It’s All the Rain’s Fault
By late afternoon, the sky had darkened with clouds, and by evening, a light drizzle began. Spring streets always look dreary, especially in weather like this.
Matthew had been driving around town for over an hour, killing time before his departure. Traffic had thickened by evening, forcing him to idle in jams and at red lights. Time dragged, but he didn’t want to go home yet, and it was too early to head to the station.
He pulled over by the kerb and turned off the windscreen wipers. Tiny raindrops speckled the glass, blurring the world beyond.
All week, he’d been reeling from Olivia’s departure. Even now, the ache lingered. If he stayed home, he’d only drink again, like he had every night since. Without wine, sleep was impossible.
They’d lived together for nearly a year after two months of dating. At first, everything had been perfect—so perfect he’d started making plans. A summer trip to the seaside, where he’d propose, despite their recent arguments. Olivia had grown sharp with him, snapping over small things, airing grievances.
Their last fight had been over his International Women’s Day gift—a bouquet of Dutch tulips and the handbag she’d wanted for ages.
“You picked it yourself!” he’d protested. “And it wasn’t exactly cheap!”
“I knew you’d get it. I thought you’d add something else, surprise me. A gift should be unexpected.”
“Could’ve dropped a hint if you wanted more,” Matthew muttered.
“You couldn’t figure it out yourself?”
And off she went. He didn’t know how to please a woman, didn’t earn enough. “Tom bought Jessica a fur coat,” she sneered. “And Sophie’s boyfriend got her a diamond ring.”
“Tom’s crooked. He earns dirty money.”
“So? At least she gets new coats and holidays abroad. You’re so ‘principled,’ and we’re stuck broke.”
“We’re not broke. I was going to get you a ring—just later. Who needs fur in spring? And he got it on sale.”
“Are you pretending, or are you really this clueless?” Her voice rang thin, like glass in the wind.
He knew why they fought. He just didn’t want to believe it. Before, they’d argued but always made up by nightfall. That last night, she’d shoved his hand away when he tried to hold her.
By morning, she refused to speak. He called all day—no answer. By evening, her phone was off. He rushed home with flowers, only to find a note.
*I’m sick of this. I’m tired. I’m leaving for someone who’ll give me the world.*
Her clothes were gone, along with the suitcase from their holiday.
Matthew stormed through the flat, hurling whatever he touched—especially the trinkets she’d left behind. Then he bagged it all: her toothbrush, face cream, the robe still hanging in the bathroom. He dumped it in the bins outside.
The worst part? She hadn’t just left—she’d traded up, framing him as a loser. And he felt like one. Sleep was impossible, the pillows still smelling of her. Memories choked him. He uncorked wine, gulped a glass. It didn’t help, but eventually, he passed out.
A week passed like this. Dark circles under his eyes at work. Pity from mates. His boss took mercy, sending him to London for a training stint instead of the new guy.
“Fresh start. Clear your head. Come back ready.” A clap on the shoulder.
After packing a duffel bag, Matthew drove aimlessly through the city. Rain blurred the windscreen, smudging the world into streaks of headlights.
He rolled down the window, spotting a café sign. He imagined cosy tables, soft lights, murmuring voices—the perfect distraction. Inside, the place was half-empty, but every table was taken. He slid onto a barstool.
“Coffee, please.”
“Bar’s for drinks. Take a table, and the waitress’ll sort you.” The bartender nodded toward the seating.
“Right.” Matthew scanned the room. Near the bar, a woman sat alone, stirring her cup absently. Dark hair tied back, delicate features, a fitted jumper over narrow trousers.
*Wonder what colour her eyes are.* He wanted to know immediately. For some reason, he felt sure she wouldn’t brush him off. He walked over.
“Mind if I join you?” He sat before she answered.
She looked up. Green eyes. *Olivia’s were brown*, he thought, unbidden.
“You’ve already sat,” she said flatly.
A waiter handed him a menu.
“Black coffee, no sugar.” He glanced at her cup. “Make it two.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” she said coolly.
“Cold coffee’s vile. Stand you up?”
“Who?”
“Whoever you’re waiting for.”
“None of your business.”
“You look miserable.”
“A friend.”
“What?”
“I was waiting for a friend.”
The waiter replaced her half-finished coffee. Matthew took a sip.
“Not bad. I’m Matthew. You?”
“Are you hitting on me?” She raised a brow.
“Suppose so.”
“Emily.”
“Listen, Emily. Why sit here? I’ve got a car. Fancy a drive? Rain, city lights—it’s nice. I’ll drop you after. My girlfriend left me. Train’s not till late, and I’ve hours to kill.”
She studied him. *Weighing if I’m lying*, he realised.
“I’m not. You’ve got nowhere to be either, or you wouldn’t be here. So? Not a creep. Decent bloke.”
“Why’d she leave, then, ‘decent bloke’?”
“Didn’t leave. Upgraded.”
Emily hesitated. Finally, she nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”
The rain thickened. They sprinted to the car.
“Seatbelt. Tour starts now,” he said, grinning.
“Funny. I was born here.”
“I’ll show you a different city. Bet you’ve never seen it like this.”
As they drove, he pointed out stories behind every landmark.
“How d’you know all this? Tour guide?”
“First, ‘you’ is too formal. We’re sharing air in here. Second, my ex was a guide.”
He’d almost lied—said he’d read up on local history. Old habit. But not with Emily. She wasn’t like the others. No pretence, no flashy flirting—just company.
After a loop around town, he flicked on the radio. A song played; he hummed. She joined in. By the chorus, they were belting it out. When it ended, they laughed.
“Right. Time to drop you. Where to? Train’s in two hours.”
“Where are you going?”
“London. If I’d known I’d meet you, I’d have refused. Volunteered for this. Back in two weeks.”
“What do you do?”
“Advertising. You?”
“Bank. That’s my place.” Her voice softened. She stared ahead. Then, abruptly: “Actually—can I see you off?”
“You’ve already helped kill time.”
“No, at the station. You board, I’ll wave as the train pulls away.”
“Romantic. Never had that.” He smiled. “But you’ll be stuck getting home alone.”
“Taxis at the station. Always.”
At the platform, he parked and left the car. The waiting area was quiet. Olivia would never have come like this, he thought. Emily was different. Easy. No need for jokes or bravado. Sweet. Unspoilt. He liked her.
A tinny announcement called his train.
“Script says I kiss you now,” he teased. “Say something profound.”
“Then say it.” Her gaze held his.
“And can I kiss you?” He barely waited before brushing her lips.
She didn’t pull back—she leaned in.
“Now, as a gentleman, I owe you a wedding. Spent half the night together. Will you wait?”
“Will you come back?” she echoed.
Lights glinted in her eyes. His answer was cut off by the train’s roar. They sprinted alongside, hunting his carriage. The conductor checked his ticket, hurried him aboard.
“I’ll be back. Agreed?” he shouted from the door.
“To what?” she called.
The door slammed. The train lurched forward.
Emily kept pace, accelerating until she vanished into the dark.
London swallowed him. Work was busy; days blurred. He extended his stay, clearing it with his boss. Emily crossed his mind, but their goodbye now felt like a sweet joke. Olivia? Never once.
Early morning, he stepped off the train back home, paid the overdue parking, and drove to his flat. The door was locked from inside. What? He rang the bell.
Olivia opened the door. Shorts, tank top—She smiled, clutching a steaming cup of tea, and said, “Welcome home—Emily told me you’d be back today.”
