Page 8 of The Way Home

The closer they got to Caleb’s flat, the more Jamie started to panic. His palms were sweaty, and he realized, like an idiot, that this was probably a huge mistake.

“I think you can lock your bike there,” Caleb said, indicating a bike rack outside a fancy, very modern-style building.

“You live here?” Jamie gazed up at the luxury flats in awe.

“Well, I wasn’t planning on taking you to someone else’s apartment tonight.” Caleb smirked, and all Jamie could think about was that serial killer documentary.

Caleb’s smile fell quickly off his face, and he added, “Uh, yeah. Of course I live here.”

“Er, right. I’ll just…” Jamie clumsily locked up his bike, tucking his helmet under his arm, and followed Caleb into the building. Holding the door open, Caleb ushered Jamie through and led him to the twelfth floor.

Too busy in his own internal panic, Jamie hadn’t really thought about what Caleb’s flat would look like. He certainly didn’t expect to be ushered into the nicest bloody flat he’d ever stepped foot in—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, all with modern and elegant finishes.

Across the living room, two white doors led out to a balcony. As Jamie walked over and peered through, he could see the lights from some bars in Soho. Jamie imagined Caleb sitting out there in the morning, enjoying his coffee.

“Make yourself at home,” Caleb said as he plunked his keys into a bowl by the door and swept into the kitchen. He heard the clink of two glasses being pulled out and filled what he assumed was beer.

Jamie floated over to the bookshelves, eyes immediatelyscanning the titles, letting the activity eat away his nerves. Jamielovedbooks and, if nothing else, maybe that could be his gateway into conversation.

He noticed the collection was large and a bit chaotic. The overwhelming urge to start sorting them alphabetically struck him hard, so shoved his hands into his trouser pockets to stop himself from being rude.

On the lowest shelf sat a sleek, gold record player. It looked new and modern, definitely not vintage. Jamie squinted at the books on the bottom shelf, propped up against it.

“Is this the Heinemann African Writers Series?”

“Oh, yeah. My mom is a big reader,” Caleb said, walking over and handing Jamie a beer. “When she moved back to Texas, she needed someone to take them. Otherwise, I think they would’ve ended up at the thrift shop or something.”

He leaned down and pressed a button on the fancy record player, and a few lights blinked to life. With abeep beepand a few clicks on his phone, a soft, electronic melody came floating out of it.

Jamie went back to scanning the book titles. “This is brilliant.”

Caleb snorted. “Don’t you work at a library? I’d think my collection would feel pretty lame in comparison.”

“Well, sure,” Jamie said, blinking at a row of thick hardcovers. He itched to touch all of them. “But I’ve never seen a personal library so… enormous. Have you read any of them?”

Caleb flashed a cocky smile that had Jamie’s insides turning to mush. “Some.”

“Let me guess.” Jamie brought a finger to his lips. He could practically hear Ellie in his ear, urging him to actuallyflirtwith Caleb.

“Your section is here.” He pointed to the few science fiction novels he recognized. Sporty men usually liked science fiction.

“I have read those, yes. And others.”

Before Jamie could ask Caleb which books he’d actually read, something in the background clicked into focus. The lyrics of the song registered, and he froze. “Wait, is this The Foundations?”

“Yes.” Caleb smiled. “Well, no. But, it’s a lo-fi cover of their original.”

Jamie nodded, a small grin tugging at his lips. He thought about how often he played the original at work, and how Jean-Baptiste would mock his “Oldies 50s & 60s” playlist.

“I like it.” He glanced around the rest of the flat. “I guess you’re planning to stay in London for a while, yeah?”

“Not sure, why?” Caleb asked.

Jamie opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure if he was already talking too much. Maybe he should just kiss him and stop talking about the random shit in his brain.

“Oh, just…” He gestured vaguely toward the bookshelves. “You seem settled, is all. I know if I were moving to the States for just a bit, I probably wouldn’t bringeverythingI own.”

“I don’t have much attachment to my hometown in Ohio anymore.”