by Marilyn Grey
Don pulled her into him.
"Yes," she said, elbowing him. "So long as he keep a good job, right?"
I loved the way she smiled at him. So sweet and real. Her family accepted him well enough according to my last conversation with Don, but they also expected them to move to South Korea if they ever got married. I didn't want to think about that. Of course he said I'd be in the UK and it would be a little closer. It was a nice try.
Also couldn't imagine Don living in Korea and learning the language, but I knew he'd do it for Han. He'd do anything for anyone, but especially her.
He hadn't said one word to me about proposing, which told me he'd eventually ask her, unlike all of the other girls he fanatically obsessed over within a week. I wondered if he'd use the ring he got for me years ago, and if not, what would he do with it?
"How about we drive to your place first?" he said to Han. "Then I'll drive to dinner and we can stay at your place tonight?"
"Risqué!" I teased.
Han blushed, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and drove off. Don sat in his car and put the window down.
"Doing okay, Jazz?" he said while turning down the radio.
"Fine. Why?"
"Just making sure. Everything going okay with lover boy?"
"It's hard, but it's good. When are you gonna propose to Han? Are you just waiting for her family's approval?"
He put his arm on the window and looked ahead at the brick wall. "Nah. I don't know. I'm not in a hurry. It will happen if it's meant to."
"Wow." I flicked his temple. "Where's Donovan and what did you do with him?"
"I know. Weird." He made a funny face. "It's just not the right time. I want her to be comfortable if I do it."
"Will you tell her you almost proposed to eight million thousand other women?"
"Eight million thousand. Hm." He raised his eyebrows. "I learn new numbers every day." He laughed. "She knows everything about me. Well, everything that I know about me, she knows. Maybe more."
"Did that bother her?"
"No. I told her why I was like that."
"Which was ... why?"
He just looked at me.
"Oh. Right. Even with Zoe?"
"Not really. Not sure what the hell I was thinking there. Maybe just the fact that she needed so much help. I felt like I could protect her if I married her and got her out of that house. Then you moved out and it worked out." He pretended to wipe his brow. "Not that she's not a nice girl and all, but..." He laughed. "Well, you know."
I looked at the time. "I better go. I need to call Alistair. I hate this time difference stuff."
"He's doing okay? I like him, Jazz. You know I wouldn't say that about everyone."
"I know."
He smiled and put his car into reverse. "Go call lover boy," he said in his horrible British accent.
I ignored him and got into my car. I was going to wait until I was comfortable in bed, but I couldn't.
I called. And it rang. And rang. And ... look at that ... rang.
I hung up and tried again. And a third time before I got home. Nothing.
8:41pm my time. 1:41pm his time. I made myself leftovers and responded to a text from Zoe, who lived with Brooke, helping her clean and take care of her little one in exchange for free rent. Worked out great for both of them, but I missed having a roommate. Lonely as hell now that Alistair was falling asleep before I could call. He worked early mornings into the evening with a landscaping company. It was hard work and he was exhausted by the end of the day. But he wanted to save money so we could visit often. So I tried to let it go.
I tried to call again before I went to bed, but he didn't pick up. So I got comfortable, turned the light off, and gave it one more shot.
The screen turned black, then glowed.
"Alistair?" I whispered.
The screen showed a candle by his bedside, a tea cup, and a picture of me under his hand on top of his Carpe Diem tattoo.
"Alistair?" I whispered again, wishing I could reach through the screen and touch him.
He didn't stir.
I propped my phone on the pillow next to me and watched his chest rise and fall until I fell asleep.
When I woke up to my alarm going off, I read through the notifications on my phone. A bunch of nothing except he sent an email.
Dearest girl of mine,
I woke up for work to a beautiful, sleeping face on my phone. I don't remember talking last night. I can only imagine what sort of rubbish I said in my stupor. I'm so sorry, Jane. I hope you haven't forgotten the way it feels when we're together. It fades with each day, that intensity of being able to close our eyes and feel each other there, but I'll never forget. Don't forget. We need to hold on and we WILL have it again soon. Stay with me, girl. We will get through this. It's only an ocean between us, not like it's a universe, right? I loved waking up to your cute little face. I can tell you one thing, it was bloody hard to hang up the phone. I'm off to work now. Check the attachment. I sent audio.
Yours,
Alistair
I opened up the attachment and hit play.
{ Readers - You can LISTEN to this voicemail by clicking here }
"Jane," he said. "I know we don't say this because it makes you uncomfortable, but I'm saying it now because if I don't I think I might regret going another day without being honest with myself and you. I love you, Jane Maryanne. I love you more than my own life. Stay with me."
Then he sang a song and ended it by saying, "I know you don't know many modern pop songs, but that was a song called Stay with Me by Sam Smith. I changed the words though, because I do know that I love you. And I'll always know, Jane." He paused, the audio crackled a bit, then he said, "Okay, I don't know what else to say now. This is a bit queer talking to my phone like it's you, but I had to say it and didn't want to write it out. All right, talk soon."
I replayed it at least seven times, then brought up my voice recorder, stared at the picture of him on my nightstand, and said, "Alistair. The Oxford English Dictionary has about 171,476 words, but there isn't a single word in there that can explain how I feel. So I'll keep it simple, although it's nowhere near what I really want to say." I waited, looked at his picture, then said, "I love you." I pressed my lips together and told myself not to cry. "I love you, Alistair. And I miss you so much it hurts."
{ Readers - You can LISTEN to this voicemail by clicking here }
I sent it through as a text, set it beside my picture of him, and took a really long shower with a huge smile on my face. When I got out I checked my phone and he responded, "I can't tell you what that does to me."
It wasn't much.
But it was more than enough.
Chapter 46
If I said I love you, then technically I should've been able to clearly define love, but throughout the rest of the day I found myself thinking and thinking of a definition without coming up with anything worthwhile. The dictionary says things like "deep affection for someone" and "sexual or intimate attraction," which I find kinda funny, because when you look up affection it says "a gentle feeling of fondness or liking." So that would mean, really, that love according to the dictionary is a deep, gentle feeling of "liking," which really doesn't do it justice. Then there's the definition of falling in love. Moving from neutrality to love for someone. I didn't get that either, because I never had feelings of neutrality toward Alistair. I went from a gentle fondness or liking of him to an aching love for him. Aching. Love.
I tried, but came up with nothing. I don't even know if words are capable of defining something you can't know. It's so much more than knowing and even feeling. It's almost like a state of being. Love changes you. I know that for a fact, mind you, because it changed me.
All of a sudden my days were filled with thoughts of him or oh-let-me-grab-my-phone-and-tell-him kind of moments. At the sewing machine I'd watch my hands run the fabric through and imagine his hand on top of mine. When I walked down the street I'd pull up the picture in my mi
nd of him there on the sidewalk, and I'd stop, smile, and send him a text to tell him I missed him. Taking baths reminded me of passionate kisses and bed time reminded me of his arms. Pizza made me think of his quirky sense of humor and writing words like humor and color made me think of humour and colour and silly British things he said like "sod off" and "barmy" and "bollocks." Don't get me started on planes and tooth brushes and Tchaikovsky and Batman. Everything reminded me of him and everything I experienced—like the Monopoly game I finally won—I wanted to share it with him right away.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can't fathom love being a "deep liking" for someone, because fondness doesn't change lives. Fondness doesn't take a girl scared of getting her heart broken, surrounded by extremely high walls, and turn her into a girl with her heart in someone else's hands, completely mesmerized by the way it feels to be mesmerized. Walls destroyed. Trusting. Devoted. Passionately excited to feel his fingers locked with hers. Fondness doesn't do that. But love ... this thing called love ... whatever it is ... it does. It changes you. It gives you life and makes you bleed all at once. How can a "deep liking" compete with that? It can't. Nothing can. Not even 171,476 words. Not even sex. Or passion. Or dreams. Just love. That's it. This undefinable, crazy, stubborn thing called love.
It's beautiful.
Time and me. Not friends. When you ask time to hurry, what happens? Time takes a freaking eternity and a half. Ask time to slow down so you can please, please, please savor a moment ... what happens? Time breaks the clock, fast forwards its hands, and turns it back on when it's satisfied with stealing your life. Now, I'm not normally so dramatic, but these are special circumstances. And special circumstances call for dramatic soap boxes.
Told you relationships bring drama, but I guess Donovan was right. It was worth it.
So ... I finally—after way too long—boarded a plane to the UK. Mom would be proud. The flight also decided to take forever and cause my life to flash before my eyes a zillion times. But that's okay. It was all worth it when I landed earlier than expected—I know, ironic, right?—and found him walking into the airport just as I was walking out. I dropped my bags on my toes, flung my arms around his neck, and possibly broke a few of his ribs.
"Don't joke about your amazing kiss being the reason I'm so happy," I said into his neck. "That joke is way old now."
"How did you know?" He laughed and tightened his arm around my back while holding the back of my head with his other hand. It felt incredibly good. So good I couldn't let go.
"Time is cooperating for once," I whispered.
"Time?"
"It's slow when I want it to be." I kissed his neck and finally stood back, taking in every last detail of the face I missed so much. "But I have a feeling as soon as we start walking it's going to stop cooperating."
"I missed you, little duck."
He smiled and put his hand on my hip, then pulled me back into him so that our lips naturally fell into place. When we stopped kissing, we started again. Someone yelled at us to get a room, but that didn't stop us. We just laughed into each other and after another minute or so we finally stopped again.
"Let's continue this at home," he said while picking up one of my bags and grinning almost as much as me. "So blooming glad to have you here, Ms. Austen."
I slung my bag over my shoulder. "Glad to be here, Mr. Gladwyn. So blooming glad."
Chapter 47
We held hands on the drive to Bristol and barely let go. About halfway he asked if I was tired. I was, but didn't want to ruin any plans he made. So he took a detour to show me the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Once again, no word in the dictionary could suffice. The bridge was a wee tad scary with the narrow road and what not. Plus, as much as I tried to get used to the driver being on the right side, it was strange.
Everything about the bridge was captivating though. From the water underneath to the rocks and trees surrounding it. The entire bridge was lit up and I can't say I'd ever seen something so magical in America. Not that I got around much, but in my little Philly world things like that didn't exist. I tried to sit higher to get a good look around and when I turned back to Alistair he gave me this smile that said everything I felt. Once we finally made it to the other side of the bridge, I looked behind us to see the beautiful lights stretch from one side to the other. I loved it. And I loved the boy next to me even more. He looked so cute, like he was proud to show me a piece of his home. A piece he knew I'd enjoy.
"There's more," he said. "Since it's late I thought we could stay at my flat tonight, but tomorrow I booked a stay in a thatched cottage."
"What's a thatched cottage?"
"You've never been to a thatched cottage?"
"Not sure I've ever heard of one."
"They're little houses with straw rooftops. You're going to love it."
"Interesting. I'm sure I will."
I enjoyed watching him get excited. He seemed like a little kid who loved to show and tell. As we drove he pointed to things, gave me little snippets of history or in some cases he'd say, "No idea what that is, but isn't it lovely?" Honestly, I didn't care what he said. I was just happy to have his hand in mine and his face smiling next to me.
We finally made it to his apartment—oops, I mean his flat, of course—and oh my flying flipping heaven! He opened the door with a sneaky little grin on his face, so I should've known. No, it wasn't a trillion rose petals and candles. It was a thousand times more romantic and so much better than that.
The flat had big, huge windows down to the clean wood floor. High ceilings. And the best part. Yellow rug. Grey couches. Black fireplace. Can you guess where I'm going here? Batman. A Batman living room done in a tasteful, modern way. Mainly using the colors and abstract art on the walls.
My jaw felt like Eddie's when he saw Autumn in her prom dress. Alistair walked to the mantle and pointed to the art on top, then I realized it wasn't art.
"Wow. Is that what—"
"Original editions. Bill Finger and Bob Kane." He handed me the framed comic book, one of my favorites ever. "I want you to have this."
"No." I held the frame and gawked at the sight before me. "I can't take this."
"I really want you to have it."
"Alistair." I ran my fingers over the glass. "I'd kill to open this and smell the pages."
He took it back. "Easy there."
We laughed.
"You know," I said, "this may sound ridiculous, but I think I love you even more now."
His fingers curled around my belt loops and he slowly stepped toward me until his chest was against mine. My heart raced as warmth rushed from my head to my toes. He looked down at me and moved his lips toward mine.
"Two dorks destined for dorkdom," he whispered along my neck, then kissed his way to my collar bone.
My hands somehow made their way to his shoulders while his held my hips. Then his lips met mine again so we could finish what we started at the airport. He kissed me right into the wall as my fingers dug into his shoulders.
A loud shrieking sound interrupted and we both jumped. He looked around with wide eyes, then ran toward the kitchen cursing himself.
"What happened?" I followed.
"Oven. I left the bloody oven on when I left." He stood on a chair to turn the smoke alarm off and his shirt lifted, revealing the tattoo just above his pants—or as he would say, trousers. I imagined kissing him there, but he hopped off the chair and brought me back to right now. Kitchen. Smoke alarm. Fire.
He pulled a pan out of the oven and I'm not sure what he intended it to be, but right now it was a dish filled with black stuff.
He set it on the counter and shrugged. "That didn't work out." He poked at it with a fork. "I tried to make you a dessert and apparently I forgot about it."
"I'm glad your flat is still here." I inched toward him and took his hands. "You can be my dessert."
"Mmm ... I like the sound of that."
Pretty sure we spent half the night sleeping and the o
ther half making out all over his flat. At some point after 2am we stopped kissing and cuddled in the low light of the nearly melted candle. I looked around the room I had only seen on Skype and wished I could stay longer than a weekend. His room was so different from mine. So masculine feeling. Darker colors, more wood. A picture of me beside his bed, now with two tea cups next to the candle. I loved being in his home, becoming part of his life.
He ran his fingers up and down my back as I twirled my fingers through his hair.
"Do you think one day this will get old?" I whispered.
"Staying up all night?"
"Being so passionate and excited to be together. Kissing. Cuddling. This feeling inside when we're like this."
He laughed quietly.
I turned to my back. "What?"
"I don't think it gets old. I'm sure we'll change and things will change, but it won't get old. If anything it will be new all over again."
He turned to his side, buried his face in my hair, and inhaled. "I love the way you smell."
"You mean you like my shampoo?"
"It's more than that." He kissed my neck and wrapped his arm around my stomach. "It's you."
A few seconds later he was out. I turned to my side and held his arm tight around me, then with his chest against my back I drifted off to sleep myself.
The sun woke us up. Told you it doesn't always rain in England. We made breakfast together and lounged around all day. First we watched The Dark Knight because it was our favorite. Heath Ledger's performance is just ... wow. Then we discussed the comic, The Killing Joke, and the sad timing of Heath's death, which led us into a conversation about death and back to our bucket lists. We made a pact to write a complete album together within twelve months. Of course I told him it was wishful thinking with the long distance and my complete inability to play or write music. Then he pulled out his phone and said, "I don't think this is a complete inability."
Back at Han's apartment he recorded me when I played the piano. We listened and when it ended he said, "Not perfect, but pretty good for someone who literally played their first time."
