You Can't Hurry Love

Chapter Thirty-One

I wipe angrily at a lone tear that had fallen long after the others had dried up and push past a couple exiting my building block, muttering a small thank you as we pass. I notice their eyes straying to mine and hang my head in embarrassment, staring down at the floor until I was out of view.

I knew I looked a mess. After fighting to hold back the tears whilst waiting for my bus to arrive, I'd finally lost my resolve the second I'd taken my seat, having to use my sleeve to try and stem the flow as they poured silently down my face. I could feel eyes on me then too, small whispers between fellow passengers wondering what was wrong with the girl in front, but no one came over and asked me. Not one person came to see if I was okay. Because that's not the done thing in London.

Would I have helped if it had been the other way round . . .?

Yes, I think I would have, and that's why I've landed myself in this mess in the first place. Because of my desire to fix things. I get blind-sided. My need to make everyone around me happy, to help them, when sometimes it would just be better if I took a back seat and let them fix their own problems. Let them take charge of their own destiny. At least that way I wouldn't get it thrown back in my face if things didn't quite go to plan.

Was it all my fault what had happened at the firepit? Because the more I think about it, the more I believe I wasn't solely to blame. Yes, I understand I put Lincoln in a situation that he wasn't comfortable with but quite frankly, I've been in many situations that I've been uncomfortable with and I have never reacted the way that he did. And for him to just scream in my face like that . . .

The sad thing is, despite how angry he'd made me at the time all I can picture is that last moment we shared before he left, the heartbroken look on his face as he turned away from me. It was harrowing. And I don't think I'll easily forget it.

Creeping past the flat opposite I scramble around in my handbag, my fingers making contact with everything that I'd thrown in there when I was rushing to leave this morning; my phone, purse, hairbrush, perfume. Even a pack of mints I'd chucked in on the off chance that Lincoln might finally realise how desperate he was to kiss me (what a total waste of time that was) but still they don't land on my keys. So as faintly as I could manage, I knock on the door, hoping one of the boys inside would come to my rescue and fast because the last thing I needed right now was to get caught by Mr Lurker.

After several seconds pass by however and the door fails to open, I find myself starting to panic. Did they tell me they were going out today? Oh, God, they might have done. But I was so concerned with my attempt of getting Lincoln out of the flat without another showdown with Ben that I wasn't really paying any attention.

Knocking once more, I lean down to ease up the lid of the letterbox.

'Ben, are you in there? Isaac? It's me, I've locked myself out.'

But no one comes to the door. And from what I could make out through the tiny gap available, an empty flat was all that was staring back at me.

Oh, no! Oh no, no, no! This can't be happening!

Up-ending my bag onto the threadbare grey carpet, I start rifling through what was laying there, certain I was overreacting and that my keys were just lodged somewhere at the bottom but after searching every article that had fallen out, for the second time that day, I was left feeling utterly despaired.

I didn't pack them. I know I didn't because I had my hand on Lincoln's back when I was ushering him out this morning and I remember walking straight past the bowl on the side table where I usually leave them and now I'm locked out and I have no idea where the boys are or what time they were coming back and I can't go to Lincoln's because he's mad at me and my chest is feeling tight and . . .