Hawthorne

30 - London

“Well, as it seems he he was just looking for a hook-up. Thank god I didn’t put it all out there on the first night,” she tuts, annoyed.

“Charlie has always been a slow one,” I recall, remembering how I had to be the one to take the first step with the both of us. “Why don’t you call him and arrange to meet up? A brunch? Some afternoon tea?”

Her frown deepens, “What if he refuses?”

“Why would he refuse?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs.

“Text him!”

“What?” Wide and panicked eyes stare back at me. “No!”

“Snatching her purse from her hand, I take her phone out and unlock it. Hmm, no password.

“If you don’t, I will instead.”

Typing, it takes me a few seconds to send him a text.

Rachel: Hi! I was thinking we could meet up for lunch one of these days?

“Oh my god,” Rachel gushes, covering her flushed cheeks.

“What if he doesn’t answer?

“Then you don’t spare him another thought.” I nod in reassurance. “You are an outstanding woman, if he doesn’t see it, he doesn’t deserve you!”

She clutches my arm with a stressed sigh as we reach Leicester Square. Even though it’s dark at seven in the evening, the streets are lit up with countless Christmas decorations, giving wet London such a romantic look. Our hot breath mix with the cold air in small steam clouds as the temperature has been rather cold for a while now.

Even with the heavy coats, our faces are flushed from the cold we’ve been during all day long.

“Only you to have such kind words to uptight rich kids like us.”

“You might be rich but you’re not uptight, nor cruel. Believe me, I wouldn’t get along with you if that were the case,” I chuckle lightly.

“Four Seasons?” Rachel asks and I think it over.

“Is Baozilnn still open? It used to be my favourite.”

“Sure, let’s go!”

In the five minutes walk we have left for the restaurant, Rachel’s phone pings with an incoming text and she hastily takes the phone from my hold, eagerly reading into it. Her eyes widen before a soft smile stretches her cheeks. If it weren’t for the cold, I’d say she’s blushing too.

“He said yes. YES!“She gushes.

Her smile is wide and her eyes are twinkling. It’s so satisfying to see her happy. It also feels like my mission has been accomplished by pushing them to get to know each other even better.

“See? I told you so!”

Rachel intertwines our arms together just as we’re about to reach the restaurant.

“He arranged for us to meet in three days, right after Christmas!”

I smile, knowingly, “See? Thankfully, I’ll be out of your hair by then!”

“Oh, don’t be silly! I love having you around. Reminiscing on the old days and having so much fun and pyjama parties! I didn’t have those growing up!”
elite sure don’t have much fun,” I mutter.

“Gladly, my parents are not the most strict ou there but still. Having strangers spend the night or let me sleep at strangers’ houses was not negotiable for them. When I was old enough, pyjama parties were no longer cool.”

At the doorway, a hostess greets us, “Good evening, table for two?”

“Yes, please,” we say in unison.

We are led through the restaurant to our table and are immediately given the menus. My mouth starts watering at the sole mention of the dish names available. Rachel and I end up picking way more than necessary, revelling in the greasy and tasty food that meets our mouths.

For a few hours, Vincent has finally been taken off my mind, as we both eat our dinners and talk about everything and nothing at the same time. We’re often met with curious glances because of our full waves of laughter here and there.

It’s not an over-the-top night, but it’s fun and held in amazing company. So much that for the first time in a few years, I don’t feel alone in this world. For once, I feel like I have someone and Rachel has turned into that person, whether I want it or not.

We’re already arriving at her apartment when my phone pings with an incoming message. I can’t fathom who would it be at almost midnight, not to mention the fact that not that many people have my number.

Rachel excuses herself to the restroom while I sit down on her couch to open it.

Edgar. What does he want at this ungodly hour?

I click to open the message but instead, a full-screen video starts.

There’s a big bulky body working out at the Manor’s gym. Well, the gym Vincent had installed when he moved in. And not even on purpose—or maybe yes—the half-naked body doing non-stop pullups is Vincent’s. Glistening with sweat, the back’s muscles swollen and straining with every movement and yet he keeps on doing them nonstop as if he was directly plugged into the current.

He doesn’t seem to be aware of the fact that he is being filmed. Even though there is a floor-to-ceiling mirror in front of him, allowing me to get a good look at both his back and front, his eyes are shut tightly.

I suspect that Edgar is doing it without his brother’s permission.

With a low grunt—more like a growl?—he lets go of the bar, landing on his feet graciously. Then, he picks up a towel, wiping it on his sweaty face and neck before sitting down on one of the machine’s benches.

“See? The poor sod has to overwork himself to release some of the steam. That’s what happens when you abandon him to his own hand!”

Edgar’s voice, from the other side of the camera, is almost a whisper, but enough to make Vincent’s head snap in our—his— direction.

“What the fuck are you doing Edgar?” Vincent bellows, approaching his brother ins long and purposeful strides. “How many times have I told you I won’t want you sharing me on your stupid social media!”

“Oh no no!” Edgar answers, backing away from his brother.

He is, indeed such a teaser.

“Just a souvenir to sweet Camilla, so she doesn’t forget a lovesick Duke is waiting for her in this old Manor.”

I cover my mouth, giggling at his words. He does look tired and unkempt, but lovesick? Edgar is so dramatic. At the same time, Vincent’s stance falters and a frown settles on his eyebrows.

“Little Milla?” He blurts, asking and I feel my cheeks aflame.

“Ohhhh! Little Milla? See? He has a nickname for you and everything! I am sending this right now!”

The video stops abruptly, freezing on Vincent. Dishevelled hair and dark bags mark the skin underneath his eyes, contrasting with the prominent chest and abs. As my eyes slowly lower, the deep V that marks his hips, hides underneath his grey sweats.

Too much too soon, the image is cut. The end of the screen doesn’t allow me to see more than that, leaving me with a fuzzy stomach and a hyperactive heart.

I miss him. A lot more than I should because there’s still a voice in the back of my mind, telling me he doesn’t. Telling me that I am not that important, nor will I ever be.