Daydreamer

by Brea Brown

  “Well, Zoe,” I respond. “That seems a lot more obvious. I was never mousey or shy.”

  “But you had a ‘fight or flight’ argument with yourself every time someone with a penis walked into the same room as you. I could see it in your eyes.” She nudges me toward the break room doorway, as if herding me back to packing up my desk.

  “Well, screw me!” I say in astonishment.

  Drily, she replies, “I think I’ll leave that up to Jude. From what I gather, he’s pretty darn good at it.”

  “Hot towel?”

  “Why, yes, thank you. Oh, and thanks for the refill on my drink, too.”

  “My pleasure. What else can I get you? Blanket, pillow? Since you’re the only one on this flight, I’m at your beck and call.”

  “A blanket would be great, thanks. What’s the in-flight movie?”

  “The Natural. A classic.”

  “Oooh, my favorite! I love when Robert Redford and Glen Close meet up in the café, and you can tell they love each other, but they’re so awkward because they haven’t seen each other in such a long time. But the spark… it’s still there.”

  “And we should be landing right after the movie ends.”

  “But I thought the flight was eight hours?”

  “Not today. We have some good tail winds, and the pilot’s in a hurry. Plus we’re flying a brand new plane that can go three times faster than the old models.”

  “Awesome.”

  “You’re also staying at the same hotel as the flight crew, so we’ll drive you there. That is, if you don’t mind sharing a car with us.”

  “No, I don’t think that’ll be a problem. It’ll be nice to not have to figure out where I’m going or how to get a cab. I’ve been awake for more than 24 hours. So excited for my trip.”

  “You just relax, then, and enjoy your movie. We’ll take care of everything.”

  Anyone who’s traveled at all—much less internationally—knows that my old dreams of being invited to stay at George Clooney’s Italian villa and be his sex slave were more realistic than my fantasy about what my trip would be like when I traveled to the U.K.

  No, I don’t recommend solo international travel for someone who’s never even been on a plane before. I was so focused on the destination that I didn’t think of the mode. It was just a given: need to get to London? Take a plane. But air travel is very complicated. And stressful. And crowded.

  I spent a lot of time asking questions of anyone who looked remotely like they worked for an airport or airline. “How do I get from here to there?” “Where do I go after that?” “What do I do next?” “Yes, I’m wearing an underwire bra. Is that okay?” “What do you mean I can’t take my dry shampoo on the plane with me?”

  By the time I got on the plane, I was already exhausted. And it was only 7 a.m. I was glad the company had splurged for the direct flight. I don’t know if I could have handled a layover in another airport.

  The flight itself was another adventure. I was sandwiched between two businessmen, one of whom spoke exclusively in Italian but judging by his tone was sexually harassing me every time he addressed me. The other was the stereotypical workaholic who kept getting in trouble for operating his electronic devices when he wasn’t supposed to be. I was relieved when both of them reclined their seats about halfway through the flight and dozed.

  I was too keyed up to sleep, however. Or read. Or do anything but monitor every little sound and bump the plane made. And whoever decided that Snakes on a Plane was a good choice for the in-flight movie had a sick sense of humor.

  I never thought I’d be a nervous flyer. The concept of flying, in general, has never bothered me. But I was surprised to find that I kind of had to stifle a non-stop, eight-hour scream. I kept worrying my first flight might be my last, and wishing I could just drive to London. When are they going to build that bridge, anyway? Surely we have the technology.

  It goes without saying that I’m mentally exhausted, nervous, stressed, and feeling not-so-fresh when the plane finally touches down at Heathrow. And I know I still have to get my baggage, find a cab, and make it to my hotel before I can truly breathe again. I estimate I’ll have to ask at least three dozen questions before I’m in a bed.

  However, the terminal where I land is surprisingly easy to navigate and well marked. I thank God I’m still in an English-speaking country, even if it’s a sort of English that I frequently don’t comprehend. Thanks to my evening studies, though, I’m delighted to find out that I understand more of what everyone around me is saying than I would have six months ago.

  After I have my bags, I wander over to one of the free-standing airport maps so I can figure out where to go to find a cab. Someone touches me from behind, but I ignore them, thinking it’s an incidental brush-up in the crowded terminal. I step a little closer to the map, in case I’m in someone’s way, but I stay focused on what I’m doing. Now a hand wraps around my upper arm. Reflexively, I bring my elbow down and back, looking sharply at whoever’s trying to put their hand in my messenger bag.

  Jude grabs his lower abdomen and steps back. “Oi! It’s only me!” he protests.

  I gasp and apologize in one breath, reaching for his arm. He quickly straightens, assuring me he’s fine, and as soon as he’s fully upright, I fling myself at him. Surprised, he takes a second to recover and hug me back.

  “Blimey, I didn’t realize I needed to wear protective gear to come fetch you from the airport,” he grouses good-naturedly, stiffly patting my back.

  Without thinking, I bury my face in his neck and take a deep breath of him. Then I muffle, “You weren’t supposed to be here. I thought you were mugging me!”

  He pushes away first. “Right. Well, I couldn’t in good conscience allow you navigate all this alone. Strange city, stranger people, after a long flight… That wouldn’t be very hospitable, now, would it be? How was your flight?”

  “Long,” I confirm. I’m suddenly self-conscious, tucking my hair behind my ears and fidgeting with my necklace. “I wasn’t expecting it to be such a big deal.”

  We stand there looking at each other for a beat, then he smiles and asks, “Do you need to exchange any cash?”

  When I answer, “yes,” and look around for the nearest kiosk or exchange counter, he shakes his head at me and says, “Not here. The exchange rate is bollocks. I’ll lend you some bees and honey— er, money, until we can locate a bank ATM close to your hotel.”

  I merely nod, grateful almost to the point of tears that he’s here to help me out.

  “What else do you need?” he asks.

  If only I knew. This is unbelievable. This morning, I woke up in Chicago, and now I’m in a completely different country. After eagerly anticipating it for weeks, it’s hard to convince myself this isn’t just another one of my fantasies.

  I laugh. “You tell me. I’m so lost it’s not even funny. I can’t believe I’m here!”

  “It’s more than a little surreal seeing you here,” he agrees, moving me aside with a gentle hand as someone behind me tries to get past us. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat?”

  I’m too nervous to eat, so I merely say, “Not really. Honestly, I’m looking forward to a hot bath and a soft bed. And then about seventeen hours of sleep.”

  He nods curtly, as if my request is completely reasonable. “Absolutely. That can be arranged. Would you like to wait here whilst I get the car?”

  I shake my head. “I’ll just go with you.”

  “It’s a bit of a walk.”

  “It feels good to stretch my legs. Let’s go.”

  He wasn’t kidding about the hike. But I don’t utter so much as a sigh, since he warned me. And he’s carrying my heaviest bag. Outside, I squint against the cold drizzle and ask him, “So how’re Marvin and some of the other guys adjusting to life over here?”

  “Really well, for the most part,” he answers. “Marvin’s quite the ladies’ man, believe it or not.”

  “Not,” I say.

  “N
ot kidding! The birds like his American accent.”

  I laugh at the reversal. “That’s crazy. What about all of his other, um, traits? None of those are a turn-off?”

  “Guess not.” He switches my suitcase to his other hand.

  We fall into an easy silence. I’m too psychologically weary to be tense or wonder what he’s thinking and what I should say next. My brain is slowly shutting down. Without warning, though, the mist turns into a downpour, huge drops bombing us from the night sky.

  “Feck, that figures!” he gripes, speeding up to a jog. “I’m parked straight ahead.”

  I keep pace with him until the last fifty feet or so, which he does at a sprint, pulling ahead of me as he pops the trunk of the car and tosses my bag in. I arrive seconds after him and follow suit, then I rush to the right side of the car.

  He’s on the other side, holding the door open. “Over here! Wrong side!”

  I laugh at myself. “Shit! Sorry!” I run around the back of the car and slide in. He slams the door after me and runs around the front of the car to get to the driver’s side. We look like two kids doing a Chinese fire drill at a stop light.

  When he’s behind the wheel, he starts the car and lets loose a giggle that ends in an extended “Aaaaah” that makes me laugh. I’ve missed that so much!

  “Welcome to London,” he says sarcastically.

  “Lovely weather you have here.”

  “Yes, we really highlight it in our tourism literature. Brings in loads of revenue.” He wipes his face on his wet shirt and puts the car in reverse.

  It’s disconcerting and downright scary to be sitting on the driver’s side of a car but not have a steering wheel to hold onto. I assume a position with one hand on the dashboard and the other clenched next to my leg on the seat. I angle my body towards him and bring my right foot up to prevent me from constantly trying to stomp on the brake or the gas.

  Without looking directly at me, he navigates the roads away from the airport, smiles, and says, “Everything okay over there?”

  “I’ll let you know after I can breathe again,” I reply. “Was it really this scary when I drove you around?”

  He laughs. “Oh, so much scarier. I’m not even driving fast. Or weaving in and out of traffic. Or shouting at other drivers.”

  I gulp. “It feels like you’re driving pretty fast.”

  “Well, I’m not. Let’s talk about something else to distract you.”

  All I can think about is the car, so I comment on it. “I see you got around to buying a car. What’s this thing called?”

  “A necessary evil. I drive it as little as possible, but I had to get something to take to client meetings, lunches, site walks, and that sort of thing. It’s come in useful.” Suspiciously, he asks, “Why?”

  I squirm. “Nothing. It’s just… I don’t know.” I look around at all the leather and lacquered wood-grain. I want to say it’s a grandpa car, but I don’t want to be rude, so I settle on, “Not your style.”

  “That’s because it’s not mine. It’s the company’s. I didn’t pick out this pretentious piece of rubbish.” He merges onto a very busy highway. “Speaking of cars, what’d you do with yours?”

  “Sold it to a bloke on my rugby team,” I joke.

  He grins and looks at me. “Seriously.”

  I frown, hoping I can tell him without crying. “Actually, it was kind of emotional,” I admit. “I took it to a dealer and they paid me peanuts for it, since I wasn’t trading it in or anything. I would have gotten more money for it if I’d sold it myself, but I ran out of time.”

  It was the first thing I did that made this whole life change real. Everything else was pretty superficial. You can get a passport without going anywhere; you can transfer your adult brother’s inheritance into his own name anytime you want. But when I walked away from that dealership and got on a bus to go home, Ryno nestled in my hoodie pocket, I realized I was really leaving the only home I’d ever known.

  “I’m sure it’ll find a good home,” Jude says sincerely, as if we’re talking about a beloved pet. “And you won’t need one here; you can take a train just about anywhere.” As the rain slows to a drizzle again, he turns down the setting on the wipers. “That reminds me: let me see your passport.” He sticks a hand toward me.

  “Just keep both hands on the wheel,” I implore. “You don’t need to see my passport.”

  “I want to see how squeaky-clean it is!” he urges. “Give over!”

  “No!”

  He waves dismissively at me. “Ah, well. I’ll see it later, I s’pose.”

  “I guess yours is all stamped up, since you’re such a sophisticated world traveler. And I’m just a hick.”

  “What’s a hick?”

  “A yokel. A bumpkin,” I translate.

  He smiles. “Oh. Then yes.” He reaches over and pushes playfully against my shoulder. “Only kidding. You’ve proven before that just because you’re inexperienced doesn’t mean you’re ignorant. You’re a fast learner.”

  I blush in the dark car.

  He clears his throat.

  Neither of us speaks for a while, the windshield wipers the only sound for several minutes. Then he says, “We’re almost to your hotel. What’re your plans for the next couple of days?”

  Focusing my eyes from my staring out the window at all the unfamiliar things around, I answer, “Oh, I don’t know.” I took two days of my leftover vacation time so I could let my body adjust to the time change. “I’ll probably explore the area around the hotel and try not to get lost. Sandberg’s supposed to be delivered to the hotel tomorrow, too.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yeah. I thought it was going to be a huge deal, but the thought of re-homing him was a deal-breaker. Found out that the U.S. has some sort of agreement with the UK, so I worked with a pet relocation service that knows all the ins and outs with that. And since he’s chipped, my Yankee Doodle cat is being welcomed with open arms.”

  He nods as I give my long-winded, rambling explanation, but as soon as I stop talking, he blurts, “Can I have you over for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “At your place?”

  “Yeah. Unless you don’t want to. I can take you somewhere else. I’m an embarrassing regular at several places close to work. But they’re noisy sorts of places. Pubs, mostly. We wouldn’t be able to talk as easily. You know, people playing snooker and arrows and such. Loud music.”

  His nervous prattle is adorable.

  “I’m not picky. Whatever’s easiest for you.”

  He pulls beneath the hotel awning and hits a button to open the trunk. “I’ll pop round at about seven, then, and we’ll see what we’re in the mood for.”

  Shyly, I reply, “Okay.”

  The moment I’ve been planning for more than a month is nearly here. It’s almost show time. But who would blame me for wanting to delay it just one more night?

  32

  I thought all I wanted was a bath and a bed, but when I get the second half of my wish, I realize that my mind is unable to shut off. It must have gotten its second wind while I was checking in. So I stare at the punched tin ceiling of my room, my thoughts scattering in a hundred different directions.

  I wonder what time Sandberg will be here tomorrow.

  Is it going to be weird to be alone with Jude in his apartment after all these months?

  How is he going to react to what I tell him? How am I even going to broach the subject?

  I hope the London office has all the office supplies I’ll need to get Talia set up on Monday.

  I’m not in the United States right now. I’m on a completely different continent.

  This room smells funny.

  I wonder where I can get a newspaper in the morning to look for a place to “live” here when I’m not traveling. Maybe I should wait until after I tell Jude everything. Maybe I’ll decide to set up my home base in another town, if it doesn’t go well. Or another country. Scotland? Ireland?

  Maybe Snow Patrol
needs another roadie. Or an administrative assistant.

  These sheets are itchy. Bedbugs?

  That idea has me on my feet, pulling back the covers and inspecting the linens at close range. Nothing.

  Back in bed, I quickly return to my runaway thoughts.

  What if I can’t figure out how to use the coffee maker here? I wonder if it’s very different than the ones back home.

  This is home now. Doesn’t feel like it. I miss my bed. I hope Lisa’s stepdaughter’s enjoying it. Is she sleeping in it right now? I do the math on my fingers. Probably.

  Is Sandberg okay? What’s he doing right now?

  Jude’s going to hate me after I tell him.

  No, he’s understanding. He’ll forgive me.

  Nobody’s that understanding.

  It’s not my fault. Really. Can’t we just skip the distasteful revelation and go straight to the making-up part?

  What if there’s no making up?

  Ohohohohoh… Breathe. If that’s the case, I hear there are lots of pubs in this region and no shortage of alcohol.

  What if he’s still mad at me about the Leslie thing on Monday, then he falls in love at first sight with Talia?

  What if he’s over me? He was pretty cool at the airport.

  He came to pick me up, though, even after I told him it wasn’t necessary. And he was babbling in the car a little, like he was nervous.

  So? He could be nervous because he thinks I might still have feelings for him, but he doesn’t feel the same way anymore.

  Maybe he’s thinking right now about how to best tell me that he’s met someone new.

  Maybe he’ll be introducing me to her at dinner…

  Gaaaaaaaa!!!

  By 6 a.m., I give up trying to sleep and turn on the TV in my room. The early morning news is on, but I can’t keep up with the speed at which the presenters speak. I was afraid of this. I knew I’d be lost here. I knew I’d stick out like a sore thumb, the obvious foreigner, clueless and ignorant, bumbling around, not knowing what she’s doing. And trying to operate on no sleep, to boot.