I'm not rewarded with any time to respond to Preston's comment on his future because we've reached the cafe. I quickly learn that the extensive Facebook stalking I did has paid off; I spot Rhys immediately. He's sitting in one of the cafe's far corners, a book in his hands and a navy mug on the table in front of him.
Preston is indisputedly the spitting image of his mother, and so I wasn't surprised when I struggled to draw comparisons between him and Rhys via the few photos I've seen of him. Where Preston is fair, Rhys's features are dark, but seeing him in person—a distant look in his brown eyes, the way he's rhythmically tapping his foot, his posture—is stirring a sense of jarring familiarity. I can't explain it; it's nothing aesthetic, but they're so glaringly related that it's giving me vertigo.
I'm so hypnotised by Rhys's presence that it takes the sound of Preston's voice to draw me back into reality.
'Drinks are on you, I presume?'
My face falls into a frown, and I spin on the spot to find him gazing at the menu behind the coffee bar. I'd bet my life that he's not so much as glanced in the direction of the cafe's sitting area.
'What with me being forced here against my will,' he continues.
'I know you're only trying to be funny because you're anxious, so I'm going to let that slide.'
'Am I that transparent?'
He's still staring at the menu.
'Yes.'
'I'll reference this the next time you accuse me of being unreadable.'
'Shut up.'
He smirks.
I glance back towards Rhys, who as far as I can tell, hasn't spotted us because he's doing exactly what he was doing when we entered the cafe. I turn back to Preston, who's also doing exactly what he's been doing since we entered, and I have to swallow a laugh.
'Sorry to pull you away from such an engaging read,' I say, nodding at the cafe menu. 'But let's talk game plan.'
Finally, Preston gives in and turns to look at me, his eyebrows raised and his gaze notably not daring to shift in the direction of the seating area.
'We've got three options,' I begin. 'I buy the drinks while you head over to Rhys.'
He physically flinches at the notion.
'You buy them, and I head over to break the ice or whatever, or whoever buys the drinks and we head over together.'
'We should go together,' he replies in a heartbeat, clearly not contemplating option one for a second.
I'm not especially convinced he's keen on the together option either.
I nod. 'Okay, I'll go. Get me a hot chocolate, please. Oat milk, if they have it.'
He stammers—Preston Maddox stammers like an actual human being—then grabs my arm before I can move an inch.
'We should go together.'
'This isn't about what we should do, not that we should do anything; there's no right answer,' I argue. 'But anyway, my point is that you obviously want me to head over first, so that's what we'll do.'
To my genuine surprise, he doesn't argue again. He swallows, nods, mutters what I decipher as a thank you, then effortlessly flips on the charm as if our entire conversation was in my head as he turns towards the barista waiting to take our order.
In the knowledge that I'll be the one making a run for it if I do, I don't allow myself a second to think before turning away from the coffee bar and treading in Rhys's direction. I'm internally swearing my ass off as I approach his table—seriously, I'm on the verge of turning myself inside out with nerves—and I take a sharp breath as my approaching presence forces Rhys to look up from the pages of his book.
Our eyes meet, his lips parting slightly, and it's—I was wrong. I was wrong aout them sharing no physical similarities. Their mouths. They have the same mouth. I'm so distracted by the revelation that I don't realise I've been silently staring at him long enough for it to turn really fucking weird.
For some reason, I judge the next best step to be me blurting, 'God, sorry! Hi!' in his face.
No explanation or indication towards who I am. Just a needlessly aggressive hi!
After another moment of silence, and with a subtle tilt of his head, Rhys says, 'Mia?'
'Yes! Sorry, hi,' I repeat, then make things worse with, 'I do have more words in my vocabulary than sorry and hi, by the way.'
On the bright side, Preston will almost seem normal compared to me at this rate. It's not until Rhys is on his feet and gesturing for me to sit opposite him that I realise I've got no idea how he knows who I am.
He must sense this somehow because once I've gotten comfortable, and once he's returned to his own seat, he says, 'Preston mentioned you might be coming.'
His accent is distinctively Welsh, and while his voice is quiet, it somehow has no trouble competing with the chatter bouncing around the cafe. I'm dying to ask what else Preston's said about me, if anything, but I hold my tongue. Rhys is smiling, but it's one that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and his shoulders have deflated.
Only now does it occur to me that he's assumed the worst; that Preston chickened out, and I've rocked up to apologise on his behalf. Maybe I'm just searching for comparisons, but it feels like a very Preston-esque assumption.
'Oh! No, it's—He's just grabbing our drinks. Preston, I mean. Did you want another one?' I ask as the thought suddenly occurs to me, despite a quick glance at his mug revealing his drink to be untouched. 'Or a cake or something? I can grab one quickly if—'
'I'm fine, thank you,' he reassures me, smiling again, this time with his eyes.
The confirmation of Preston's presence triggers Rhys's foot tapping again, despite his blatant relief, and it's sweet. It's really sweet, actually.
'What are you reading?' I ask, then nod towards his book, which is now facedown on the table between us.
He combs his fingers through his wavy hair with a nervous laugh, hesitates, meets my eyes, then says, 'Honestly, I have no idea.'
I start laughing with him as he continues.
'I picked it up before I left—didn't even think; just plucked it from my bookshelf, and all I've done is stare blankly at its opening page.'
With that, he leans forward to take the book, then scans its cover before flashing me a view of it.
'A Tale of Two Cities,' I read aloud.
'Apparently so,' Rhys murmurs, scanning the cover again before returning it to the table.
'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,' I quote, which earns me another smile. 'I'm studying English, so Dickens is basically my gospel. Between you and me, I don't love the classics, but he's my favourite—Sorry, totally irrelevant.' I shake my head. 'And probably the last thing an academic wants to talk about on their day off. Ignore me.'
'No, please don't reign it in for my sake. Physics is my field, so no work overlap, don't worry.'
I fight back a smile. Of course it's physics.
I'm so wrapped up in Rhys and our increasingly relaxed conversation that my initial reaction to a familiar presence behind me is confusion.
'Sorry I took so long,' Preston says as I swivel in my armchair to see him holding a drinks tray topped with two mugs. 'The queue was endless and they've only got one person serving.'
He was already being served when we parted and they had multiple people behind the counter. I've therefore got zero doubt Preston's claim is him covering for the fact he probably spent at least five minutes panic-staring at the coffee station with our drinks in hand before actually making his way over to us. He's lucky I'm too nice to expose him.
Rhys enthusiastically assures him it's not a problem–too enthusiastically, but in the best way–and stands to offer Preston some help with the tray he's carrying. Given all that's on it are two mugs, Preston politely declines the offer, which prompts Rhys to glance between his seat and the tray multiple times. The guy clearly has no idea what to do but is desperate to do the right thing, despite there being no right thing, and the whole awkward interaction is probably the sweetest thing ever.
I take my hot chocolate from the tray Preston's placed onto the table as he sits into the armchair beside mine, and as he gets comfortable, I catch him scratching at the side of his index finger. I resist reaching out to place my hand over his, but flash him a look of what I hope reads it's okay.
'Thanks for coming,' Rhys, whose foot tapping has sped up, says to Preston as I take a sip of hot chocolate. 'I appreciate it. I really appreciate it.'
Preston, who's renowned for his open, expressive disposition, shrugs. He bloody shrugs. I, of course, know that's not a sign of indifference but one of his tendency to shut down when faced with difficult situations, but Rhys doesn't know that. I subtly shift my eyes towards Preston, this time with a glare of say something! while praying he catches it.
He either does, or his logic overrides his anxiety.
'It's–Yeah, no, it's fine,' he says, and my shoulders relax as I sigh with relief. 'Sorry I took so long to write to you.'
Rhys is aggressively shaking his head, but his voice is soft. 'No, please don't apologise.'
Okay, good. This is good. Awkward, which was inevitable, but good. Preston's hands are still fidgeting, but they're calmer, and Rhys's foot tapping has slowed down. They might progress to eye contact by the end of today at this rate.
It turns out Preston's anxiety over revealing his past to Rhys was unfounded. While Rhys asks him questions–a lot of questions–they're all focused on the present and future. When he does veer towards past territory, Preston effortlessly steers the conversation away from it. Doing so has become second nature to him, I guess; he's been busy perfecting it since he moved to London.
It's subtle–far more subtle than the way he's avoiding any talk of his past–but he's not particularly warm about the topic of his future, either. He finishes off every future-related discussion with a maybe or perhaps or possibly, and the comment he made to me before we entered the cafe rings louder in my head each time. I try not to let it eat away at me too much, especially when as our conversation is coming to an end, Preston agrees to Rhys's suggestion of a future meet up soon.
As the three of us part ways outside the cafe, I can practically sense Rhys twitching with the desire to reach out and touch Preston; to embrace him, to land an affectionate tap on his arm, to just touch him in some capacity. He resists, which in hindsight, is for the best because I've got no doubt that would be all too much all at once for Preston.
As Preston and I are strolling back towards Richmond station, I'm grinning as if I've been struck with some sudden delerium. It takes him about half a second to notice.
'Was there caffeine in that hot chocolate or something?' he mutters from my left without looking at me.
'That went well!' is my chirpy response. 'I don't know if you noticed, but he was looking at you like you were the best thing he's ever–Oh, God.'
I bring myself to a halt, which forces Preston to stop just as abruptly.
'You're not freaking out are you? Y'know, doing the whole something went well so now I've got to sabotage it thing, right?'
'I have no idea what you're talking about,' he replies, and is there...?
There is. There's a jovial tone to his voice as he starts walking again, and I have to jog to catch up with him. He's being playful. He's not freaking out. My delerius grin grows wider, and as he glances at me as we're entering Richmond station, Preston's lips quiver with a badly hidden smirk.
'No, Euphemia, I'm not spiralling.'
'Personal growth!' I yell after him as he taps through a barrier. 'Before you know it, you'll be asking Rhys if he thinks my name sounds like an STD!'
He's snorting a laugh as we start walking side by side again. 'I think that's more of a fourth meeting enquiry.'
'You asked me it the literal first time we met–Well, met as you, not Zack, I mean.'
He shurgs. 'And that's where I went wrong.'
'Huh?'
'You've never answered. I evidently jumped the gun.'
I roll my eyes.
'Unless you were waiting for the right moment, and now happens to be that right moment. In which case, has anyone ever told you that your name–'
'Fuck off.'
I storm ahead as his laughter echos behind me, and I've never been so irritated yet so thrilled at the same time.
By the time we bundle onto the train, any annoyance has dwindled into nothing. I'd been so anxious about today that I felt physically ill, and when Preston freaked out moments before meeting Rhys, I thought that was it. I was so sure he wouldn't go through with it. As I watch him fall into the seat beside me with closed eyes and a long sigh, above all else, I feel really fucking proud of him.
An overwhelming desire to hug Preston floods my body, but unlike Rhys, I don't have the willpower to resist. His eyes are still closed as I lean into him, then wrap my arms around his waist and press the side of my head into his chest. His back stiffens, and I've got zero doubt that he'd probably shove me to the floor if such a thing was socially acceptable, but I don't care.
'Hugs give you hives, I know. Sorry,' I say. 'But ten seconds?'
His body relaxes, but he doesn't agree to my terms and instead murmurs, 'five.'
'Eight.'
'Five.'
'Seven and a half.'
'Four.'
'You can't go down!'
'And that's time.'
With that, Preston carefully wraps his fingers around my wrists, then nudges my arms from him. I at least appreciate the delicacy.
'That wasn't five seconds,' I grumble as I turn to frown at the window, then cross my arms.
'That was more than five,' I hear him argue. 'Besides, I agreed to four.'
I'm still glaring at the passing scenery outside the train, but I fail to stop myself laughing. It kind of ruins the faux angry thing I've got going on. When I hear Preston chuckling to my left, I'm a gonner–my laughter grows, but I balance it out by calling him a dickhead.
We're about halfway to Clapham, my eyes still focused outside the window, when I can no longer resist asking him what I've been trying not to since we entered the cafe.
'Preston?' I say, my voice quiet.
'Hm?'
'You don't feel like that anymore, do you? What you said about not having a future?'
He doesn't respond to me for a while, each second of silence feeling no different to what I imagine having my heart grabbed, twisted, and squeezed would.
'Sometimes,' he says, finally, and my stomach drops as I turn from the window to meet his gaze. 'I don't think it'll ever not be sometimes.'
I try to speak, but he stops me.
'But mostly, no,' he adds. 'Actively planning a future is still... difficult, but the concept of having one feels less precarious than it used to. Only on occasion does it still feel that way.' He pauses again, his eyes shifting away for a moment. 'When it does, I just talk to you.'
I scoff. 'No, you don't. You've never told me this.'
A ghost of a smile flickers onto his face, but I'm not in on the joke.
'I don't tell you,' he explains. 'I just talk to you. Generally, I mean. About anything.'
I tilt my head, then narrow my eyes until the penny drops, at which point I stutter, then say, 'oh.'
I frown.
'Oh, okay. Well, that's good, I think.' Another pause. 'Although now I'm going to be paranoid every single time you talk to me–which is very often, can I add–so thanks for that.'
''The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden'.'
'That's recycled!' I accuse, poniting my finger in his face. 'From that house party in Cathays, remember? The one where my sister got shitfaced! You said that quote to me there—from War and Peace, right?' I turn away, shaking my head. 'I expect better from you.'
'I'm acknowledging the parralels,' he explains–a clear attempt to redeem himself.
I start tutting as I shake my head. 'Can't believe you thought you'd get away with that. Recycling a quote.' I scoff again. 'Honestly.'