Finding You, Looking for Me: A Henry Cavill FanFic

Part 27: How Did We End Up Here?

"Back to reality," I muttered under my breath. Henry and I walked close together and hurriedly through the rain, beneath a shared umbrella. We were leaving Heathrow airport and headed to the black car arranged for us. Per usual, a few straggling paparazzi snapped photos of us as we waited for our car to pull up.

"Sarah, where are your children?" one of them asked me repeatedly. I remained stone-faced, but Henry squeezed my hand and I watched his jaw tense. I shook my head at Henry, indicating that I didn't want him to respond to the man's taunts.

Once we slid into the car, Henry gave me a tender kiss on the forehead. "We'll get through this," he reassured me.

We raced through the city, returning to Kensington in a quick twenty minutes. Once we arrived home, I kissed him gently on the lips and climbed out of the car. My phone was ringing—and had been ringing regularly since the night of my indiscretion. I sent the private call to voicemail, knowing full well that my mailbox was full.

Henry returned to working—he had a few weeks of filming scheduled in the English countryside, so he would be gone for that time. I was trying to figure out how to salvage my career, and what to do next. My schedule had been cleared for motherhood, and now... it was just clear.

On a dreary summer day, I sat in our bedroom, strumming an acoustic guitar I had bought myself. I had figured that if I was going to be isolated, I may as well do something productive with my time. I taught myself some Taylor Swift songs and spent my time alone writing music.

My phone rang on the table beside me. It felt like it was ringing incessantly. I was often getting calls from private numbers, and I'd quickly reject them and go about my life. This call was from an unfamiliar number, but it was a Boston-based number. I hesitated, but finally I answered it.

"Hello?"

"Sarah?"

"Yes?"

"Why haven't you answered the phone? It's me," he said. I knew exactly who he was.

Ben.

"Uh..." I stammered. "How did you get my number," I whispered to him, instinctively looking over my shoulders.

That's called guilt, Sarah.

He chuckled into the phone. "Give me a break," he muttered, indignantly. "Why haven't you taken my calls?"

"It was all a mistake," I said softly to him, the guilt evident in my voice. I immediately broke a cold sweat, and put my guitar on the bed beside me, climbing to my feet and beginning to pace the floor.

"Relax," he said, his voice arrogant. "Obviously our behavior was less than ideal."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"I want to see you again," he told me, his voice bold and strong.

"I'm sorry?" I repeated, this time confused at what he was saying.

He laughed. "I want to see you again," he said to me, slowly, his voice low.

"I-I'm involved wi-with, Hen—" I started, fear beginning to add to the confusion.

"Yes, I'm aware. I want to see you again." He repeated with no hesitation. "Today."

"I can't," I said quickly.

"You can and you have to," he said, matter of factly. "I'll send a car for you in an hour. You'll come to see me, and then you can go home as you wish."

I don't know why I said it. Curiosity? Boredom? Stupidity? I was on the phone with a man I had only known for a few hours, but some part of me felt compelled to meet him.