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Chapter Three

Justin

No place does the color gray quite like London.

Although it’s June, the sky is brooding gray as I leave my apartment—even after living in London for three years, I can’t make myself think of it as a flat.

The sidewalk is a more subdued gray, like it’s the place where color goes to die.

On this Monday morning, even people’s faces seem to be shades of gray as they scurry toward work, eyes grim and mouths set in firm lines.

I’m caught up in this sea of gray as I walk down the high street, scanning the sidewalk for my target.

I finally spot him sitting on a square of cardboard outside the Heart Foundation charity store, the bright-colored clothes in the window making his hunched figure look even more monochrome.

“Hey, Amos.” I crouch next to him, trying to block my nostrils. Amos’s highland terrier Kryptonite snuffles over to me, her tongue flicking out to rasp my hand.

I’ve discovered shallow mouth breaths are necessary when I’m around Amos. I’ve brought him vouchers for hotel rooms, thinking at least he could have a shower and clean sheets, get out of the awful London weather when he needs to. But I don’t think he’s used any of them.

He appears to revel in his own stink.

However, he does use the dog shower vouchers I’ve given him for Kryptonite. So she’s a big contrast to her owner, with fluffy white fur perfumed with a crisp lemon scent.

“Hey, Justin. Ready for your do-gooder moment to start your day?”

That’s Amos. His tongue is sharp. The nastier he is to me, the more I like him. He’s real. He doesn’t sugarcoat anything. And it sometimes feels there’s not much in my life that is actually real.

“Totally. I always look forward to the buzz I get from feeling morally superior to everyone else who just walks past you,” I say.

“Wankers,” Amos grumbles.

“Yep, but I’m a wanker too,” I say brightly as I hand him the sandwich.

“At least you’re a wanker who gives me food.” Amos unwraps the bacon sandwich and takes a bite.

He doesn’t pretend to be grateful. I don’t pretend I give him stuff out of love for humanity or because I’m a profoundly good person.

Sometimes, it’s nice not to pretend.

I do it because it makes me feel slightly better about myself. Like, for a split second every day, my life intersects with someone else’s in a positive way. Amos is hungry and needs food. I give him food. It’s a simple, straightforward transaction that works for both of us.

If only everything in life could be that simple.

Amos is already engrossed in his sandwich, patting Kryptonite absently with his free hand as she tries to nose her way closer to the bacon, both of them ignoring me now that the transaction is complete.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, and Amos mutters a sound that could be vaguely construed as positive.

I’ll take it.

Leaving Amos and Kryptonite behind, it’s time for my usual morning routine of entering the bowels of the earth to become intimately acquainted with a stranger’s armpits. Also known as traveling on London’s underground tube at rush hour.

When I arrive at the sales department of DTL Enterprises, the usual chaos awaits me.

Pete and Dave have set up an elaborate mini-golf course using office supplies, including a water hazard made from sticky notes and what appears to be a sand trap crafted from spilled coffee grounds.

“Fore!” Dave yells as he lines up his shot with his makeshift golf club—a yardstick with a stapler Blu-Tacked to the end.

“You don’t need to yell fore for a putt, numpty,” Pete says. He’s wearing his lucky tie today, the one with tiny soccer balls all over it.

“I like to err on the side of safety,” Dave says solemnly.

He wiggles his hips, then draws back his stapler-enhanced yardstick to give a gentle tap. The stress ball skitters across the carpet, weaving through the sticky-note water hazard and coffee-ground bunker before rolling to a perfect stop in a mug.

“And he scores!” Dave lifts his arms in triumph.

“Pity that’s the only thing you score in,” Pete says.

“At least I’m out there swinging,” Dave fires back, propping his makeshift club against his desk. “Can’t say the same for you. You spend too much time polishing your nine-iron.”

Pete quirks an eyebrow. “Maybe, unlike you, I don’t want to slice it into the rough all the time.”

I try to tune them out as I boot up my computer. My workspace screams Texas sports fan, from the Houston Texans mouse pad to the vintage Spurs pennant pinned to my cubicle wall. The finishing touch is a photo of me in my old high school football uniform, back when I was still trying to convince myself I could be exactly who everyone expected me to be.

“Speaking of people who need to get their ball in play,” Dave says, swiveling toward my desk with a grin. “We need to work out how to help Ken here find his Barbie.”

“Nah, I reckon he’s more of a GI Joe. The all-American hero. So he needs his GI Jane,” Pete says.

My skin crawls with a squirmy, uncomfortable feeling like I’m wearing a shirt made entirely of itching powder.

Every time my colleagues try to set me up, it feels like I’m adding another layer to my mask between who I am and who they think I am.

“Yeah, if y’all think I’m going to let you guys play matchmaker for me, you’ve got another think coming,” I say.

“Come on, mate, what’s the worst that could happen?” Dave collapses into his chair and then rolls over to me, nearly taking out the remnants of their golf course. “Your dating game is like the England cricket team—all defense, no swing. Sometimes, you’ve got to risk getting bowled out to score some runs.”

Luckily, our boss emerges from his office like a sitcom character with perfect timing, saving me from what I’m sure would have been a series of declining-in-quality sports metaphors about my love life.

“Here he is, my main man.” Roger slaps me on the back as Dave wheels back to his desk. Roger seems to think that the way to manage me is to parody an American football coach from the movies.

Sometimes, I’d kill for that British restraint I heard about before I came here.

“Morning, Roger,” I say.

He rocks back and forth on his heels like an overexcited golden retriever.

“The procurement officer from Maximum Sports called this morning to sing your praises. Said you’re the first sales rep who’s actually listened to what they wanted instead of trying to convince them they want something else.”

“Just doing my job,” I say.

“Well, hopefully, you can continue to do your job with the Striker presentation next week. I really need someone who can read the room. Think you can handle it, sport?”

My pulse rate kicks up. I know Striker Sports is one of the biggest accounts.

“I can definitely handle it,” I say.

“Great. I’ll send you through the details.”

Roger retreats to his office, but not before he stoops to pick up Pete’s discarded stress ball, takes aim at the recycling bin, and sends the ball sailing straight into Sarah from Accounting’s cup of tea.

She doesn’t look impressed as brown liquid splashes across her pristine white blouse.

Sometimes, DTL Enterprises’ sports department reminds me of my frat boy days, only with digestive biscuit dunking competitions instead of beer pong.

I begin my morning tasks of checking email and organizing my client follow-up calls into what Pete calls my “stalker schedule.” But it’s a system that’s earned me top sales rep three quarters running.

It’s not just gaining kudos that’s important. A big part of my salary package comes from sales bonuses. It’s expensive to live in London, and I try to send as much money as possible home to my mom. Despite a lifetime of hard work, she was left almost destitute a few years ago and is still trying to rebuild her life.

The warm glow from Roger’s praise stays with me as I work through my calling schedule.

Dave comes over to linger by my desk ten minutes later. “Do you want to grab a cup of tea?”

“Sure,” I say.

I quickly learned that getting a cup of tea is a sacred ritual in DTL Enterprises. I accompany Dave down the hall to the small kitchen, where the countertop is decorated with a series of passive-aggressive notes about cleaning up after yourself, each written in increasingly desperate handwriting.

We’ve only just arrived when the door swings open behind us and two people enter.

Cheryl from HR is instantly recognizable with her flaming red hair in a stiff ponytail, but I don’t recognize the guy next to her.

He stops so abruptly when he sees us that Cheryl nearly crashes into him.

“Cheryl!” Dave practically pounces on her. “How did you go over the weekend? Did you predict that upset in the Surrey match?”

Because Cheryl isn’t just an HR guru. She also wins the cricket betting pool every year, leaving all the cricket-mad guys in the sales department tearing their hair out.

“I got it right down to the exact number of overs,” Cheryl says smugly.

As Cheryl and Dave talk about a controversial leg-before-wicket decision, the guy I don’t recognize edges over to the kitchen counter. Something about the way he moves makes me think he’s trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Or maybe he’s just trying to avoid being drawn into Cheryl and Dave’s conversation, which is now descending into a heated debate about the Duckworth-Lewis system.

The guy reaches for a mug emblazed with the words I drink coffee for your protection .

Okay, he must be new because no one who’s worked here for more than three days would ever make that potentially fatal error.

“Unless you’re feeling particularly brave this morning, I wouldn’t use that one,” I say as I approach.

He spins to face me, his eyes widening.

“Oh?” His voice comes out slightly higher than expected, like he’s trying to sound casual but missing by several octaves. “Is it radioactive or something?”

He’s American. From a midwestern or southern state, judging by his accent.

And he’s cute. Like, really cute.

His dark hair is neatly styled, and his eyes are a deep, velvety brown that remind me of the single-malt whiskey Roger breaks out when we land a big account.

He’s got that sexy-nerd vibe going that makes me think of Clark Kent right before he ducks into a phone booth.

His question hangs in the air for a few beats too long. I need to get myself under control. I’m a salesperson. I can be smooth when I want to.

I swallow hard to get some moisture back into my mouth so I can answer his question.

“That mug is worse than being radioactive. It belongs to Marleen from Accounting. Rumor has it that the last person who drank from Marleen’s mug had to attend mandatory training sessions about proper mug etiquette every Friday afternoon for a month. Complete with PowerPoint presentations and pop quizzes.”

He doesn’t laugh at my words like I expect.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to start off on the bad side of Marleen from Accounting,” he says, sliding the mug back onto the shelf.

He reaches for another mug that states I survived another meeting that should have been an email .

“Um…yeah. You shouldn’t use that one either.”

“What’s wrong with this mug?”

“It’s the one Greg from Marketing uses, and he never washes it properly. There’s concern those brown stains might be forming their own civilization.”

His eyebrows draw together. “Is there actually a safe mug to use?”

I point. “The shelf there has all the spare mugs.”

He tentatively reaches for a mug that has Of course I talk to myself. Sometimes I need expert advice printed on it.

“Is this one safe?” he asks.

“Perfect choice,” I say.

He turns away to examine our ancient coffee maker.

I hover awkwardly as he adjusts the settings. I’m prepared to be his knight in shining armor, but he effortlessly manages the complicated sequence of buttons and levers and produces what actually looks like drinkable coffee. Which is a miracle up there with turning water into wine.

I realize I’m still lurking like some sort of self-appointed mug guardian. Probably time to upgrade myself from “weird guy who prevents coffee-related faux pas” to “actual colleague with a name.”

“Sorry, among the mug politics, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Justin. I’m in the sales department.” I offer my hand.

He stares at my hand for a few heartbeats, long enough for me to become self-conscious. Is there something wrong with my hand? Did Pete’s lucky pen explode on me again? I flick a glance down to make sure my hand is clean.

It is.

But then he moves his cup to his left hand and stretches out his right.

“Drew Smith.” His handshake is brief and brisk, but I get a fleeting impression of warmth and smooth skin before he withdraws. “I just joined the IT department as a help desk technician.”

“Nice to meet you, Drew. It’s great to have another American in the company. Where are you from?”

Drew’s shoulders stiffen. “Oklahoma.”

“Go, Sooners,” I say.

He just stares at me for another long moment.

“I don’t follow football,” he says finally.

“I’m from Texas. I think I’d be disowned if I didn’t follow football,” I say.

“Oh. Right.”

Before I can attempt to recover the conversation, Cheryl bustles over to us in her usual efficient manner.

“Is Justin looking after you? Showing you where everything is?” she asks Drew.

“Yes, he helped me navigate the minefield of choosing a mug,” Drew says.

“Don’t ever touch Marleen’s mug,” she says.

“Yes, Justin informed me of that.” He raises his eyes to mine, and there’s something in his expression that I can’t read.

“Anyway, we better head back to the IT department. Hopefully, Xander has arrived, and I can introduce you to him,” Cheryl says.

Drew nods.

“Bye,” I say. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Bye.”

He turns away, clutching his mug carefully with two hands, and my heart continues to pound.

Because that’s apparently what my heart does. It likes to remind me exactly how I feel about cute nerd boys who listen to me talk about mug politics and use a coffee maker competently the first time.

And my eyes like to reinforce the message, lingering on Drew’s back as he and Cheryl head out the door.

When they’ve disappeared, I make my own cup of coffee and try to reply to Dave’s conversation about the Sports Direct account as we head down the hallway, but my mind is preoccupied.

I make it back to my desk on shaky legs.

Taking a sip of my coffee, I stare out my window at the London skyline, where the glass towers fade into the pewter sky, their edges softened by the gloom.

I’m about as far from Texas as I can get.

But one thing I’ve learned in the past three years is that no matter how far away from home you travel, you can’t escape yourself.