When will I ever understand anything about love?
Between Mark, Chris, and Jason, I keep getting it wrong. Mark is a dream, Chris is a mystery, and Jason is a mistake. Or maybe they’re all mistakes? I don’t even know anymore.
Then it hits me: all this time, Chris has been asking to see me, to meet up. And I keep turning him down. Why? Because I’m afraid, and that’s a stupid reason to run away from someone who actually likes me—who is actually happy he met me—even though he doesn’t know the exact truth about who I am.
If my parents’ relationship has taught me anything, it’s that things don’t last forever—they can’t—so I shouldn’t waste a single minute. Connection is a matter of destiny: if Chris turns out to be my MTB, then he won’t care that I’m not really a supermodel. He’ll love me anyway. Besides, he has already met me. Dad always said great reward comes with great risk; it’s time for me to risk something.
I swim over to the edge of the pool where I’ve left my towel and my phone. I flip it open and dash off a new message to Chris.
How bout tonight? —J
I click send, then snap my phone shut and dive in for another punishing lap. I’m halfway through when I realize there’s someone standing on the edge of the pool, right at the end of my lane. I come up for air, swiping the water from my eyes.
“Julia!”
Impossible. I blink, several times, realizing I must have a lot of chlorine in my eyes. There’s no way. I’m dreaming.
“Fancy meeting you here! I totally forgot the juniors were staying at this hotel.”
Mark Bixford, Man of My Dreams, MTB original, is standing on the pool deck, smiling down at me.
UR on. Meet me @Camden market 2nite for some mulled wine & meandering? —C
My phone beeps with a new text, but I’m too stunned to look at it. Or maybe it’s just my brain beeping—some inner alarm going off. MTB! MTB!
“What—what are you doing here!” I exclaim. The combination of the hard workout and the shock makes me sound sputtery and shrill. I grip the side of the pool, resting my chin on the ledge, trying to conceal as much of my body as possible. My Day-Glo swim team one-piece doesn’t exactly have major sex appeal.
“Uh, well, I heard there was a pool on the roof, so I figured I’d come up here and check it out,” he says, shrugging.
“I meant in London,” I say. I’m still blinking chlorine out of my eyes, but I don’t blink too fast, in case he’s some kind of mirage and I could accidentally blink him away.
“My dad got called in last minute to cover fashion week,” he explains, and I remember that his father is kind of a big-deal photographer. Not only does he regularly have spreads in Vogue and Harper’s, but he volunteers photographing cancer patients at the children’s hospital. He donates a photo shoot to the Newton North PTA’s charity auction every year. Obviously, Bixford Senior has transferred his awesomeness to his son. “Since I had no spring break plans, he brought me along. I figured a London adventure would be fun.”
“But I thought the hotel wasn’t even open yet. To regular guests, I mean.” As if that even matters right now, Julia. You are a conversational wizard.
But Mark doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh or crack a joke. He just nods and explains that his dad knows Mrs. Tennison’s husband’s brother (or whatever), too, and in exchange for some photos to hang in the hotel’s dining room, the Bixfords are staying in the hotel for the rest of the week.
A shiver passes through my body, and I have the sudden realization that Mark Bixford, my MTB, is standing here, and I’m in a pool. I put my hands up on the ledge of the pool and start to haul myself straight up onto the deck. I make it about halfway out of the water when it strikes me that I’m about to be standing in front of Mark Bixford, my MTB, wearing a wet bathing suit. The horror sends me plummeting backward into the pool, water splashing onto Mark’s perfectly white sneakers.
I have a moment when I think about staying on the bottom of the pool until I die … or Mark leaves, whichever comes first. But that only lasts a minute before I burst back to the surface, gasping for breath.
“Do you need help?” Mark bends down and offers me one of his hands. I need a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. And possibly a lobotomy, because my brain is, like, frozen from shock.
I grasp his hand and he pulls me straight up onto the deck in one fluid motion. I can feel his eyes on me in places I only imagined Mark Bixford’s eyes would go. I’m simultaneously horrified to be wearing my swim team suit and thankful I’m not in a teeny bikini. I cross my arms in front of my chest, then drop them to my sides, then cross my hands at my waist. I must look like I’m doing some kind of half-naked Macarena, so I dive past Mark for the towel I left before I got into the pool. I wrap it around me like a cape.
“I, uh, well …,” I mumble, praying that my brain will emerge from its watery fog and start to actually function. “I’m going to head downstairs. I need to get dressed.”
“I’ll ride with you,” he says. He follows me toward the elevator and jumps in front of me to punch the button.
The elevator dings down each floor. The noise is loud and crisp and somehow chipper, a signal of something exciting about to start. I can’t believe Mark is actually here and talking to me, not just because he thinks he should. I have to keep sneaking glances at him to be sure it’s not a dream. I hope he doesn’t notice.
I focus on not staring at him, and try not to think about the silence stretching between us, either. I won’t speak, because if I speak, I’ll blow it. There’s water in my left ear—I can feel it—but I refuse to try to shake it out. I am not going to start hopping up and down like a lopsided jackrabbit in front of Mark.
Mark is here.
I keep repeating it over and over in my head, but it still doesn’t totally feel real. I want to pinch myself. Or him. Or both. Or have him pinch me.
I must have gotten water in my brain.
I stare into the brass elevator doors, which reflect the image of Mark standing next to me. He’s leaning against the back wall of the elevator, his arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves are rolled up, and I can’t stop staring at his tan skin. There are a few freckles dotted along his arm. I want to run my fingers from one to the next, tracing them like some kind of constellation.
Mark is here. And talking to me. Me!
“I heard you had some, um, excitement on the flight over,” he says, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah, the flight was crazy bumpy,” I reply. “How did you—”
Before I can finish my question, the elevator dings twice to indicate that we’ve arrived at my floor, and as the doors slide open, Mark’s reflection disappears … and is replaced by the real-life Jason, who is waiting to get into the elevator.
His dark green thermal has a hole near the hem and the sleeves are all stretched out over his fingers. His messy hair appears to be staging an escape from underneath his crooked baseball cap.
Jason’s eyes flick back and forth from Mark to me, me to Mark.
“Hi!” I shout, entirely too brightly. I push past him before he can do something to embarrass me, and Mark follows me into the hall.
“Hey there,” Jason says, swiveling around to face me, although he keeps his eyes on Mark. Now that I can see them standing across from each other, I can’t believe I was ever hung up on Jason for even .2 seconds. Mark is perfect. Jason was right: the kiss was a mistake.
Jason’s expression is hard to decipher. He looks very calm. Unfortunately, it seems like the kind of calm that comes before a tornado whips through your town and deposits three cows and a Pizza Hut on top of your house. I feel my body tense as I wait for the inevitable funnel cloud.
Mark, to his credit, is oblivious.
“Hey, man, good to see you,” Mark says, and offers his hand. Jason eyes it for a moment before leaning in for one of those half-high-five, half-hug back-slap maneuvers guys seem to be so good at. Jason thuds Mark so hard on the back that I think I hear a low “ugh” escape.<
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“You too, man,” Jason replies, a faint note of sarcasm in his voice. Jason turns to me. “So, buddy, I was just looking for you. We’ve got that outdoor-space assignment, so I was thinking we could hit up Covent Garden. You know, sniff some flowers and stuff.”
“It’s not actually a garden,” I reply.
“What?” Jason looks puzzled.
“It’s a shopping district,” I say. I glance over at Mark nervously. I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of boring know-it-all. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be paying attention. “There are markets and the Royal Opera House and stuff.”
“Whatever,” Jason says. He positions himself between Mark and me. “Do you wanna go?”
“It doesn’t really fit the assignment,” I reply, uncomfortably adjusting my towel-cape.
Mark glances at his watch. He moves easily around Jason, and I practically melt into a puddle when he smiles at me. “I’m headed over to Hyde Park in a few. My dad’s doing a shoot, and he wanted me to meet him. You could come with me if you want.”
I have a teeny, tiny sliver of a moment when it seems like Mark Bixford might be asking me out on a date, but Jason quickly stomps his foot down on that hope and dream.
“That sounds great,” he says, a heavy, affected enthusiasm dripping from his words. “Don’t you think that sounds great, Julia? Almost, I don’t know, meant to be?”
I shoot a warning eye at him, and he seems to get the message: Don’t. Just. Don’t. I want to slap that snotty grin right off his freckled face, but instead I take a deep breath and smile at Mark.
“Yeah, that’d be fun,” I say, hoping my voice sounds appropriately enthusiastic without too much of a tinge of OMGYESPLEASERIGHTNOW! “I’ll go throw on some clothes,” I say.
“Are you sure?” Mark smiles at me and raises his perfect eyebrows. “I’m sure the people of London would love to see you touring in your swimsuit. I certainly wouldn’t mind.”
Jason shoots him an irritated look, but I don’t really care, because at this moment, a thousand tiny Julia Lichtensteins are doing cartwheels in my brain. He’s not just talking to me; he’s flirting with me!
“Just hurry up, okay?” Jason says. “I don’t want to wait all day for you to find the perfect outfit.”
“Yeah, ’cause that sounds like me,” I mutter. I really don’t want to start a fight with Jason right now. I don’t know what’s spurred this sudden interest from the guy who has occupied 94.32 percent of my brain ever since he moved back to Newton. All I know is whatever this new reality I’ve entered into is, I worry it’s being held together by Popsicle sticks and old rubber bands. I’m not about to fight with Jason and disturb this delicate, miraculous occurrence.
“Well, hurry up, okay? I want to get going,” Jason says. He slams a button to summon the elevator again. A ding signals its arrival. The doors slide open, and Jason steps in. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mark says, throwing his arms into the closing elevator doors. They pop back open and Mark strolls in. “I’ll grab some road snacks. Anything for you, Jules? I don’t know if they make Starburst in the UK.”
The elevator doors slide closed before I can respond, which is probably good. I wouldn’t have been able to speak anyway. I’m too busy hopping up and down, doing a happy dance, my hands over my head, my wet hair whipping back and forth.
The first thing I do when I get back to my room is give myself a once-over in the mirror. My hair is hanging in heavy wet waves, sticking to my shoulders in chestnut clumps. My suit hasn’t ridden up anyplace embarrassing, but still, a Speedo isn’t the attire I’d pick for my first conversation with Mark Bixford in five years. I resist the urge to Skype Phoebe right now and shout through the Internet that Mark is talking to me, Mark is going on a date with me (well … sort of). I have to be downstairs in like, five minutes ago, so our gossip session will have to wait until later.
I change in record time, opting to let my hair air-dry and hoping that it won’t turn into a crazy ball of frizz. While I brush my teeth, I close my eyes and see his smile when he said my name. I see that one tooth that lies on top of the other tooth, making him look just a little bit more—I don’t know—mortal. I mean, it sounds like he remembered our wedding. And smiled. What else could possibly matter right now?
When I get to the lobby, I spot Jason and Mark sitting opposite each other in plush wingback chairs. I arrive in time to hear the end of their conversation. Jason is looking toward the bar, where a group of stray models seem to have stopped in for a midafternoon drink.
“Seems like a lot of easy prey around here for you,” Mark says. Gross. I don’t want to know anything about Jason’s “prey.” I can’t believe I actually let him kiss me.
As soon as the thought comes to me, though, the sensation of our kiss in the grass surges through me like an electric shock. I suddenly feel too warm, with the kind of heat that brings little pinpricks of sweat right to your temples. I gasp and have to give my head a little shake to get the image to go away. The noise alerts the boys to my presence, and they look up at me.
“Ready?” I ask, a little too brightly.
“Uh-huh,” Jason grunts, and starts for the door without even a glance in Mark’s direction. Not the greatest start.
It takes us about twenty minutes to walk to the entrance to Hyde Park, and every minute is agonizingly awkward. Mark tries to make conversation about London; Jason snorts or rolls his eyes in response; and to compensate, I end up acting like every single word out of Mark’s mouth is a jewel crapped out by a fairy princess. I’m bordering dangerously on reenacting Susan’s ridiculous flirting techniques.
If nothing else, at least the weather seems to be cooperating. Mrs. Tennison seemed so proud of her little “outdoor spaces” assignment, designed to get us off to one of London’s famed parks and out of the pubs and boutiques my classmates are so fond of. After the last two days of rain, I was starting to think our outdoor-spaces assignment was going to be an epic disaster.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief when we finally arrive in Hyde Park, because I hope it means we’ll have something concrete to talk about. Maybe we can even ditch Jason. Except, of course, I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. Because that’s against the rules. And I don’t break rules. Except with Jason.
I can feel Jason’s hands in my hair again, his lips on mine, and I’m gasping for breath.
“You okay, Jules?” Mark asks, stopping to see if I need a slap on the back or mouth to mouth (um, maybe?).
“Fine,” I reply. “I just, uh, swallowed a bug, I think.” Oh. My. God. Did I seriously just say that? Mark is going to think I’m gross.
Fortunately, he just laughs. “Swallowing can be a hazard,” he says, like we’re sharing some kind of inside joke. I relax again, grateful to him for making me feel at ease.
Jason, on the other hand, is definitely not making me feel at ease. He’s stalking four feet ahead of us—just far enough to seem deliberately rude, but not far enough that we can converse freely without his involvement. I only know one way to distract them from the awkwardness, so I pull out my guidebook and start flipping the pages until I find the listing for Hyde Park, which I marked with a blue Post-it the first time I read this book back in Boston.
“According to my guidebook, Speaker’s Corner is really close by,” I say, my eyes glued to the page.
“What’s that?” Mark asks, peeking over my shoulder at my book.
“It’s an open-air space for debating,” I say, trying to hide the fact that his closeness is practically giving me heart palpitations. “Anyone can get up and speak about … well, anything.”
“I think you should speak, Julia,” Jason says, turning around to shoot me another indecipherable look. “I think you should dazzle us with your theories on MTB!”
I nearly drop my book.
“What’s MTB?” Mark asks, looking closer over my shoulder as if he’s going to find the answer in my Frommer’s guide to London.
“Oh! It’s … uh … just this thing. From social studies,” I say quickly, my mind racing to come up with three little words. “It’s the, um, Massachusetts … Terminal … um, Budget. Yeah, Mass Terminal Budget. Or as it’s more commonly known, the MTB.”
Jason bursts out laughing. I could kill him right now. Since I’m pretty sure homicide is just as illegal on this side of the ocean, I turn on my heel and start walking in the opposite direction, cutting across the grass and toward Speaker’s Corner. I’m happy to see that Mark follows.
Speaker’s Corner reminds me a little bit of back home on Boston Common, minus the tour guides wearing Revolutionary War garb. Various people are milling about in the space. Some speakers are standing on literal soap boxes, others on chairs. Some have constructed elaborate displays; some are waving posters; others are gesticulating wildly.
In one spot on the path, leaning against a fence, is a man speaking out against overpopulation. Directly across from him is a scruffy-looking university student standing on a step stool, trying to convince passing tourists of the virtues of a vegan diet. Runners zip through the crowd, headphones fixed firmly on their ears, and mothers with children hurry by as quickly as they can. But many people have stopped to listen. Occasionally, people shout back at the speakers. One guy keeps yelling, “I’d go vegan if bacon grew on trees, mate!”
We wedge ourselves through the crowd. Most of what I hear just seems stubborn, reactionary, or downright crazy. I start to feel that tense skin-crawl of discomfort. I don’t like crowds, and I don’t like yelling … which means I definitely don’t like yelling crowds. I start to feel a little dizzy: the swell of voices makes my head spin.
Meant to Be Page 21
