Meant to Be

by Lauren Morrill

  “Exactly, whatever. Brush me off, just like you brush off everyone else.”

  “What are you even talking about?” I struggle to keep my voice from trembling.

  “If you would pull your head out of your guidebooks for point two seconds, maybe you’d see that you’re not the lonely victim you’re always pretending to be. There are people who actually care about you.”

  “What, like you?”

  I hear him draw a quick breath; then there’s a long pause.

  “Maybe,” he says finally.

  “Oh please,” I sputter. “What a great friend you’ve been. You ignore me when it suits you, throw me in the pond, ditch me to buy ‘soccer jerseys’ and who knows what else, embarrass me twenty-four seven, and practically get me booted off the trip.”

  “If it wasn’t for me, you would have spent the entire trip alone, too busy looking up facts and dates to have any fun, and spending all of your time daydreaming about your stupid MTB, Mark. You should really be thanking me.”

  “Thanking you? Thanking you?” I slam my hand down on the leather seat in frustration. The muffled thwack is hardly satisfying, and now my hand sort of stings. “You’re delusional, do you know that? You’re delusional, and … and immature, and—”

  “And selfish, and a child, and an ass,” he finishes for me, practically spitting. “I know, you’ve said it before. You’ve said it many times, in fact.” He turns to face me. His eyes are half-narrowed, and he’s staring at me with such intensity I draw backward. “You know what your problem is? Nobody’s good enough for you. You live in a fantasy world. And if you don’t wake up, you’ll end up alone, with your books and four million number-two pencils.”

  My vision flashes red. I can’t even believe what I’m hearing. I want to pinch myself to see if I can wake up from this nightmare.

  “How dare you say that to me,” I choke out.

  “What, dare to tell you the truth?” Jason is laughing now, but it’s an angry laugh, harsh and cutting. “See? You can dish it, but you can’t take it. You act like you’re the only one with feelings.”

  “The day you show feelings is the day I—” I mutter, but he cuts me off.

  “What? Put down your guidebook? Use a pen? Break the rules?”

  “I’ve been doing nothing but breaking rules since I got here,” I shout, nearly lunging out of my seat at him.

  “Yeah, and you seem to have had more fun than you’ve had in your whole life.”

  “No, I’ve been stressed and miserable! I’ve had more trouble than I’ve ever had in my entire life combined since I started breaking rules.”

  “Why are you saying that like it’s my fault?”

  “Because it is! From the moment we left Boston, you’ve been picking at me and pushing me. And I’m sick of it—sick of your jokes and your smirk and your dimples and your immaturity.” I’m breathing hard and raggedly and I can feel my cheeks turning red. The driver flicks his eyes in the rearview mirror, unable to ignore me.

  “Immaturity? Is that the best you can do?” He finally turns to face me. “C’mon, Julia. You can do better than that. Go crazy. Use a bad word.” He narrows his eyes, and all I can notice are his eyebrows, which are as fiery red as his hair. Suddenly, I’m distracted by them; they’re all I can look at. I focus on them instead of the pain and anger and frustration in his eyes. I ignore the fact that he appears on the verge of tears.

  “You want me to do better?” Steely anger is bubbling inside me, hot and molten. “You’re not immature. You know exactly what you’re doing. You choose to be a jerk. And what’s sick is you’re so good at it. You’ve lied and manipulated my feelings all through this trip, and you enjoyed it, didn’t you? You’ve probably been off with Ryan just cracking up over how much you screwed me up. Tease me, comfort me, mock me, kiss me, blow me off for some supermodel. Was that fun for you, to screw with my head? Did no one ever teach you it’s not okay to treat people like that? Oh wait, probably not. Your mom ditched you before she could get to that lesson.”

  I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. His whole body tenses up, like he might pounce on me or break into a sprint and run away. If his eyes were laser beams, he would have bored two perfect holes straight through to the back of my skull.

  For a quick moment I actually feel a little scared. I instinctively scoot back against the door of the cab. But his body loosens, really quick, like someone plucked the tension right out of him from above. He leans back against the seat and raises his hands in a slow, labored clap.

  “Wow. Really great, Julia. A-plus for that rant. That’s all you really want, isn’t it? A good grade? That’s real life to you—books and school and grades. Your dad would be so proud.”

  Our cab screeches to a halt in front of our hotel. I fling the door open and bound out, then turn and duck my head back into the cab.

  “Fuck. You,” I say, my voice even. “There’s your bad word.”

  I can barely see as I march through the door of the hotel, shoulder-checking anyone in the lobby who gets in my way. I don’t even apologize. My fight with Jason keeps replaying in my head like it’s the only song on my iPod and the device is set to repeat.

  When I get back to my room, I slam the door hard and the photos of London rattle in their frames. I go to the sink and splash some cold water on my face. The icy water breaks through my rage, and all that’s left is confusion and pain. I start to shake. I don’t know if it’s from the cold water or what, but I wrap my arms around me to try to steady myself. I can’t stop. My teeth chatter. I wait for the tears to come, but they don’t. My eyes are dry and itchy, and I rub my face hard.

  I want my mom.

  I pull out my wallet and unzip the front pocket with such force that the zipper comes off in my hand. I yelp and fling the broken zipper at the floor. I take out the red calling card Mom gave me for emergencies. And this is definitely an emergency. I can’t shake the repeating thought: I want my mom.

  I punch the numbers in on the cordless phone in my hotel room, carefully following the instructions on the back of the card. I’m so anxious that I mistype and have to dial three times. Finally, though, the line starts ringing, the sound slightly crackly as my distress signal travels over the ocean.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom!” I cry, clutching the phone with both hands.

  “Julia? Are you okay?” Her voice is thick with worry.

  “Everything’s fine,” I say, trying to swallow back a lump. “I just missed you and … I really needed to talk to you.”

  “Oh good,” my mom says, letting out a long sigh. “I was so nervous when I heard you on the line! I miss you, too, honey. How are things?”

  “They’re okay,” I reply. Suddenly, I don’t know what to say. How do I even begin?

  “You don’t sound okay,” she replies gently. Mom can always read the tones in my voice. She’s always telling me I should never play poker.

  “I’m just a little homesick,” I say, then inhale. “Nine days is a long time.”

  “You’re telling me! I’ve been wandering around this house trying to figure out what to do. Things got so bad I was even thinking of taking up knitting.”

  The tension starts to break apart in my chest. “What about line dancing?” I say. “Or underwater basket weaving?”

  My mom laughs, and the sound is warm and clear, even through the phone. I imagine her in our tiny kitchen at her usual place at the head of our rickety wooden table, twirling the cord of our ancient phone around her finger. I take a deep breath. Just the sound of her voice calms me.

  “Well, actually …,” she says, and then pauses. “I was out with Dan last night. He took me to that new tapas place.”

  And just like that, the heaviness in my chest is back. “Wh-what?” I stammer. “Who’s Dan?”

  “Oh, you know, the one Kathleen from next door set me up with. The accountant in her office,” Mom explains, her voice a little clipped.

  My mind has gone completely b
lank. “So … he was second-date material?”

  “Third, actually. Monday we went to a movie, that new alien one?”

  A third date? I know that Mom’s been on several first dates. Every time, she ends up coming home, plopping down on the couch with a big sigh, and flipping through the channels for whatever reality TV marathon is on that night. I never ask for details, partially because I don’t want to know, and partially because six episodes of Teen Mom sort of paint the picture for me.

  But a third date?

  Stupidly, the only thing I can think of to say is “Well, how was it?”

  “Well, you know. I hate 3-D movies. They make me feel a little motion sick,” she says.

  “Not the movie, Mom! The date.”

  “Oh! It was great. He’s a sweet guy. Funny. And at the tapas place he ordered in Spanish, which was pretty impressive. I think we’re going to the farmers’ market on Saturday morning.”

  My mom went on a third date, and she has plans for a fourth. My mom has a more active romantic life than I do at this point.

  “I—I’m just surprised,” I say.

  “Julia.” My mom sighs. “You’re acting like I’ve never been on a date before.”

  I’m clutching the phone so hard my knuckles hurt. “I know you used to date.…”

  “I’m not talking about in high school, honey.”

  “I just mean … I didn’t think you’d actually start, I don’t know, seeing someone.” I have to sit down on the bed before I can hear the answer.

  “It was bound to happen sometime,” she says, her voice gentle. “It’s been almost ten years. I loved your father very much. I still do. But that’s not a reason to shut down.”

  “I guess.…” I pick invisible lint off the shiny down comforter and accidentally draw out long, thin feathers from the stuffing.

  My mom sighs again. “Listen, Jules. You know how hard it was when your father died, but it’s important to pick up the pieces and try again.”

  “Try again?” I run a feather back and forth across the comforter, then take it between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Of course.”

  “But Dad was your one.” I hear my voice as I say it. It sounds desperate, childlike, as though if I say it enough, I can make it true. I let the feather go and watch it float gently to the floor.

  “He was, and then he died,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine that love only comes around once, and I know your dad would say the same thing. You can’t simply turn off love. It’s part of life, and it’s everywhere. You have to reach out and try to take it.”

  “Wow,” I sigh, taking in everything she’s said. The image of Mom sitting in a tapas restaurant with some accountant keeps butting up against the idea that Dad was Mom’s MTB. She can’t be looking for someone else. Isn’t her MTB supposed to find her?

  But of course she’s looking. Of course. I’ve only known this for about five minutes, and already I feel silly for having ever believed something else. It’s the same ridiculous feeling I had when I finally remembered their fight.

  It’s like I’ve been believing in Santa Claus all this time.

  “Julia, I didn’t mean to bring all this up on the phone,” Mom says. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I reply. I kick my shoes off and flop down onto the bed. “It’s actually exactly what I needed to hear.”

  “So I didn’t make you feel worse?”

  “Nope,” I reply, hoping she can hear the smile on my face. “Quite the opposite. I feel much better.”

  The minutes are racking up, so we say our goodbyes and I tell her that I can’t wait to get home. She encourages me to enjoy the last bit of my time in London, and I know that I will.

  I’ve been holding my breath, swimming underwater for too long. Maybe there is no such thing as the perfect person. Or maybe Jason’s right: there are perfect people, many of them, and it’s up to you to grab one when you find each other in the random chaos of life and love. Jason. Maybe he could have been one of those people.

  He was right—all along he’s been right—and now I can’t believe how hurtful I was. I can’t see how he’ll ever forgive me.

  I want to call Phoebe next, to talk about everything: my mom, her date, my dad, and my musical chairs of guys here in London. Unfortunately, I don’t think there are enough calling cards in all of London to get that story out. Instead, I take my cell from the bedside table and text her the only truth I know right now.

  P— I fell for Jason and screwed it up BIG-TIME.

  Don’t ask. Will need lots of ice cream waiting for me.

  Love and miss —J

  I wait on pins and needles, staring at the tiny phone in my hand, but it doesn’t vibrate. Did Phoebe get my text? Is her phone off? It must be, or she definitely would have written me right back, probably to ask me if I’ve gone barking mad. Maybe she’s skipped writing me back and is simply trying to find a British mental institution where she can have me committed.

  I wait another minute or two, maybe to let the shock wear off her so she can respond, but nothing comes. The only new text on my phone is the one from Chris about the Spice of Life pub.

  The whole fight started when I said I was going to go meet Chris. Nothing to lose now. Jason hates my guts and is probably off with that blond girl, anyway, so what does it matter? Best not to fight for nothing, I guess.

  I take my bag off the bed, sling it over my shoulder, and march out the door.

  It’s on. —J

  I pop out of the tube at Leicester Square. It’s late. As my last act of rebellion on this trip (and hopefully for the rest of my natural life), I’ve ditched my hotel, blown off dinner, and come looking for my mystery guy. Hey, go big or go home, right? And since I am going home tomorrow, I figure I might as well go HUGE.

  The streetlamps are just coming on all around me, and the sun is beginning to set. As I stand on the sidewalk, trying to get my bearings, people push past me. I haven’t been to this area before, so I’m forced to pull out my laminated map of London. I step back against the outside wall of the tube station so I don’t get trampled, and run my fingers along the brightly colored streets until I find my way. It should only be a short couple of blocks’ walk to get to the pub.

  I pass colorful shop fronts painted like Easter eggs, their equally colorful wares displayed in the windows. One shop displays a window packed with mannequins clad in hand-knit sweaters in every color of the rainbow. A watch shop has a display case crammed with brightly colored bands, and the jewelry shop next door features costume pieces so large they look like they’d weigh me down. Rhinestones in red and purple and blue are piled on top of each other.

  Only a few blocks later, I’ve reached the address I found online. The pub takes up an entire corner block and is lit up like a Christmas tree. The sight of the big brick facade overwhelms me for a moment, and I have to pause on the sidewalk and take some deep breaths. After all the disappointments I’ve faced this week, I want this to be good. Even though I probably don’t deserve it, I need it to be good.

  Please don’t disappoint me.

  I step through the doors and instantly realize that Spice of Life isn’t just some typical English pub. Sure, there’re a bar and booths and tables, but a stage dominates the first floor. There’s a band, a bunch of guys playing instruments with a female singer at the mic. The music is loud but calm, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I haven’t walked in on a Black Sabbath cover band. I don’t think I could take that.

  I scan the crowd, searching for a rumbled mop of dark hair, a pair of black glasses, a well-worn flannel shirt. I look for the pocket Shakespeare. But I don’t see him anywhere. I shrink into my shoulders and pull my sleeves of my gray cardigan over my hands, as if this will somehow render me invisible. Damn. I was hoping he’d already be there so I could have a moment to see him before he sees me. I want a moment to breathe, to prepare, to organize my words and thoughts before I approach him. Resigned to wait, I make my way
over to the bar and perch on one of the high wooden stools, my feet dangling below me. I give the bartender a wave and order a beer, my first ever. It flies out of my mouth before I can even think, and once it’s out, I go with it. I don’t even know how to order a beer; I just say, “I’ll take a beer.”

  “What kind?” the bartender says through his thick red mustache.

  “What?”

  He gestures to the colorful row of taps along the bar.

  “Whatever’s cheapest,” I say. I don’t even know how much beer costs, and I definitely don’t want to order one and then not have enough money in my wallet to pay for it.

  I realize now how my classmates have gotten away with it all week. Ask with enough confidence and a cold pint glass will appear in front of you, no questions asked. I take a sip and try not to grimace at the bitter gulp. It doesn’t burn like the drink Jason made me at the house party, but it certainly isn’t pleasant. I swallow twice more, quickly, hoping my taste buds will catch up, but they don’t.

  I pull out my copy of Pride and Prejudice and flip it open. I’m nearly finished, though I hope I don’t get to the end while I’m sitting here. There’s nothing I hate worse than being stranded somewhere alone with nothing to read.

  “That’s my favorite book!”

  I look up. A girl is sitting next to me, smiling broadly. Her teeth are dazzling white. Her long blond hair cascades in waves down her shoulders. It’s the kind of hair that looks like it came from an animated movie, with perfect bounce and shape. She’s seated, but I can tell she’s tall. Her legs drape effortlessly down the barstool. She’s wearing skinny jeans with up-to-her-knees black leather boots. An oversized blue button-up that on me would look like a cotton shower curtain draped across my body somehow makes her look tall and shapely and glamorous. A pair of gold-rimmed aviators is shoved on top of her head, holding back her fringed bangs. Her blond hair is streaked with pink, and she looks vaguely familiar.

  Then I remember: she was at the party Jason and I crashed on our first night in London. I saw Jason chatting her up in the kitchen of the house party and then, hours later, her boyfriend, with his matching hairdo, tossing Jason out onto the street.