by Molly Ringle
I hauled out a smile for her. “Window shopping soothes the soul, and curry clears the sinuses. Let’s do it.”
We hadn’t spent any time in London when our flight first landed here; we had just trundled to another gate in Heathrow Airport and flown off to Edinburgh. So I looked around with interest as Shannon and Thomas introduced me to the underground train system (the Tube, everyone calls it) and strolled me through Harrods, where an ugly rhinestone belt could be yours for the low, low price of eight hundred pounds. I did raise my eyebrows and nod in impressed recognition at my glimpse of the actual River Thames. And the curry did its job in helping scour out the remnants of my virus; I breathed easier and coughed less after dinner--that is, after blowing my pepper-shocked nose ten or twelve times.
But on the whole, it was a repeat of York. My thoughts consisted of, Dear Laurence, saw lots of delightful and famous sights, wish to every god in existence you were here, Love, Eva.
Under the glittering lights of London, we strolled along the sidewalks and rode the Tube to St. Pancras Station, where we boarded a train for Canterbury. It carried us east for two hours, out to a dimmer constellation of city lights. We hopped off in Thomas’ new city.
“My parents live near that second-to-last stop on the train,” he said as he carried my heaviest bag along a quaint but bustling street. “So living here’s a bit like coming home for me. Couldn’t have done without Shannon, though.”
She wound her arm around his waist and kissed his cheek, swaying him almost off the curb. Then, as if remembering me and my love life of chaotic despair, she retracted her hand and stuffed it into her coat pocket. She cleared her throat. “Really, I’m liking it here. Canterbury reminds me of Edinburgh, but more fun-sized, you know?”
I nodded, glancing around. Cute old shops, brick-paved streets, medieval church towers, college students with goatees and guitar cases--it felt like Edinburgh’s university district. Except everything was flatter, no crags and ravines and bridges; and more relaxed, none of that Scottish briskness in the average person’s step. No smell of warm whisky in the air, either. No dank hostel to return to, no familiar lovable face behind the front counter.
Now my heart ached for the hostel? The hostel, of all places!
Thomas and Shannon lived with another pair of students, a boy and girl who were clearly a couple, judging from the way they shared a beer bottle and fetched items from each other’s pockets. Great. More unattainable, comfortable love for me to watch enviously.
I only had to watch them a short while, though, as we arrived pretty late. Shannon smoothed out sheets on the couch for me, apologizing for the lack of space, and told me where to find the clean towels. Finally the two couples withdrew to their bedrooms, and I switched off the living room lamp and lay on the borrowed sheets, staring at shifting headlight beams on the ceiling and listening to cars and student voices from the street. The smell of the flat pervaded my nose, unfamiliar and therefore troubling, despite being an inoffensive mix of laundry soap, bananas, beer, and the dusty smell of heating vents.
The tears welled up in my eyes. I endured them, gasping my breaths quietly, my gaze clinging to the headlight patterns like they would keep me from drowning.
I had thought my loneliness last night in York was merely due to being by myself. I’d thought being under Shannon’s roof, near her and Thomas, would bolster me. Instead it was just more of the same, and possibly worse, as here I felt like an invader in a home of happy twosomes. And oh, great, Tony probably slept right here too, just a couple of nights ago. Another mental image to spawn sorrow and remorse.
How was I supposed to get through this? Why had I run away? It wasn’t helping. Why had Laurence subjected me to this? Yeah, I knew I deserved a smack upside the head, but endless days of abandonment and torture? Come on!
Kicking off Shannon’s blanket, I dropped to my knees on the rug and plunged my hand into my suitcase for the postcards I’d bought in York and London. With a pencil I found on the bookcase, I took the cards to the window and sat down in a streetlight beam. On the back of a serene photo of York Minster I began writing a message, gripping the pencil so hard that the point etched the letters deep into the postcard.
It didn’t matter that I had no address to send the message to. I needed to say it--or at least write it.
Chapter Fifty-Two: Canterbury Tales
Canterbury, and life, did look a smidgen more agreeable in the morning. Shannon had to work most of the day, but she left a blueberry muffin on the coffee table for me, accompanied by a sticky-note drawing of a heart with a goofy face. Thomas shuffled out, unashamed in nothing but a pair of pajama pants, and offered, “Coffee?”
When it was ready, he brought the mugs to the living room. He settled into a chair, put his bare feet up, and performed his specialty: waltzing me down the corridor of interesting and bizarre history.
At least, I considered that to be his specialty. Quite likely, Shannon had a different vote, which I might or might not ask her about later.
I decided to fling myself into distractions for my Canterbury stay, since it had to be better than moping. Thomas’ classes occupied only the afternoon, so in the morning he took me to Canterbury Cathedral, the town’s big tourist draw since the Middle Ages. I worked on my distraction technique by looking at the spot where Thomas Becket had been brained by swords, and pondering how unpleasant that must have been for him. I remembered I used to gaze at Edinburgh Castle when I was suffering a bout of Gil-and-Tony hyper-drama, and muse upon the stories Amber had told me about people who had been locked up there through the ages. (They, unlike castle dwellers in fairy tales, tended not to live happily ever after, to say the least.)
For the next two days I explored the town either alone or with one of the flat’s inhabitants, and almost enjoyed the student atmosphere of serious discussion and peculiar meals.
I wrote Laurence a postcard each night. Just one. My pride mandated that I keep it short and to the point, even if the point was a bitchy one.
On the evening of February 26, I tried to calm the desperate nerves in my stomach by watching an English sketch comedy show with the four flatmates. But I couldn’t help imagining that Laurence might soon return to Edinburgh, and my cluelessness about what would happen at our next meeting devoured me from within. I had now lived an entire week without a word from him. Had that ever happened in my whole life, since meeting him in kindergarten? Even when he’d gone off to summer science camp he had answered our text messages once in a while.
I required action. Sketch comedy wasn’t doing it.
I hopped up and went to the kitchen, where I switched on my phone.
Laurence won’t have emailed. I recited that pessimistic line every day when checking, but I still felt like someone had opened a crate of frantic mice in my belly.
Sure enough, no message from Laurence. But there was, at last, one from my parents. I’d been expecting this ever since talking to Gina several days ago. With the mice still spinning their treadmills, I opened the email.
Hi honey,
Sorry it’s taken so long for us to write. Tests to grade for me; coast field trip to organize for Dad.
Gina told us about your call, and Tony dropped by to talk to me today at school. Eva, DON’T WORRY. A) Tony is not bitter, B) break-ups are always a bitch (you’re an adult now, so I can use bad language to you), and C) Laurence is a wonderful young man and you two have adored each other for years even if you didn’t know it till now.
Everything will be FINE, Evangeline Mae.
Can’t wait to see you again next month. Huge kisses and love,
Mom
P.S. Look on the bright side. At least you’re not still with that raging asshole Wilson.
My snorting giggle of shock brought Shannon into the room.
“Did you say something?” she asked.
With my thumb I wiped away the tears that had welled up at Mom’s message, and showed her my phone. “My mom just typed ‘asshole.’”
<
br /> Blue eyes widening behind her stylish little glasses, she read the message herself. “Incredible. Also, I now see where you get your love for all-caps.”
“Yeah. I wonder if the next generation will inherit emoticon genes.”
Shannon straightened up. “I’m with her, though. I think you and Laurence are written in the stars.”
“Funny how our resident psychic didn’t think so.”
“True. Any word from Amber?”
“No.” I sighed, turning off my phone. “She’s still being bitter, even if Tony apparently isn’t. Whatever. I’ll see her back in Edinburgh in a couple days. Hey, what about your folks? Any improvement in the attitude?”
The brightness dimmed in Shannon’s eyes. She used her thumbnail to clean her already immaculate nails. “Oh, well, not so much. I had this idea, right? I should call them and have Thomas talk to them on the phone.”
“The accent, right. That’s a great idea. You should.”
“I did. The day before you got here. They...” She shrugged. The simple rise and fall of her fuzzy periwinkle shoulder conveyed an elegy of sadness. “They were nice enough to him, but afterward, when it was just me on the phone again, they were all, ‘How can you understand him half the time?’”
I rolled my eyes. “They ought to chat with Gil.”
She kept her face lowered. Her nails clicked against each other. “They said, ‘He still seems so foreign to us. We want you home.’”
“Foreign? For God’s sake. It’s not like you’re shacking up in the yurt of a Mongolian goat herder.”
“I know. But see? They’re using my weak spot. They’re not threatening me or getting angry. They’re making me feel guilty. Reminding me how much they need me.”
“Good. This is good. You recognize what they’re doing. You’re growing up, Shanna-banana.”
She half-smiled. “You say that like you’re years older than me. Rather than two months younger.”
“Well, I had experience with raging assholes before you did, so it’s a life-lessons kind of age.”
“Lucky you. So you’re heading north tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Suddenly scared again, I looked at her. “What do I do if he doesn’t want me?”
Her eyes radiated compassion and serenity. “You call me. We with our hearts torn in two have to stick together.”
Chapter Fifty-Three: Northward Again
The next day, after early-morning hugs goodbye from all the flatmates, I boarded a train and returned to London, where I transferred to another train heading north. I planned to take two days to return to Edinburgh, and stay in Newcastle tonight.
The sofa in Canterbury hadn’t been the most comfortable of accommodations, so I drifted into a nap for a couple of hours as the train clacked along through the gray-green fields, rain sprinkling the windowpanes. I awoke in time to disembark at Newcastle, my spine crying out in protest over its prolonged slump.
A dour cabbie took me from the Newcastle train station to my cheap hotel. There I flopped onto my back on the hard bed, waited for my vertebrae to realign, and plotted the following day. I didn’t dare look farther ahead than one day now. The idea of Laurence’s return, whenever it would happen, scared me too much with its possibilities of gigantic rejection.
So tomorrow I would re-enter Edinburgh, and do what exactly?
A whim seized me, and as I gazed at the cracks on the yellow-stained ceiling, it turned into a pretty good idea.
I crawled across the bed to reach my cell phone, dialed, and settled back on the pillows.
“Hail-loo?” Gil once again sounded remarkably Scottish. Being around English folk for four or five days must have affected my ears.
“Hey. It’s Eva.”
“Aye, hello!” He actually sounded delighted. “How’s you, then?”
“Not bad. You’ll never guess where I am.”
“Emm, the Outer Hebrides?”
“Not quite. Newcastle.”
“Och. What are you doing there?”
“I’m on my way back to Edinburgh. I was visiting Shannon. So listen, would you be able to meet my train tomorrow? It gets in about noon. I don’t know what I’ll be up to in the next few weeks, but I wanted to see you again before it’s time for me to fly home.”
“Tomorrow, let’s see...aye, noon, I can do that. I’ll take a long lunch.”
“Thank you. That’ll be great.”
“So what’s new with you? Haven’t talked for ages.”
I chuckled. “How about I tell you the whole saga tomorrow?”
We filled the next ten minutes with talk about Shelly and the bands who had recorded lately at their studio. Sounded like the relationship with his older woman was going fantastically, though I could have lived without hearing the phrase, “Got caught with her hand in me pants one day in the studio lounge, but thankfully it was only our technician Grant and not her father.”
On the whole, I felt worlds better when I hung up, despite my still-alone status. Gil clearly liked me even after all we had been through. We’d achieved an actual, successful case of “We can still be friends.” So maybe, if I played my humility cards right, the same could someday be said of Tony. And Laurence.
No, not Laurence. Not just friends. Please.
For him, I pledged as I drifted to sleep, I would gamble all or nothing. How was that for newfound courage in Eva Sonneborn?
* * *
Gil and I strolled toward one another in Waverley Station. A smile broke through on my face, and caught and reflected on his.
His purple coat and threadbare gray jeans were gone. He now wore a hip-length black leather coat, skinny indigo jeans, and new soccer shoes instead of his rundown white-and-orange sneakers. His hair was trimmed to chin length. He looked darn good, to be honest.
When he hugged me, his coat fell open to reveal a black shirt covered with red and gold Chinese dragons. Ah, some things hadn’t changed. I giggled in his lapel.
“Silly tourist,” he said. “Silly me. Said we’d see one another before you left, and haven’t for weeks.”
“My fault. I was mad about Shelly. Then I got caught up in other stuff. How have you been?”
“Fine, couldn’t be better. Yourself?”
We walked to Princes Street Gardens and sat on a park bench, much as we used to, but without the snogging and entwining. I told him about the recent events with Laurence, Tony, and Amber, sparing no humiliating details, not even the drool on the Shakespeare. It made him laugh.
“I rather thought you two were close,” he remarked after I finished. “It was the way he looked at you and spoke of you, the day we were out shopping.”
“Spoke of me?” I suddenly remembered the two of them talking in undertones over the clothes in Marks & Spencer. “What did he say?”
“He said something like, ‘Listen up, it’s not as if I want her to marry Tony either, but if you say something and ruin their relationship and make her unhappy, you’ll have me to answer to.’”
I gazed at the evergreen shrubs along the sidewalk, and smiled to think of Laurence defending me so many months ago. “And you were a good boy and didn’t say anything,” I murmured.
“And did you ever tell him?” he asked. “Tony, that is. About us.”
“No. I probably never will. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you, of course.”
“Sure it isn’t.” He grinned.
“No, really. I was that close to being in love with you.” I held my thumb and pointer finger half an inch apart.
“As I was with you. But it wasn’t sensible, as we both knew.”
“Yeah. And at least it sort of led me to Laurence.”
“There, see? I made your whole life better.” He nudged me.
I smiled for a moment, and then remembered my current predicament. My mouth drooped in despondency.
“What if he won’t take me back? God, I can’t sit around forever waiting to find out. This is killing me.”
“Aye, I propose you do something ab
out it.”
“Like what? Email everybody in the Highlands and ask if they’ve seen him?”
“Not quite, cheeky. Come back to the studio. I’ve an idea.”
Chapter Fifty-Four: A Personal Valentine
Still hauling one of my suitcases, I trailed Gil into the studio. He carried my other bag.
Music reverberated in the walls; live or recorded, I couldn’t tell. A receptionist slumped behind the desk, with pink streaks in her hair and a small turquoise ball piercing her nose. Peeling address labels at a desultory rate and sticking them onto newsletters, she cast us an indifferent glance.
“Hi, Fee,” said Gil. “This is Eva. We’re helping her with a wee project.”
Fee waved, a ripple of black fingernails, and Gil hauled me into a cramped office. On one side rose a pane of glass facing a room with a drum set and microphones. No band sat there, so evidently the current music wasn’t live. A counter of recording equipment ran beneath the glass, and on the opposite wall stood four workstations with computers. At one of them sat Shelly Davis, somehow looking awesomely stylish in a tight red dress, brown tights, and plaid flats. She was reading her computer screen and tucking into a huge sandwich, shreds of lettuce spilling everywhere.
My feet dragged. I couldn’t throw myself on the mercy of this woman. She must think I was despicable, if she knew anything about Gil and me. Hell, I was despicable, but I didn’t feel like sharing it with all of Edinburgh.
Gil pulled me forward relentlessly. “Oi, Shel. You remember Eva?”
Shelly leaped up, wiping mustard off her lip. “Hi! God, sorry, I’m such a pig. I’d shake hands, but I’ve got pickle all over here. How are ye?”
I couldn’t help smiling. Such a relief when people turned out to be humans. “Fine. Thanks.”
“Come to hear the Valentines?”
