Encore [18+]

Author's note

This is an unedited first draft. Mature themes.

Thank you for giving this story a chance.

Chapter 1

The phone screen displays an Instagram page. The name reads Rainn Holton.

Rainn.

Rainn bloody Holton.

I scowl at my phone, annoyed all over again I’m doing something that can be loosely defined as stalking. Getting a glimpse at fragments of his life is only an added inconvenience. The worst thing is, of course, having to stare at his face after years of trying to forget it, all my efforts in vain.

Unfortunately, it has to be done this way. I lost his number ages ago. Lost, deleted, successfully forgot, the details don’t matter anymore.

Ignoring the short, icy stab of regret in my chest, I allow myself to skim once again over the most recent pictures. It’s a poor substitute for a live experience, even though my uncooperative body disagrees. What a cruel joke it is, I lament, how some men - Rainn being a shining example - only get better looking with age. They’re blessed with an almost serpentine ability to shed the deceitfully boyish look like snakeskin to reveal their true, even more devastating form; a man as nature and eons of evolution intended him to be - magnetic, majestic, monumental. A man whose ancestors survived, conquered, multiplied. Only by the firm hand of relatively recent societal rules has he been roped in, tamed, denied the right to spread his seed far and wide.

In today’s day and age, he probably won’t be a warlord; certainly not a gladiator or a Viking. He might be an athlete, a musician, a movie star. He might be a soldier, a welder, an astronaut. He might be a student, a teacher, a bartender.

He might be an architect.

It makes no difference. Regardless of what he does, at whatever point he is in his life, your female instinct will recognize him. You will react to him on a molecular level. Your finely curated preferences for a partner, for a mate, for a suitable companion will dissolve like a sugar cube dunked in water the moment you cross paths with him. The initial, deeply primal urge to prostrate yourself under him will grab all of those polished ideas by the neck and wipe the floor with them.

Of course, that doesn’t mean you’ll do it. Mind is a powerful thing. It can, and often does overrule the body. But you will still feel the pull in your blood, as a descendant of a woman who once, a long, long time ago, got taken by a man like him.

Even now, as I stare at his somehow both rugged and elegant features, I’m very close to forgetting the nearly devastating impact he had on my love life. It was unintentional, of course. Nobody knew, less of all I, how much trouble would be finding someone else to rival him. This curse he left me with is something I’m still hoping I’ll cure someday.

“Enough,” I say to myself and tear my eyes away from the screen, “You have a job to do, so just do it.”

A new picture pops up as I’m about to click on a message button. It’s him, driving, long fingers of his left hand loosely laid over the bottom of the steering wheel. He’s looking ahead, at the road, that sharp, strikingly masculine profile somewhat softened by his smile. Like hypnotized, I pull it up to take a better look, dragging my finger over the contours of his face. Soon enough, though, my brain overpowers whatever spell he still has me under, and I drop the phone with a groan. Then, an irrational belief grips me - him somehow being aware of my emotional turmoil; that smile mocking me.

When I shut my eyes, I can almost hear his voice, chanting seductively into my ear, 'come on, Beth, steal another glance. Walk a bit closer to the edge. Don’t look down. Better yet, close your eyes. Just take another tiny step and…'

“You’ve gone completely bonkers, Beth,” I wail at the ceiling, shaking my head vigorously to chase away that voice. He’s not a warlock. He can’t sense shit. Thinking he can is utterly deranged. Stop it, now. Stick to the plan and send him the message. The sooner you do it, the sooner you can get back to your safe, boring, comfortable life.

After cracking my knuckles, I pull up his page again and type out the blandest message you can send to your ex.

ME: Hey. Heard you’re in London. I’d like to get my book back, if you have the time? Beth

I aim my finger at the send button, close my eyes like a complete coward, and press it. After a minute, I peek out of one eye to confirm it has been sent, then lean back onto my sofa, as calm as an atomic bomb has been dropped on my nervous system.

All of this stress because of a book. But Jules needs it, and if Jules needs something, I’ll move heaven and earth to give it to her. If she hadn’t asked to borrow it, I wouldn’t even realize it was missing. At first, I thought I’d lost it during the move to this flat, and it bugged me to no end I couldn’t find it. Of course, my brain conveniently forgot he took it, which had me running in circles for a while.

This was my absolutely last course of action. I’ve tried to replace it. On God, I’ve tried avoiding this situation from the moment I figured out who has it. But it was an old print, a gift from my godfather, and currently priced well above a hundred pounds on eBay. The fact that something precious to me was only collecting dust in that flat of his bothered me. A piece of me, forgotten. Well, I decided, I want all of my pieces with me, where they belong. Not with him.

Eventually, I go to the kitchen to make myself a small gin and tonic. I bring it back to my work desk and open my laptop. Settling into my yellow office chair, I put on a smooth jazz playlist and begin replying to work emails. Must keep the mind occupied, otherwise, I’ll do nothing but fret about his answer.

An unmistakable ping sounds off about fifteen minutes later. Regrettably, it makes me flinch. Scolding myself, I go to pick up the phone from the sofa.

RAINN: Hi Beth! Yeah, I’m here. What book?

I type back almost furiously.

ME: The Billy Baldwin book I’ve lent you. You said your mum wanted to read it? I need it for something and I can’t find a replacement.

Well, Jules needs it. Same thing.

I tap my foot on the floor, waiting for him to answer. He doesn’t, so I get back to my work, placing the phone next to the laptop. As I’m finishing with the last email, he replies.

RAINN: I’ve just asked her. She thinks it’s at her place. I’ll let you know.

ME: Ok. Thanks.

When my eyes begin to hurt from staring at the computer screen, I decide it’s time for bed. Twenty minutes later, I’m freshly showered and tucked in. Absentmindedly, I notice that the stack of books on my bedside table is too high, threatening to spill onto the floor. It’s probably time to get back into my at least-two-chapters-before-bed routine. Enough of the procrastination I am so fond of.

My phone pings again. I check the clock. It’s well past midnight. It can’t be him. On the other hand, who else? Well, maybe it’s Kate, drunk texting you again. I grab the phone.

RAINN: Got the book. You want to pick it up or should I bring it?

Unblinking, I stare at the screen. Well, that’s one thing I haven’t thought about. Should I go get the book, which is now in that dreaded flat filled with memories, or should I dare to have him here?

Here. Hmm, here.

If he comes here, I can just meet him downstairs. If I go there, he might rope me in with something innocent, like, the offer of a drink and a catch-up. I’m polite as hell, so I won’t decline. And then, when I’m behind closed doors, he might say, 'it had been such a long time, Beth. We haven’t seen each other since I left you. By the way, how was that experience for you?'

No, no, I can’t have that.

ME: It’d be great if you could drop it off. Let me know when you’re free. I’m on the same street, no 48.

RAINN: No problem. I’ll probably make it tomorrow evening. 6–7 ok?

ME: Perfect. Just buzz Marr on the intercom and I’ll come down.

RAINN: Ok. Give me your phone number.

I almost type out ‘what for’. Then, I try to go with just a simple ‘no’. But then I conjure up him asking ’why’ or ′really’ or saying ′like I would ever call you, Beth,′ so I just give it away.

RAINN: See you tomorrow, Beth.

ME: See you.

The phone slides out of my clammy hand onto the mattress. Oh, God, he’s gonna come here. I’m gonna see my stupid ex. Worse, I’ll have to talk to him. He might think this is some pathetic excuse for me to try and get him back. ’You think you’re sneaky with all of this, Beth?’ his eyes will say, ’I can still see right through you.’

“But my intentions are pure,” I say aloud like I have to convince myself. There aren’t any ulterior motives here. And that’s why is of utmost importance to be straightforward tomorrow. Leave absolutely no room for interpretation. I’ll say - thank you, even though you kept my book a prisoner for years, and goodbye. Have a nice life. By the way, you packed on some weight, and your hair is thinning.

Okay, no. I should stop before that. He looks good. Probably has a hot girlfriend to match.

Calm down, Beth. You’re overthinking it. Being as carefree as he is, he won’t be racking his brain over this. Calm down, and go to sleep.

I plump up my pillows, pushing my reading for tomorrow, and close my eyes. Yes, sleep. Sleep and don’t think about it. Don’t think about him.