Page 11 of Hamartia

Hey, remember me from the Paris bathroom two years ago. I was laughing about your lack of a dick with my mates. Haven’t stopped thinking about you since. Wanna grab a drink?

And then, like he can hear me, he turns his head and stares right back at me. He looks like he’s smiling a little. Like he knows something I don’t, or maybe like he’s trying to place me.

“Mr. Scott,” a voice says from behind me.

“Rapha,” I reply, dragging my eyes to Amari’s PA.

“Of course. Mr Amari is finished with his previous client if you’d like to come with me?”

I nod, looking back at Jaehyun. He’s browsing the chilled drinks display, no longer looking in my direction. I have this weird pulling sensation in my chest when I start to walk away from him, like my body is fighting against me. Like my body wants me to go back over. Do something. Say something.

“Was that who I think it was?” I ask the PA as we walk towards the elevator. I know it was, I’m just hoping it might encourage her to tell me why he’s here.

“It was,” she affirms but says nothing more.

Before we disappear into the elevator, I glance back once more. He’s on his phone with his back turned. Did I just miss the only chance I’d ever get to talk to him? My gut is churning tight with inaction, like it might be. If I was a person who believed in signs, this would be a huge one with neon lights flashing around it. I’d put this meeting with Amari off for weeks but I showed up today, finally, early, and Jaehyun is somehow here too. This fucking idol of my fantasies.

We’re speeding up to the tenth floor now though and I can’t very well ask her to take me back down.

Fuck.He was right there. I was right there. I just fucking spoke to him. Sort of.

Amari comes off like he was born to be a corporate lawyer. Sharply dressed, polished all over, and with a smile that looks somehow both deadly and genuine.

He congratulates me on the nomination then offers me a drink, before sitting me down with a more serious tone to talk through the redraft of the contract. It gives me a 28.84% share of the royalties off the next three albums. It’s the most I’ve had and it’s more than the guys are getting. There’s also a separate conditional contract pertaining to a solo record, with an option to make and release it with Halcyon’s full support within the next five years.

I’m not really listening, honestly. I’m thinking about Jaehyun. Wondering if he’s still in the building. Wondering how long he’s in LA for and where else I might bump into him.

“Perfect, Rapha,” Amari says as I sign. He slides the contracts across the table to his PA to witness and sign, before she lifts them and takes them out of the room with her. “I’ll have Emmy courier your copies over to you asap.”

“No worries, man.” I take a sip of the water he poured me. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so? Unless you’ve anything else for me?”

I shake my head and stand. “Nah, I’m good. Sorry about taking so long to get down here, you know how it is.”

“I do, I do, No worries at all.” He rises to his feet and shakes my hand. “Well, if there’s ever anything I can do for you. I work for Halcyon, but I’m also here for the artists, you know?”

“Appreciate it, dude.”

I’m out of there like a shot and Emmy the PA is ushering me to the elevator and keying me down to the ground floor again. I practically bolt out through the doors towards the restaurant. I’ve still not got a clue what I’m gonna say to him but that doesn’t matter at this point. I’ll deal with that when I’m standing in front of him.

He’s not there though. There are a few guys in suits by the window and two women looking over a cell phone on the other side. But no Jaehyun. I feel like punching something. Kicking something. I glance at the young guy behind the counter who’s looking at me expectantly and think about asking him when he left and in what direction, but what does it matter. He’s not fucking here.

“Can I get you anything?” the guy asks. He’s wearing a black apron and a big smile that tells me he’s a fan.

“Nah, I was just…” I take a last look around the lounge. “Where’s your bathroom, man?”

Should probably take a leak before the drive back as the two cans of coke and glass of water start catching up with me. He points me to the shiny black doors hidden behind a wooden screen and goes back to wiping the counter.

I’ve just finished pissing into the urinal when one of the cubicle doors open and he’s striding out towards the sinks.

It feels like I’ve been kicked in the fucking face.

He falters very slightly when he sees me, but barely gives me a second look as he moves to wash his hands.

How is it possible that it’s this again? An exact re-enactment of Paris. Except this time there’s no Crawford, no Mason, there’s just the two of us.

His phone is sitting face down on the marble counter as he rinses and I notice he has a pale pink Gucci cover on, his initials in gold:LJH. Silver bracelets hang from his wrists and rings decorate his hands as he makes a thorough job of cleaning them.