The Love of My Afterlife(23)

A wave of horror immediately worms its way through my body. Usually I don’t have specific reasons to feel bad—it’s more just what my GP refers to as “a general malaise that will be improved by a good diet, regular exercise, talking therapy and twenty milligrams of daily fluoxetine,” but now I have a great big bunch of reasons.

“Uuuuuggggh.” I bury my head in my hands. Then it dawns on me. “Mr. Yoon!” Shit. I was so drunk last night, I forgot to check on his gas and cigarettes. The fact that I’m not dead of fire bodes well, but still, anything could have happened.

I gingerly crawl out of the bed and take a copy of Mr. Yoon’s key from where it hangs by the front door. As quietly as I can, I enter his apartment, the sound of him lightly snoring away a balm to my anxieties. The living room is bright but still cool. I check the oven and his ashtray. Both fine. Good. That’s good.

Mr. Yoon’s cigarettes are extinguished, but the ashtray is almost overflowing with cigarette butts. It would wake him up if I tried to wash it now, so I take it over to the kitchen, tip the ends into the bin, and then crouch down to the left-hand cupboard to look for a fresh ashtray so that he has a clean one for when he wakes up.

The cupboard is crammed with stuff, and I make a mental note to organise it when I get a spare moment. I spot an ashtray behind a picture frame. As quietly as I can, I slide out the picture frame so I can get to the ashtray. I plop down on the floor and turn the frame in the direction of the morning light filtering through the curtains. Gosh! Is this a picture of a young Mr. Yoon? Yes. It’s definitely him. He’s standing on a grand-looking stage, holding a violin and a bow in one hand and a trophy in the other. I try to make out what the words on the trophy say, but it’s an old photo and the quality is pretty low. Either way, Mr. Yoon plays the violin! And he is so good at it that he was once given some sort of award. I wonder why he never told me about this in his notes.

“Very cool, Mr. Yoon,” I whisper to myself, sliding the frame back into the cupboard. I take the clean ashtray over to his table. Beside the bunch of sweet peas I brought him last week lies a massive bag of the fizzy cola bottles I’ve been trying to get him to stop snacking on. How the hell did he get his hands on those? Does he have a dealer? A shady sweet shop man lurking about the building and exchanging baggies of sours for cash?

Tutting, I let myself out of Mr. Yoon’s and creep back over to my apartment. As I step inside, my foot skids slightly on an envelope that’s been slipped under my door.

I pick it up, open it, and take out two pieces of paper from inside. I unfold the first piece of paper, my heart immediately lifting when I see that it’s a black-and-white print-out of a photo of Jonah. The actual Jonah! He’s even more beautiful than I remembered, his eyes twinkling brightly, his smile welcoming and confident. I shake my head. Who sent this?

I unfold the other piece of paper—it’s a note scribbled in black ink, the writing looped and precise.

    Delphie,

I did a little more hunting and this sounds like the man you described. Unfortunately due to the resolution of the image, I cannot ascertain whether his eyes could be deemed “dreamy” but otherwise I believe it might be him. His name is Jonah Truman. His social profiles are private and he doesn’t accept messages, but after some investigating I found that he is a member of Kensington Gardens Running Club. They run every morning at 7am. I hope you are able to catch him, if it is indeed the Jonah you hooked up with all over this town.

Regards,

Cooper



Oh my gosh! Jonah has been found! And Kensington Gardens? That’s so close. Does he live in Paddington? Notting Hill? Was he nearby all this time and I never knew?

Wow.

“Jonah,” I whisper to myself. I close my eyes and imagine his lips pressed against mine. In Evermore he looked at me like all I’d have to do is ask him. Just like that. Like someone in a movie from the 1940s. Now kiss me, you fool! But this is the real world. Surely I’ll need to prep things. Ask him for a drink first at the very least.

A surge of adrenaline pulses through me at the thought of being sat in a bar, across the table from Jonah, his dazzling blue eyes lit by candlelight.

“Ahahaha!” I shout into the air in case Merritt is watching. “In less than two days! Bet you feel silly for gloating now.” The excitement at getting to see Jonah again, not to mention the huge relief that I have managed to save my own life, propels me straight past the headache and into the shower, where I perform an intense toothbrushing because while Jonah is unlikely to kiss me immediately, it seems that, in this particular scenario, it’s best to be prepared for absolutely anything to happen.



* * *





While I have plenty of clothes that are just fine for a hot day outdoors, I don’t have much to choose from that is (a) suitable for running, assuming that Jonah is going to be jogging, or (b) alluring enough to move a man to want to ask me for a coffee or a dinner or to go for a walk that will—hopefully quite quickly—lead to a lifesaving kiss. My clothes are built for practicality, and he’s hardly going to be enticed if I’m wearing my oversized V&A T-shirt and denim shorts.

I open my wardrobe and riffle frantically through all the clothes I have. As expected, nothing that could be considered at all enticing. And then I get a brain wave. The bag full of stuff Mum didn’t take with her to the artists’ commune! Maybe there’s something in there? Everyone found Mum alluring. Well, everyone except for Dad, in the end.