The weather is perfect. It’s neither too warm nor too cold. Late August seems to do its trick, and it finds us delighted by its spectacle. The soft breeze is perfect for wearing something like Charlie’s outfit. Although I must admit it surprises me that she wears such clothes. She’s got some simple jeans and some old Converses on, but she matches both with a really nice jacket that plays an amazing act with her leather black bag and… hair pins?

I bite my lower lip as she gets in the taxi, trying not to overthink the surprise and the feeling under my tongue as I watch her fold her silly little map and jump on the seat.

As the day goes by, all I’m concerned about is enjoying it. It is weird, but I like the sensation of being in a whole new different world. All of a sudden, I could be anyone. I could tell Charlie the longest list of lies and she would have to believe them. I guess it goes both ways, since I now am forced to believe that she is the type of person to wear neon hair pins, right?

I can see her face clearly today, under the scarce sunlight. And the round shape of it makes me want to hold it in my hands as if she were the only thing to look at in that museum, but I don’t let the feeling dig in.

I take a picture of her, that’s all.

We have lunch by the canal, somewhere in Camden. Neither of us could’ve predicted that, as I asked her to take a picture of me, a bird would try to steal my greasy fish. Although I’m screaming my lungs out, I find it funny, and I think she does too. 

We end up sharing some sort of argentinian empanadas and trying not to choke on the instant memory we’ve made out of it.

I wear my camera on my shoulder, across my chest, as we walk down next to the canal on our way to somewhere else. It gets stuck on my shirt, so I have to fix it from time to time, but I pay no mind. Nothing troubles me today. I feel kind of… free? 

I have no idea of where we are and I don’t really care, either. I turn around to check that Charlie does seem to care, though. So I ask a passerby before she blushes and he points out the spot on the map for us. 

Once she has drawn her line on the map, we continue walking.

We talk about nothing, as we both know it’s not like we could or would talk about our job. But we also have nothing else to share, right? We’ve only had today for us to be normal people, not assistants to big pop superstars.

And still, in this quietness, I’m having fun.

We couldn’t fit the book in her bag, so I’m carrying it for her. We’re in some sort of park, and I know she’ll find out which one before I tell her it’s a pretty place, and I’m relieved.

That 's it.

I feel relief.

I am glad I am here.

I let out a little laugh and then, all of a sudden, I feel them coming. Tears blurring out my view. I blink a few times, well aware of the fact that I’m wearing mascara and that I will never let my emotions ruin the only thing I’m truly good at.

 “Ah, my feet hurt so bad,” Charlie says, unprompted. 

She lays down on the grass next to me. I don’t like sitting on grass, but I decide pretending I do will make me look cooler. I don’t want her to think I’m just some city annoying girl.

“Here,” I say, offering some water.

“Thank you.”

She grants me a smile and I look at her from above, thinking about her short hair and her pins and the way her jacket opens on both sides, framing her there. It’s peaceful, not to be someone.

Right here, right now, I’m absolutely no one.

“You’re not that bad,” she mentions then, standing up. 

I bet she can tell I’m in my head, and that’s why she tries to find me.

I raise a brow, “Oh, so you’re admitting it.”

“Admitting what?”

“You thought I was shallow and pretentious, didn’t you?” I say, smiling over my shoulder. She blushes. And it catches me off guard. I shy away, shrugging and laughing it off. “And you were absolutely right, Char. Don’t let yourself be fooled by today.”

“Is this self pity, I hear?” she smiles, copying my movements again.

Why does she do that? She did it the other night and she does it again now. I can’t stop noticing how, all of a sudden, sitting this close is completely fine for the both of us, and there’s something strange. Because it shouldn’t feel this easy, right?

“Thank you for saving my ass yesterday, and uploading my work.”

I’m smiling again.

“You’re welcome.”

I’m waiting for her to say something else. Brag about it. She would, wouldn’t she? But here it hits me again: as many assumptions as I can make about her, or about me, at the end of the day, it’s the small choices that have led us both here.

“I thought you could use some help, drunkster.”

“I do, actually,” I laugh. “But I catch up quickly.”

“You’re copying my style?”

“Oh, I’ve googled you.” I admit, all of a sudden, with a giggle. “Joyfuckedmeup97. She/Her. Doughnut-lover.”

She blushes again, as if it surprised her to know that yes, I do know how Tumblr works. I also happen to know how to investigate people on the web. I know all the apps, and how to unlock private blogs if I want to. Would she really think I was that useless? 

There is a reason why my aunt Lilah would have me, even if it’s just one.

“You better not bring that up.” She points at me, her cheeks still spring blushed. Her lips are still a mess, but I can tell she has used some chapstick not so long ago.

I have to carry myself away from a second and deeper thought, so I stand up.

“Come on, lady,” my hands are looking for hers once I’m up and ready for a second round. “We have places to be.”

“Do we?”

“I can’t wait to see Hyde Park!”

Although she was about to grab my hands, she lets go for a second. Charlie stares at me and I have absolutely no idea of what she sees. I lock eyes with her, not willing to give up. Is it a war?

What?

“Amber, this is Hyde Park.”

“Is it?”

She laughs, “No, dumbass!”

“Oh.”

At some point, Charlie and I find the perfect balance between silences and small talk. She even tells me something about her life back in LA, but I can feel she doesn’t want to go there in case it takes me back to Brandon. I choose not to share much about anything, but I gladly listen to her complaining about her landlord. 

I tell her New York is just the same, but I know I’m lucky enough not to concern myself with money problems. White heritage privilege, I guess. I don’t go there either. And frankly, I do so because it makes me feel abhorrently ashamed to know she’s struggling while I’m not —when she’s that good at her job, and I’m just a child of nepotism.

Besides, I don’t want to give her any details about how that makes me feel.

My feet are worn out, but it makes me happy to see that Billie has just sent me a picture of Dickison in the studio once we sit in our seats for Wicked. I show Charlie, who laughs at the sight of her cat and mentions how weird it feels, to see things like that sometimes.

And then, the lights turn off and we’re just watching Wicked and I can’t see her doing it, but I can tell she’s staring at me. Because she couldn’t think I’d know so much about the musical, but also because I want her to look at me. I’m making a spectacle of myself, am I not? I do every little thing that gets me her attention, even when I’m blushing because she rolls her eyes at me with such disdain.

I manage not to cry much, but I was smart enough to bring some tissues and I’m happy that she pretends not to see me when I shrink in my seat.

Tonight, there’s just something vibrant about For Good.

London never sleeps. Or so they say. But we’re both exhausted and I don’t think we could be thinking about doing anything else but that. A place to rest. Sitting in the back of the taxi, I look outside the window as the emotions of the show wear off: the lights and the glowing of the pavement make me feel like I’m in some sort of movie.

The relief has come and gone, and there’s some kind of weird emptiness in my guts. It’s probably the result of the high and lows of emotions during the play, but it gets to me.

Charlie is leaning her head on her own window, her eyes closed. She’s wearing her jacket again, and her hair is a little bit messier. I want to fix it, because it looked perfect this morning and I liked it like that. 

But her nose is still there, round. Her puffy cheeks. Her lips part but move, as she seems to mumble something in between dreams.

As shallow and frivolous I can be, I want to know more about the girl who ended up working for a PR Agency, and loves Van Gogh just as much as she loves Kirby, or has an insatiable appetite for doughnuts.

I wonder if she knows.

I wonder if she can tell.

I didn’t feel lonely today, even when I thought I would crumble a bit. Turning around to see her, her map and her finger up in the air, has probably made this a day to remember for a lifetime.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” I whisper, as I try to wake her up. “We’re back at the hotel, come on.”

She blinks, surprised. I don’t stop myself from combing her hair off her face before I pay. Like a spoiled kid of a divorced marriage that I am, I decide to move away first. And then, as I’m paying, I find a way to go back to her as if my attitude was a long list of unprompted whims I make up as I go.

They make for a great disguise, don’t they?

“Have a lovely night,” I say, as the driver gives me the card back.

My hand meets hers with diligence, as I hold it in mine. Her fingers easily give in, even through confusion. I don’t let go of her as we walk out of the taxi and into the hotel, with a smirk.

And I don’t do it, because I don’t want to.