The Blame Lies with the Rain
By afternoon, the sky had darkened with clouds, and by evening, a light drizzle began to fall. In spring, the streets look dreary, especially in weather like this.
Matthew had been driving around town for over an hour, killing time before his train departure. As evening set in, the roads grew busier, forcing him to sit in traffic and wait 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 and turned off the wipers. Tiny raindrops dotted the windshield, distorting the world beyond.
All week, he’d been reeling from Emma’s departure. Even now, it hadn’t fully sunk in. If he stayed home, he’d just drink again, like he had every night since. Without wine, sleep was impossible.
They’d lived together for nearly a year after dating for two months. At first, everything was perfect—better than perfect. He’d even started planning a summer trip to the coast, where he’d propose by the sea, despite their recent arguments. Emma had picked fights over everything, always angry, always listing grievances.
Just before she left, they’d argued about his International Women’s Day gift—a bouquet of Dutch tulips and the handbag she’d wanted for ages.
“You wanted this bag!” Matthew protested. “And it wasn’t exactly cheap, by the way.”
“I knew you’d get it. I thought you’d add something personal, make it a surprise. A gift should be unexpected.”
“Well, sorry. You could’ve hinted if you wanted more,” Matthew muttered.
“Couldn’t you figure it out yourself?”
And Emma was off again. She accused him of being clueless, of not earning enough. “Jacob bought Sophie a fur coat,” she said. “And Lucy’s boyfriend got her a diamond ring.”
“Jacob’s involved in shady business. He earns dirty money, skirting the law.”
“So what? At least she gets new coats and trips to European resorts. You’re so ‘principled,’ and we’re stuck being poor.”
“We’re not poor. I was going to buy you a ring—just later. Who needs a fur coat in spring? Besides, he got it on sale.”
“Are you pretending not to understand, or are you really this dense?” Emma’s voice was sharp, like glass rattling in the wind.
There was a reason for all the fights, and though he suspected it, Matthew refused to believe it. They’d argued before, but they always made up by nightfall. That last night, though, Emma turned away, slapping his hand when he tried to hold her.
By morning, she was silent. He called all day, but she didn’t answer, eventually turning off her phone. Matthew barely made it through work. On his way home, he bought flowers, only to find a note waiting for him.
Emma wrote that she was tired of everything, that she was leaving for someone who’d give her the world. Her clothes and their holiday suitcase were gone.
Matthew stormed through the flat, hurling whatever he could grab—especially the little things Emma had forgotten or deliberately left behind. Then he stuffed a bin bag with her remaining belongings—her toothbrush, a jar of face cream, the dressing gown hanging in the bathroom—and tossed it into the dumpster outside.
The worst part wasn’t that she left—it was that she’d left him for someone else, painting him as a failure. And that’s exactly how he felt. He couldn’t sleep; the pillows still smelled like her. Memories choked him. He cracked open a bottle of wine. It didn’t help, but it let him sleep for a few hours.
This went on all week. He showed up to work with dark circles under his eyes. His mates pitied him. His boss took mercy, sending him to Manchester for a training stint to heal his broken heart.
“Change of scenery,” his boss said, clapping his shoulder. “Clear your head and come back ready to work.”
After packing a duffel bag, Matthew tossed it in the boot and drove aimlessly through the city. Rain blurred the windows, smearing the world outside into streaks of light from passing cars.
He lowered the window and spotted a café sign. He imagined cosy tables, soft lighting, quiet music—the perfect distraction—and went inside. The place wasn’t crowded, but there were no free tables. He took a seat at the bar and asked for coffee.
“Bar’s for drinks only. Grab a table, and the waiter will bring coffee,” the bartender said.
“Right.” Matthew scanned the room for a place to sit. Near the bar, a woman sat alone, stirring her cup absently. Dark hair pulled into a ponytail, a delicate profile with a neat nose… but he couldn’t see her eyes. She was staring into her cup. Slim trousers and a fitted jumper hugged her figure.
*Wonder what colour her eyes are.* The thought struck him suddenly. For some reason, he was sure she wouldn’t send him away. He walked over.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sitting before she could answer.
She looked up. Green eyes. *Emma’s were brown*, he remembered unhelpfully.
“You’ve already sat down,” 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. Did he stand you up?”
“Who?”
“Whoever you were waiting for.”
“None of your business.”
“You look miserable.”
“My friend,” she said.
“What?”
“I was waiting for my friend.”
The waiter brought fresh coffee, taking hers away.
Matthew took a sip. “Not bad. I’m Matthew. And you?”
“Are you hitting on me?” she asked, uninterested.
“Basically, yeah.”
“Charlotte.”
“Listen, Charlotte. Why sit here? I’ve got a car. Fancy a drive? The city at night, rain, lights—it’s beautiful. I’ll drop you wherever after. My girlfriend left me. Train’s not till late, and I’ve got hours to kill.”
She studied him, as if weighing his honesty.
“It’s the truth. You’ve got nowhere to rush off to, or you wouldn’t be here alone. So? I’m not a psychopath. Decent bloke, really.”
“Why’d your girlfriend leave, then, *decent bloke*?”
“Didn’t leave. Swapped me for someone richer.”
Charlotte hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”
The rain had picked up. They sprinted to the car.
“Seatbelt on. I’ll show you the city,” he said as they settled in.
“Funny. I was born here.”
“I’ll show you a different side. Bet you’ve never seen it like this.”
As they drove, Matthew pointed out buildings, sharing anecdotes.
“How do you know all this? Are you a tour guide?” Charlotte asked.
“First, let’s drop the formalities. We’re in a car—practically intimate. Second, my ex was a tour guide.”
He could’ve lied, claimed he’d read up on local history. Normally, he would have. But with Charlotte, honesty felt right. She wasn’t like other women he’d known. He wasn’t trying to impress her, just passing time.
After circling the city twice, he turned on the radio. They sang along, belting out the chorus, then burst out laughing.
“Right, where to? Train’s in a couple of hours.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Manchester. If I’d known I’d meet you, I’d have cancelled. But I’ll be back in two weeks.”
“What do you do?”
“Advertising. You?”
“Bank. That’s my place,” Charlotte said, suddenly sombre. Then, after a pause: “Actually… can I see you off?”
“You already are—helped kill time.”
“No, at the station. Watch your train pull away, wave goodbye.”
“Romantic. Never had that before,” Matthew smiled. “But you’d have to get home alone late.”
“Plenty of cabs at the station.”
They drove there, parked, and wandered the near-empty waiting hall. Matthew realised Emma would never have come to see him off. Charlotte was different—easy to be around, not demanding. He liked her.
When his train was called, they hurried to the platform.
“By the script, I should kiss you and say something grand,” he teased.
“Then say it.” She held his gaze.
“And can I kiss you?” He barely waited before brushing his lips to hers.
She didn’t push him away—leaned in, if anything.
“Now, as a gentleman, I’d have to marry you. Spent half the night together. Will you wait for me?”
“Will you come back?” she echoed.
Her eyes caught the platform lights. He didn’t answer—the train roared in, announcements drowning them out. They dashed along theThey married the following summer, and whenever it rained, Matthew would smile, knowing it was the reason he’d found her.
