What If I Never Get Over You

1

Is this seat taken?"

I'm so caught up in the action on the page that it's an effort to drag my eyes from my book to the face of the guy in front of me. His hair falls in shaggy, dark gold waves to a defined jawline that hasn't seen a razor in days, but it's his warm, clear, light brown eyes that make my heart trip and stumble. I have no idea what he just read in my expression, but he does a small double take as our gazes collide.

"Go for it," I say, returning my eyes to the novel, though at the edge of my vision I watch him shrug a big army-green rucksack off his broad shoulders and drop it to the ground with a thud.

"Nice view from up here," he comments casually as he folds his tall frame into the seat.

We're on the crowded rooftop of a hostel in Lisbon, Portugal, under the shade of a bamboo canopy that's creating a barcode of light and dark stripes over the table. Across the adjacent terra-cotta-tiled rooftops looms a red suspension bridge carrying a steady hum of traffic from one side of the wide green river to the other, where a towering monument of Jesus Christ stands with his arms outstretched in the hazy late-afternoon sunshine. The bridge has Golden Gate vibes while the monument is directly inspired by Rio de Janeiro's Christ the Redeemer, as my earlier Google search revealed.

"I don't know if I'm in San Francisco or Brazil," I respond, reaching for my peach iced tea and taking a sip.

His small huff of laughter and lovely smile cause my glass to hitch against my bottom lip.

"I'm Ash," he says with the ease of someone who has had no trouble making friends on his travels.

"Ellie," I reply.

"Are you staying here too?" he asks.

"Yep." I give up on finishing the chapter and fold over the corner of my page.

"Sorry, I'm interrupting," he realizes as I close the book.

"It's fine."

"But you're right near the end," he notices.

"Two chapters and one page left," I confirm.

"I can just sit here while you finish."

The thought of this is so ludicrous that I laugh. His corresponding grin makes me feel giddy.

"Actually, I'm gonna grab a beer." He flattens his palms on the table. "Can I get you something? It's happy hour," he adds temptingly.

I hesitate for all of two seconds. "Go on, then, I'll have a rosé. Thanks. I owe you one."

I try to read while I'm waiting, but where minutes ago I was riveted, now I can't seem to digest the words. I glance over to Ash at the bar, standing with his back to me as the barman takes his order. My eyes skate over the breadth of his shoulders and along the length of his arms, lean and golden. He must be six foot three or four.

The irony of it hasn't escaped my notice: the fact that someone is being nice to me right after I decided to quit interrailing. And not just any someone: him.

I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to Stella: I think I might have been thrown a curveball.

Ash returns to the table with our drinks. "Is it hard going?" he asks as I fold over the exact same corner as earlier and close my book.

"No, I'm just trying to stretch it out."

He reads the title aloud: "A Court of Thorns and Roses. What's it about?"

"It's about a girl who basically gets kidnapped by a sexy faerie," I reply with a grin. "My best friend recommended it."

"Sounds like the sort of thing my best friend used to read," he says fondly, taking a sip of his beer.

"Where are you from?" I ask as he brushes away the foam on his upper lip.

"Wales."

I'd guessed as much from his accent and the way he rolls his r's.

"Which part?"

"North Wales, near Wrexham. You?"

"North London."

"How long have you been in Lisbon?" The tip of his nose is sunburnt, which is oddly endearing.

"I've only just arrived."

"Same. Are you interrailing?"

"Yep."

"Where have you traveled from?"

"Coimbra, and before that, Porto," I tell him.

"You came across the north of Spain?"

"Yeah." I reach up to lift my hair from where it's clinging to my neck. It's after five, but the air is close and sticky.

"I came along the south," he replies, tracking the movement of my hand with his eyes. "I'm heading to Porto next."

"It's great-you'll love it. I'm off to the Algarve."

My parents are meeting me there, and a week later, I'll be flying home. The thought of this filled me with relief earlier, but now the reality is setting in and suddenly I feel flat.

"What's your favorite thing you've done so far?" Ash interrupts my thoughts.

"Um . . . Probably visiting my great-grandfather's war grave at Bayeux. It was surprisingly emotional."

"I'm pretty sure I've got a great-uncle who's buried there. Why was it surprisingly emotional?"

"I didn't think I'd be affected by it, I just thought I'd see a whole bunch of graves and feel, I don't know, good that I'd gone. But actually, the enormity of so many people losing their lives and one of those people being an ancestor of mine . . . My granddad was only a year old when his dad died. He came so close to not even existing, and if he hadn't, well, where would I be?" I shrug self-consciously, but he's staring at me with a small, steady smile on his face, seeming genuinely interested in what I have to say. This conversation is already so different to every other casual chat I've had while traveling.

"I wasn't even planning on going there," I admit, our intense eye contact making me feel edgy. "But it's definitely one of my highlights."

"What are your other highlights?" he asks.

I like the way he's looking at me and it's on the tip of my tongue to tell him about the château I visited in the Loire Valley, with its stunning formal gardens and the nearby zoo built out of a quarry where you could hand-feed giraffes. Or the bike ride I took on the Île de Ré near La Rochelle, or the bar I sat at, drinking sangria, overlooking San Sebastián's sparkling La Concha Bay. But the truth is that I was lonely as hell doing those things on my own and I can't quite bring myself to lie to him about how awesome it was.

"We should just exchange Instagram details," I reply lightly. "All my highlights are on there."

"Great idea. I'd much rather stare at a screen than speak to a fellow human." I laugh at his gentle sarcasm and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he says, "Alas, I don't have a phone. Or Instagram."

I give him a baffled look. "You don't have a phone? Have you lost it?"

He shakes his head and takes another sip of his beer, a smile playing about his lips. "No, it was a conscious decision to come away without one."

My jaw drops. "You've been traveling around Europe without a phone?"

He nods. "It's nice being off-grid."

"What about maps? And music? And calling home?" I ask with astonishment.

"I have paper maps," he replies, leaning back in his chair so his tanned face is out of the shade of the canopy. "And I use hostel phones to call home. I do miss music, though."

His eyes are the same color as the peach iced tea I've been drinking: they catch the sunlight too, and sparkle with it.

"Do you fancy getting something to eat?" he asks out of the blue.

Definitely been thrown a curveball . . .


“I really need to go to a launderette tomorrow. This is my last clean dress,” I say to Ash about my little black number as we wander along the cobbled streets of the LX Factory, between buildings plastered with posters and street art.

Our hostel is about three kilometers from the city center in an area that used to house a thriving textiles industry, but now the old warehouses have been converted into artsy shops, cafés, bars, galleries, and hip restaurants filled with beautiful people.

"Yeah, this is my last clean T-shirt," Ash replies.

And what a T-shirt it is. The apricot color brings out the golden tones of his skin.

"I think there's one around the corner from the hostel. Maybe we could go in the morning."

"Are you asking me on a date?" He slides me a sideways smile.

"You can come if you want." I'm trying to come off as flippant, but goddammit, I blush.

"I accept," he replies with amusement.

As we sit down at a restaurant with tables spilling out onto the pavement, it occurs to me that this is likely just another night to Ash; he will have connected with loads of people on his travels. He has good energy and a warm, easygoing nature. Tomorrow he'll probably meet someone else he'll want to spend the day with. The thought is sobering, but I steel myself against overthinking, not wanting to ruin tonight. I've spent so many evenings wandering vibrant cities alone, only to return to my hostel to listen to other backpackers talk and laugh with their friends. The loneliness has been crippling, yet I've missed Stella so viscerally that I haven't been able to find it in me to be sociable with strangers. Until tonight.

Now that I've called time on my travels, a weight has lifted. I feel happier and more relaxed knowing that I only have two more days to get through.

Lisbon is the perfect place to end my adventures. It's the city Stella most wanted to visit and I plan to tick off every item on her bucket list. She'll be with me in spirit, even if she can't be here in person.

"Have you got any other plans for tomorrow?" Ash asks after the waiter has taken our drinks order.

"Yeah, I pretty much have the next couple of days mapped out," I reply, pulling A Court of Thorns and Roses out of my bag.

"You brought your book out with you?" he asks with surprise.

He dropped his rucksack in his dorm room before we left the hostel and I had time to stash away my book too, but I don't like letting it out of my sight.

"It's kind of become my Lisbon travel guide," I explain. "My best friend, Stella, wrote a bunch of things to do here on the inside cover."

"Can I see?"

I turn the book round to face him, smiling as I remember how hectic Stella was when she wrote the list, scrambling around for a piece of paper for all of three seconds before writing on the first thing she could lay her hands on-the book she'd just lent me. It was so typical of her: never enough patience, never enough time.

Ash squints as he deciphers Stella's messy scrawl.

"The Initiation Well?" He looks up at me, hair falling into his eyes.

"It's in Sintra, at the Quinta da Regaleira."

"Oh, I've heard about that place. Doesn't it have an amazing Gothic spiral staircase?"

"Yes, that's the Initiation Well. It's not actually a well. It's the thing my friend was most excited about-it looks like something out of a fairy tale-but I've heard the gardens are beautiful too."

"I'd planned to check out Sintra. When are you going?" he asks.

"I thought the day after tomorrow."

He shoves his hair back. "Do you fancy going together?"

It's an effort to mask how pleased I am. "Sure."

He returns his attention to Stella's list. "The TimeOut Market . . . Castle of São Jorge . . . Yep, yep. What's Pavilhão Chinês?" he asks with a frown.

"It's a bar. It used to be an old grocery store, but now it's like a museum with a bunch of old toys and memorabilia that the owner collected. The waiters dress in fancy waistcoats and they play mostly eighties music." Stella's favorite. "I might go there tomorrow night." I lift a shoulder. "You're welcome to come."

"Thanks. Sounds fun." He smiles at me. "So did your friend-Stella?-not want to go interrailing with you?"

I shake my head and reach across the table for her book. "She couldn't," I murmur as I slip it back into my bag. "What about you? You didn't want to go traveling with friends?"

"That was the plan, but it didn't work out," he replies, scratching his eyebrow and averting his gaze.

I have a feeling I'm not the only one who's being cagey here.


We go to another rooftop bar after dinner that is even closer to the bridge, but the traffic noise is drowned out by loud music and the chatter of people.

When I return from the bathroom, Ash is standing with his elbows propped on the bar top, waiting to be served.

"I'll get these," I say. "You got the ones at the hostel."

"Yeah, but they were cheap as chips."

I jolt at the warm press of his fingers on my wrist as I attempt to retrieve my purse. He lets go to pull a wad of notes out of the pocket of his gray shorts.

"How much cash do you carry around?" I ask with alarm, distracted from the touch of his hand on my skin.

"I do have a bank card," he replies with a smile as he turns toward me, leaving one elbow resting on the bar top. "But it's become a bit of a challenge to see how far I can go without using it."

"So when that runs out . . ." I nod at his cash.

He shrugs. "I've been doing odd jobs where I can find them, sleeping on a few beaches to save money."

"What sort of jobs?" I'm intrigued at the thought of him working his way round Europe.

Part of what I like about interrailing, despite the loneliness, is that there are no airs and graces-everyone's in it together, pinching pennies, staying in youth hostels, and doing laundry in crappy launderettes. Ash is clearly at ease with this lifestyle and yet there's something about him that sets him apart from the crowd.

"Washing dishes, cleaning boats. I helped one guy fix his roof-saw him working on it as I was walking by and asked if he could use a hand. It's surprising how much work is out there if you look for it."

The bartender is ignoring us, but I don't mind. I love the gentle rise and fall of Ash's Welsh accent-I could listen to him talk for hours.