arrived about three hours ago.”
I looked at the time. It would take about forty-five minutes if I hopped into my car right then—more if the traffic on the M4 was bad.
“What terminal are you at? Two?”
“Why? Oh. Don’t worry… I’m about to hop into a cab”—Tim interrupted himself to speak to someone else—“Yes! That would be great. Yeah, thanks. Stuart? Sorry… Yeah, I’m hopping in a cab right now. I’m coming to you. Where do you live?”
I quickly gave him my address in Notting Hill, my palms as sweaty as they had been the day I scored my first movie role. I heard Tim relay my address, followed by a rather cheeky reply from the cabbie and an awkward laugh by Tim.
“I’m going to need you just to translate,” murmured Tim; it was as if his mouth was up against my ear, and my breathing became a little more uneven. “I should be there soon, right? I’ll call you again if—”
“Don’t hang up,” I said hurriedly.
“But…”
“I don’t care about roaming charges or international fees or any of that rubbish. Stay on the phone. Talk to me.”
“Okay.”
“You made me wait three months. I’m not waiting anymore.”
“Anything you want, Stuart.” He sounded amused. I heard him take a deep
Then I looked at the time and saw that only fifteen minutes had passed, and I groaned. I’ve never been good at waiting.
As I was thumbing a quick text to my trainer, asking whether he wanted to work out with me for a few hours, a call flashed across my screen, and my heart stopped.
There was no mistaking whose number it was.
Not caring that it looked like I was just waiting by the phone for his call, I answered it right away, but it took me a second before I found my voice.
“Tim?”
“Hi! Shit… Hang on,” he said, and there was a loud surge of voices that cut out a moment later when he put me on hold. A few seconds later, Tim returned, and he sounded a little breathless. “Sorry. Sorry… I should have waited a few minutes before calling.”
“How are you?” I said, sounding stiff and awkward.
I hate you for making me wait. I am furious at you for all the lonely, stupid nights we could have been spending together instead. I have never been so angry and sad and hopeful in my entire life. I will break. I will crumble to dust. Do you want to be with me? Can you be with me? Be with me. They were all things I had written to Tim, twenty or so emails sitting unsent in my drafts folder, ranging from long, bitter, hurtful rants to the single word that neither of us had any business using after knowing each other for less than a week.
“I’m glad to hear your voice,” I added hastily.
“So… Are you tired of waiting?” asked Tim. There was so much hope in his soft voice that the relieved sigh I let out was almost cartoon-like in its exaggeration.
“Yes! Good Christ, yes. Blast me if I ever let you put me through the like again, you bastard. You gorgeous bloody bastard.”
Tim laughed, and I quickly clicked over to the flight information I had saved on my laptop.
“If I can get to the airport in time, I can hop on a plane and be in Montreal before midnight,” I said, squinting at my screen. “Or… if I—”
“Uh, Stu…” said Tim, and I heard a loud, echoing woman’s voice in the background. “Here’s the thing: I did something really crazy last night.” There was another rush of noise and someone called out. It was an incredibly, impossibly familiar sound. My pulse, already speeding along, seemed to double.
“Tim, where are you?” I could barely breathe.
“Um. I’m at Heathrow,” replied Tim with a smile in his voice. His excitement was palpable.
“What? How?” I was gripping my phone so hard that the case creaked in my fist.
“Overnight flight. Oof… Talk about jet lag.” Tim chuckled, but there was a strained quality to it, like he was trying to keep it together. “I actually missed my flight in Toronto, otherwise I would have arrived about three hours ago.”
I looked at the time. It would take about forty-five minutes if I hopped into my car right then—more if the traffic on the M4 was bad.
“What terminal are you at? Two?”
“Why? Oh. Don’t worry… I’m about to hop into a cab”—Tim interrupted himself to speak to someone else—“Yes! That would be great. Yeah, thanks. Stuart? Sorry… Yeah, I’m hopping in a cab right now. I’m coming to you. Where do you live?”
I quickly gave him my address in Notting Hill, my palms as sweaty as they had been the day I scored my first movie role. I heard Tim relay my address, followed by a rather cheeky reply from the cabbie and an awkward laugh by Tim.
“I’m going to need you just to translate,” murmured Tim; it was as if his mouth was up against my ear, and my breathing became a little more uneven. “I should be there soon, right? I’ll call you again if—”
“Don’t hang up,” I said hurriedly.
“But…”
“I don’t care about roaming charges or international fees or any of that rubbish. Stay on the phone. Talk to me.”
“Okay.”
“You made me wait three months. I’m not waiting anymore.”
“Anything you want, Stuart.” He sounded amused. I heard him take a deep
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