Page 1 of The Way Home

Prologue

Jamie had noidea where to buy chanterelle mushrooms. Which was a problem, considering Caleb would be home in the next hour and Jamie still had a dozen cupcakes to decorate, a flat to tidy, and the group chat (Caleb’s Super Secret London Birthday Bash) to update.

The group name had been Ellie’s idea. It was cute and all, but—oh,Ellie!He pulled out his phone and fired off a quick text.

Are there chanterelles at the Whole Foods near you?!

Her reply came almost instantly.

Ellie

Wtf is a chanterelle?!

“Ugh,” Jamie huffed as he tossed his phone aggressively into his backpack. Ellie wasnohelp whatsoever, which meant he’d have to find them himself. And if he went out now, Caleb could be home when he got back, so he should probably tidy up.

Determined not to ruin the risotto—or Caleb’s birthday—he quickly began to sort out the clutter and came to the very sordid conclusion that maybe Caleb had a point. Jamie was pretty bloody messy because, well, all the clutter washis.

His bike helmet wobbled precariously on the edge of the couchwhere he’d dumped it after his morning ride, and his work clothes were strewn about the back of the sofa. While Caleb’s shoes were neatly put away in the closet, Jamie had three pairs littered near their front door.

Two coffee mugs sat on the table, each with a sad ring of cold coffee sludge left over from that morning. Caleb always brewed the coffee for them both, so Jamie—in theory—was in charge of putting them away. He hardly ever did, though, until they ran out of mugs to use.

Jamie jogged over and scooped them up, smiling at the label on his. “Hottest Librarian,” with a cartoon woman in horn-rimmed glasses—a gift from Caleb after he’d gotten his very own exhibit to plan at the British Library. Snatching up the other, he snorted at the one he’d bought Caleb. “Hottest Athletic Trainer,” sporting a pair of crutches and the Chelsea F.C. logo.

He carried both mugs to the sink and found himself smiling again. Most mornings, they’d stand in the kitchen drinking from them while Caleb read the news and Jamie attempted to wake up.

Rinsing the ridiculous mugs in the sink and plopping them into the dishwasher, Jamie thought back to that morning. Caleb had left in his Chelsea kit, looking unfairly fit for someone who’d just woken up. While Jamie’s curls were surely in disarray and his face puffy, Caleb looked like a runway model.

God, he was handsome.

Jamie had been halfway through his coffee when Caleb had tugged him in by the front of his jumper and kissed him slowly.

“Don’t plan anything crazy for my birthday,” Caleb had murmured against his mouth.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jamie hadabsolutelyplanned something crazy.

The second Caleb had shut the door behind him, Jamie had stood there for a moment, a bit dazed, before launching into action. He’d dedicated the rest of the day to party planning, which involved sending his coworker Jean-Baptiste on a hunt for decorations, instructing Ellie to send party details to all of their friends, and Jamie coordinating everything else. Now, the decorations werestashed in the closet, everyone in the group chat had been informed and was ready to do their respective jobs, and all that was left was the bloody chanterelle mushrooms for the bloody risotto.

“Oh!” he squeaked to himself, having almost forgotten his yearly tradition. He crossed to the fridge and grabbed a marker from the counter, circling Caleb’s birthday on the magnetic calendar. He took a moment to add a cluster of terribly drawn balloons around it.

He stepped back to admire his work.

Perfect. Caleb will hate it.

Glancing at the clock one last time, Jamie grabbed his thick beanie and pulled it over his ears.

Everything had to be perfect for Caleb’s birthday, and even if the roads were slick with ice by now, desperate times called for desperate measures. Nothing could stop him from making the day perfect for his boyfriend—

Fiancé,he corrected himself.

With a stupid, dopey grin, he rubbed the ring on his finger with his thumb and biked to Whole Foods. After zig-zagging along the familiar London streets, Jamie nabbed the mushrooms for the risotto and thrust them at the cashier.

“Big Saturday night plans, mate?” The kid snorted as he weighed the mushrooms.

“Yes, actually,” Jamie replied happily. “Also, I brought my own bag.” He pulled his canvas bag out of his backpack and handed it over.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the cashier grumbled, blinking at the smiling carrot on it. Jamie ignored him cheerfully, packed his veg, and headed back out into the cold.