The Day We Meet Again. Miranda Dickinson

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      The moment Sam’s fingers lace though mine, the air between us seems to shift. I don’t even think about pulling away.

      We move at glacial pace through the crowded concourse until Sam spots a gap for a service door between the glass-fronted concessions and we sneak into it.

      Now we’re standing within a breath of each other. It would be so easy to close the distance and kiss him…

      What am I doing?

      Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn’t have considered kissing someone I hardly knew. But twenty-four hours ago I didn’t know Sam existed. Our hands are joined between us and we both look down as if seeing them for the first time. When Sam laughs, I feel the buzz of it through his skin.

      ‘Well, this is unexpected.’

      ‘It is.’

      This is where my apologies and caveats would normally begin, my usual rush to backtrack on an impulse. But instead, calmness fills the space where those words would be. They’re not needed here.

      I’ve only known Sam for a couple of hours. How can this be possible?

      ‘Reckon they can delay our trains for another four months or so?’ His whisper is warm velvet against my ear.

      ‘Only four months?’

      I love his laugh. It shudders up from his chest to his shoulders, throwing his head back as it escapes into the air around us. It’s wild and unbridled, unconcerned by anyone else’s opinion. His laugh is who he is, as if his spirit shimmers out of him in that moment.

      His fingers squeeze mine. ‘Oh well, excuse me. What I meant was four years. Forty-four years. Four centuries.’

      ‘Steady on…’

      ‘Even when we’re wrinkly and incontinent and basically breathing dustbags our love will burn as bright…’

      I don’t know whether I’m breathless from laughter or just being here with Sam. He’s talking as if we’ve been together for years, but it doesn’t scare me like it should. I can imagine being loved by him, even though I’ve yet to kiss him. It’s a game that feels so much more than make-believe. And I’m happy to play along. ‘Thank you for your faith in us.’

      ‘My pleasure. This is surreal, isn’t it?’

      ‘Completely.’

      ‘There are a million things I want to ask you. I don’t even know where to begin.’

      ‘Then let’s begin here…’ I dare to flatten my palm against his chest, feeling the unfamiliar rhythm of his heart through the faded fabric of his T-shirt. This heart has been beating for years, I think, and I never knew.

      For a while we stay like this, saying nothing, the only movement our breath and heartbeats, the familiar-unfamiliar sensation of closeness surrounding us.

      Then without warning, I’m crying.

      Mortified, I try to smother my sobs, jamming my eyelids shut to squeeze the tears back. But it’s too late. Sam breaks the embrace and lifts my chin with his hand.

      ‘Are you crying? Phoebe, why are you crying?’

      ‘I’m sorry…’ I rush, but speaking flicks a switch that releases more. I don’t want Sam to see, don’t want to break this perfect, wonderful moment. What will he think of me? I don’t even know what to think of myself.

      I don’t cry much in front of other people – never in public and certainly not with someone I hardly know. But I do know Sam, crazy as it sounds. So despite every scrap of head-logic screaming at me to stop, my heart won’t listen. It feels wrong but it seems like I don’t have much choice.

      ‘Hey, hey… Let’s sit down, okay?’

      ‘There isn’t any room.’

      ‘Then we make room.’ He slips the strap of the violin case from his shoulder and places it on one side, his rucksack on the other. In the space between he concertinas his body down until he’s sitting cross-legged, reaching up for me. ‘Your seat, milady.’

      I laugh despite the tears staining my cheeks. ‘I can’t sit on your lap.’

      He shrugs and slides his rucksack beside one leg. ‘An alternative, then. Although, you’ll need somewhere to sit when we’re 400-year-old, hot-lovin’ dustbags. You could just get used to it now.’

      That smile will be the death of every argument we ever have, I think.

      ‘Your rucksack will be perfect, thank you.’ I sit, my legs still shaking from my sudden tears.

      ‘Glad to help. Now, what’s happening?’

      I’ve heard loved-up friends of mine say things like, ‘I see myself in his eyes’, and ‘when he looks at me it’s like he can see into my soul’ and always thought them ridiculous. I mean, I’ve dated guys with nice eyes before and I’m a fan of meaningful looks as much as the next person. But until this moment I thought it was the kind of clever phrase dreamed up by authors and screenwriters. Not anything you’d ever experience in real life. But when I lock eyes with Sam, it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before. And I can see my reflection in the moss green of his irises.

      ‘I don’t know,’ I say, embarrassed by the tremor in my voice. ‘It’s just I wasn’t expecting this. To be so sure. I feel like I’ve known you forever, but I know hardly anything about you, about your life.’

      He nods and I wonder if he feels it too. ‘Then we should start there. Even if there are other more interesting things we could be doing…’

      He’s cheeky but I can’t help smiling. ‘Be serious.’

      ‘I’m trying. Believe it or not my friends think I’m the serious one. Okay. Best start with the basics, I guess. Full name: Samuel Hamish Mullins—’

      ‘Hamish?’

      ‘Mock that and you’re mocking my heritage, lady.’

      I stuff my giggles away behind my hand. ‘Sorry. It’s a lovely name.’

      ‘Tsk, typical English sarcasm. I know your game.’ He grins. ‘So, what else? I’m thirty-two, although my ma always said I was born with an old soul so nobody ever believes me when I tell them my age. Like I said, I was born on Mull, but I grew up in Edinburgh and Carlisle and moved to London when I was eighteen. Been here for more years than I’m comfortable admitting and I play tunes for money. I’m just under six feet tall, but I’ll usually add an inch to feel better about it. Oh and I’m allergic to early mornings, although I’m quite glad I got up before eleven today. Done. You?’

      It’s strange to be trading introductions now, after everything else we’ve shared, but I find it strangely comforting, too.

      ‘Phoebe Eilidh Jones, also thirty-two.’

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