The Real Score

Chapter 6: Teenage Dream

"Hello, London."

I tugged my coat tighter around my body as a cold blast of wind accosted me, blowing my hair all over the place. I tucked what I could behind my ear, but I knew I still looked like a mess. I have frequently asked Marcus how he manages to look dashing even after long flights, and he would just shake his head at my hopelessness.

Behind me, the Heathrow Airport continued to hustle and bustle. In front of me stretched the land that would be my home for most of my two weeks in Europe. The land of the Brits. Let's see if I can drown myself more in their accents.

Two weeks. I would be spending two weeks in London, with one of those weeks coinciding with Gezellig's zeitgeist World Tour. Two weeks. That was the longest that Marcus and I were ever going to spend together physically. Suddenly, I was scared—what if we discover more stuff about each other and realize we hate those parts? What if it would be difficult?

(On the topic of album titles, you can just imagine our conversation: "Zeitgeist? You could have used what the word meant, Marcus. Spirit of the ages. I mean, you guys know that your fans are young, right? Like ten-year-olds. Why are you giving them a hard time spelling your album title?" I'd say, and Marcus would laugh it off. I suggested mamihlapinatapais for their next album title.)

I felt the quick pulses of my phone as it vibrated in my pocket. "Wayans," I greeted when I picked it up and he replied with a smooth "Tan."

"Where are you?"

"By the black car."

I squinted, surveying the cars in front of me, my view obstructed by my hair flying all over, and I grunted. "You do know that there are about ten black cars in front of me, right?" I said, and he laughed the laugh that I like, the carefree, easy laugh.

"Your two o'clock."

I turned, and about ten feet away, standing by a black Range Rover, was Marcus, holding up a handmade banner which screamed Welcome to London, B! in red with lots of hearts. Three balloons floated behind him, his smile brighter than the one of the balloons in yellow. I ended the call and quickly snapped a photo of him, shaking my head.

Even before I approached him, his car was swarmed by fans who noticed him, and a few moments later, there were paparazzi already. How in the world...?

But Marcus didn't mind. Years and years of this, he was used to it, but it didn't mean he loved it all the time. I mean, the guy couldn't buy his coffee without people asking for a picture with him.

When I reached him, Marcus has already disposed of the banner and the balloons inside his car. He still looked the same, lean and strong, still into skinny jeans, and still carrying that crazy head of hair that he was known for. Today, however, his hair was trapped in a beanie.

"Hey B," he whispered, pulling me close. I wanted to step back because everybody was watching us, but when he hugged me, all warmth and sunshine, I didn't care anymore. "B," I greeted back.

He was right—you could only keep a secret for so long. Fans will keep on digging, their interests piqued, at who Marcus' 'B' was. Never had a letter been so intriguing. Who was B? The B who Marcus misses. The B to whom he tweeted the YouTube link of Bruno Mars' Just the Way You Are to. The B with whom Marcus has the 'best conversations' with.

The same B for whom a number of Tumblr sites are dedicated to—whoismarcusb, fyeahmarcusb, huntingb, among others.

Marcus drew back, shaking his head while smiling. He produced another beanie from his pocket. "I sort of knew you weren't prepared for the wind." He fitted the beanie on my hair, trapping it so it wouldn't fly around, and when I wrinkled my nose in response, he pinched my nose.