Page 36 of Only One Tour Bus

“No plans. Sure, I’ll picnic with you.” But he says the word picnic like he’s going to a root canal. Not the biggest compliment to me, but I’ll take the yes.

“Great.” Now I have to work on getting past the embarrassment of the hug, and fast. And being pressed against Callum’s chest does kind of make the whole misunderstanding worth it.

Maybe so worth it my subconscious knew he wasn’t going in for a hug but it made me go in anyway.

What a crafty bitch my subconscious is. I can’t argue with the results.

I lead us to an M&S that has a good selection of premade foods like salads and sandwiches, along with fancy charcuterie boards. And wine. Purchases firmly in hand, we get on the Tube and travel to St. Dunstan’s.

It’s a beautiful London day, not too cold or hot, and for once, no clouds in sight. Although I realize that now I’ve thought it, rain clouds will appear and ruin this picnic at some point.

I stop outside the church ruins in the park. It was built in the Middle Ages in the Gothic style, all pointed arches and tall, soaring windows, and added on to by Christopher Wren. But then it was damaged in the Blitz, during the war. London decided not to rebuild, and to make the ruins a garden, adding a lawn, trees and a fountain. Now, it looks like nature is reclaiming the building, even more than the ruins at Fountains Abbey, with trees planted directly into the ruins and plants that were encouraged to grow on the walls and through the windows that no longer house their colorful stained glass.

“What a beautiful space, made from such a tragedy,” I say.

“Yes. It’s always amazing when buildings survive through time, in whatever form, and interesting how they change in function and in design too.”

“I know you probably don’t get starstruck by all this like I do, having grown up in Ireland, but I’m always amazed by how old everything is here. Especially compared to America, where, yes, the Mesa Verde Cliff Palaces made by the ancestral Puebloans are from 1190 CE, but it’s an outlier. Most of the oldest surviving buildings are from 1600 to 1700 CE. And in California they’re a lot newer than that.”

“I don’t know about all that. I never lost the magic feeling when I visit the places where history happened. Or seeing the objects that have seen history.”

I smile at him, always amazed when we have the slightest thing in common. And because I kind of want to see his reaction to my smile.

He never reacts like I expect someone to react to a smile. He’s usually angry at the perceived frivolity. But who gets angry at a smile?

Callum does veer from the script a little this time. Instead of the expected glare, the same one that I have diligently been reminding myself is not a good thing to fantasize about for the past five years, I get something new. An awkward…not a smile, per se, but a grimace that tends toward enjoyment on the spectrum of joy and sadness. Maybe.

With four years of college classes in analyzing the slightest details in paintings, sculpture and architecture, one would think I had more than the requisite tools to analyze this facial anomaly.

But I’m stumped. Maybe it’s just indigestion?

I would need to study Callum-specific irregularities for an entire four years before I could even begin to decipher that quirk of facial muscles.

I point out an empty spot in the grass and we set up our impromptu picnic, people watching the Londoners and tourists alike who stop in the park for lunch. If only I could get my picnic partner to talk like he did when we entered the park, it would be a pleasant afternoon. But it’s been all grunts since then. Apparently, the man doesn’t have much to say when he isn’t discussing history, when he turns into a real chatterbox. Ah well, I guess I’ll have to pick up all the conversational slack.

In other news, this picnic is helping me get better at characterizing which grunts are meant to be an affirmative and which are meant to be a negative. I guess my study of Callum is moving along nicely. Not to facial expressions yet, but those are an advanced class.

Once we’re done eating, I pack up our trash and stand. “Thanks for eating with me.”

I expect him to leave now. We’ve eaten, and there’s probably a museum he wants to see somewhere in this city. It is London, a city known for its museums.

And I kind of need him to leave for what’s going to happen next.

He grunts in acknowledgement of my thanks, but doesn’t leave. Instead, he looks at his watch. “What are you going to do until we have to meet everyone for dinner?”

“I was thinking of hanging around here. Maybe reading some. Or catching up on email.”

He nods. “It’s a nice garden. I’ll stay, too.”

Hmm. Non, merci. I would like to do the next part without judgment. “Really? There are so many nice museums I’m sure you would rather go to than hang out here in nature.” I stop myself from physically pushing him out of the park. Because I don’t know if I’ll be successful.

He narrows his eyes at me, and I know I’m laying it on thick. But I want to take my pictures in peace. “What are you playing at? You’re being very suspicious.”

“What?” I scoff. “Am not.”

“What are you trying to do in this park, and will I need to call Rob for legal assistance?”

“Oh for—I’m going to take photos, all right? Probably to put on social media. Definitely some will be selfies. And your absolute disgust with the process will not help the endeavor at all.”