What If I Lived a Lie? [You Me at Six]

Chapter One: The British Man.

Josh Franceschi was never late. Or at least, prior to today. He imagined how the chorus of his band mates’ “I-told-you-so”’s would sound:

“We warned you, mate!” Max.

“I even told you to set your alarm.” Chris.

“You should’ve just left with us, like we told you.” Matt.

“Lazy arse.” Dan.

And, by all means, they were right, sort of. His girlfriend—now ex-girlfriend—was the reason he was late, though. He hadn’t planned to find her cheating on him, and then get into a huge argument over it, causing him to miss his flight. In retrospect, he probably should not have spent so much time with her in the first place. The moment he saw her, in bed, with him… He should have just left. But something, his pride, his ego, his something, made him stay, made him argue it out with her.

I just wanted answers, he reasoned to himself, I just wanted her to say something instead of just staring at me, with that lost, confused look on her face.

 Really, what did she have to be lost or confused about? He was the one who found her quite comfortably lain underneath someone who very obviously was not him. Instead of running through the “what does he have that I don’t?”’s, Josh just chalked it up to a character defect in her. Or, at least he tried to.

Running across the airport and nearly dropping all his bags, Josh made it into the elevator going to the parking garage just before its doors closed to the outside world. When he stepped over its threshold, he was met by a pair of scowling brown eyes, belonging to a girl. She had wispy dark brown bangs, sweeping over her forehead and into her eyes with headphones plugged into her ears. He offered a polite smile, but it was not returned. Resisting the urge to sigh audibly, he leaned back against the cold metal of the elevator and closed his eyes. While the girl wasn’t looking, he stole another look at her. She was wearing a leather jacket with what looked to be a ruffled white blouse underneath, paired with skin tight, deep blue jeans and flats. Her hair was chopped short, to just below her chin, with fire-red tips. She was definitely more than easy to look at. She casted a glance over her shoulder and nearly shrunk back when she realized his eyes were upon her—clearly she did not feel the same way about herself as he did.

“Can I help you with something?” she snapped—all signs of insecurity evaporated from her face as she plucked her headphones from her ears.

Josh, taken aback, stumbled over his words, “U-uh, no, not at all. Sorry.”

After a long moment of silence, she responded, “Are you British?”

“Who wants to know?” he replied, shooting a glimmering grin her way. It is once more not returned.

“My aunt is from Essex,” she sighed, after a roll of the eyes.

“Ah, lovely. I’m from Surrey.”

“Mm,” is all she said before she was cut off by her cellphone.

“Hunter, I know, I’m so sorry,” she answered with, “My flight got in late, I’m super sorry, I know I’m late, I know, I know, I’m so sorry. Thank you for covering for me, I promise I will be there as soon as possible.”

Just at that moment there was a distinct metal grinding, and then the elevator screeched to a stop.

She pulled the phone away from her ear, looking to Josh in a panic, “What the hell was that? Do not tell me we are stuck.”

“I-I don’t know…”

“Can’t you figure something out? Aren’t you the male, here? You know, ‘Me man, me caveman, me take charge?’”

“Are you always this charming, or do you reserve these delightful remarks for perfect strangers?”

“Hey, lemme call you back, okay?” she whispered into her phone before hanging it up and shoving it back into her back pocket.

“Let’s get one thing clear—”

“I’m Josh, you never told me your name,” he interrupted, already seeing the rage behind her eyes as he grinned.

“—Josh? You don’t really look like a Josh, fine, Josh it is,” her face reddened when she realized she’d let him distract her, momentarily, “Let’s get one thing clear, Josh, you don’t know me. So don’t try to characterize me or whatever the hell it is you’re aiming at, ‘cause I can guarantee you it won’t work.”

“What makes you so sure I’m trying to—”

Now it was her turn to interrupt, “I see that you’ve got a guitar on your back. Do you think you’re just going to play me a little song that you wrote in some Starbucks in Surrey and sing it for me with your little accent and I’m going to be swept off my feet by the attractive British man who takes my mind off the fact that I am stuck in an elevator, and late for work? Forget it.”

Josh took a long, long while to compose his reply, and then, formally, he delivered it, “You think I’m attractive?”

“Jesus Christ, I just met you and I honestly think I hate you.”

***

Hunter paced up and down the kitchen of the shop, gnawing away at her nails out of nerves. Where is Olivia and why wasn’t she here yet? Didn’t she know how important today was, or should’ve been, for the both of them? They were finally opening their bakery together; after months and months and months of planning, their grand opening was finally here. The only problem was that only one half of the owners of Sweet Creations were actually there. Hunter jumped nearly three hundred feet in the air when her phone began to ring again, though she immediately reached for it, having recognized the number flashing across the screen.

“Where in the hell are you?”

“I’m stuck in the elevator.”

“What?!”

“I’m stuck,” Olivia’s voice dropped to a whisper, annoyance dripping from her words, “and there’s some British guy here… He’s so weird.”

“You know I can hear you, right?!” the promised British voice yelled in the background.

“Just get your ass here, Olivia Jane.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the second owner responded before the line went dead.

“You know something,” a voice said from the direction of the door, “you’ve got quite the opportune location here. Right off the highway, far enough from LA that you don’t deal with the celebrities, and you’ve got brilliant signage.”

Hunter jumped, but composed herself—it looked as though she’d just have to handle their first customer on her own, “You think so? My friend picked it out.”

“Ahh, the other owner on the door. I’m gonna say that you look more like a Hunter than an Olivia, am I correct?”

“Indeed you are,” she paused but offered a smile at the man, “I’m Hunter Thompson.”

Hunter allowed her eyes to scan over the man; he had ice blue eyes and flawless, seemingly freshly-shaven pale skin. Most of his mop of dark brown hair was covered by a snapback—until he removed it, that is, ten seconds later, revealing startlingly perfectly coiffed hair—and a short sleeved gray t-shirt revealed that he had a sleeve of tattoos swirling up and down his right arm. Besides that, he had a strong jaw and an obviously British accent—it was safe to say the guy was downright handsome, in the best possible way.

“I’m Daniel, Daniel Flint” he introduced himself, “but you can call me Dan. And I, Dan, have a question.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Are the sweet creations your signage promises these lovely baked goods you’ve got on display, or are they just the lovely things that happen in my stomach when you smile?”

She giggled at that and, affectionately, added charmingly dorky to the mental list of character traits she was attributing to the mysterious Daniel Flint.