by Phil Stamper
I still feel a little out of place here—especially when I catch Pierce whispering to Rio, then meeting my gaze—but I feel a calmness come over me too. The table is a mix of so many races, cultures, and sexualities, and it feels like the most normal group in the world.
Some people back home would hate this, or at the very least be uncomfortable. They’d try to cover it up with strained smiles but inevitably say something off, a comment that points out our differences, regardless of the many similarities that bring us together.
They’d want us to feel like we’ll never truly belong. But here … it’s clear that everyone belongs.
“Marty, Sophie,” Pierce says. “Help us settle this debate. From your perspectives as foreigners—”
“Oh, I never asked,” I cut in, looking at Sophie. “Where are you from?”
“I’m a Kiwi, y’idiot.”
I stare blankly at her.
“New Zealand. Christ, Marty.”
My cheeks burn as the others laugh, but she gives me a smile and an elbow nudge to make sure I know she’s just joking.
“We’re planning out our weekend trips,” Pierce continues. “Before the end of the summer, we want to go to three different places—we decided on Brussels, Belgium, and Cardiff, Wales. For the third, I want to go to Florence, Dani wants to go to Copenhagen, and Ajay says anywhere but Scandinavia because he’s going to Denmark for a convention later this year.”
Dani shakes her head. “If we go to Italy, my mother will demand I come back to Malta and visit. I’ve visited three times a year since I moved in with my aunt, and that’s plenty.”
“Keep complaining about the pound,” Ajay says, “but I dropped so much more money than I planned to on that convention because of the exchange rate in Denmark. The krone is obscene.”
I turn and see Sophie, clutching her beer, looking altogether uncomfortable. I wonder what it is about this group that intimidates her. Everything stresses me out, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to be here for the length of a conversation.
And when I pan from Sophie to Shane, I see the similarity in their expressions, and I wonder what I’m missing. Then Shane swaps seats with Ajay to sit next to me, and whispers in my ear.
“Sorry, should’ve warned you. They talk about travel a lot. They’ve already taken a couple weekend trips. But with my bookstore shifts, I can never go on these things.”
I look back to him and nod, thinking about the low funds in my bank account. I’m not traveling either. I don’t mind them talking about it, but I guess this is my big travel. Shane’s lived here forever and he doesn’t even get to leave.
“Marty, what do you think?” Pierce asks. “Where would you go?”
“When I was younger, I used to be obsessed with the idea of international travel.” I clear my throat. “That probably sounds dumb here, where international travel is a thirty-minute flight away, but it’s a little different in Kentucky. My mom lived in Ireland as a kid, but we only traveled internationally once and my parents couldn’t even handle that.”
Where am I going with this? I take another sip of my drink.
“Anyway, I used to go to garage sales, yard sales, whatever you call them—I don’t even know if you have them here. And I’d get any travel books I could find. I’d practice drawing flags of countries I’d never even heard of, like Lesotho or Luxembourg.”
Looking around, I see a few smiles and heads bobbing. They’re actually listening to me. Sophie looks to have relaxed too.
“But my all-time favorite guidebook was this one for the Tuscany region of Italy. I couldn’t believe there was that much to see in one area—Il Duomo in Florence, Piazza del Campo in Siena, the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Well, that last one seems a little anticlimactic, but still. You’ve got to go with Italy.”
Pierce pounds the table with his fist. “Yes! I knew you’d side with me.” He gives me a wink, like I constructed the whole story to help him out. I roll my eyes.
“My sister went to school in Florence,” Sophie says. “I never got to visit her there, but her pictures were amazing. I mean, it’s worth going so you could say you’ve seen Michelangelo’s David, to be honest.”
“It’s settled.” Pierce laughs. “Then we can go to Malta and visit Dani’s mom.”
“Yeah, right. Malta’s overpopulated as it is; it doesn’t need you fools on it.”
A laugh escapes my mouth, just before I get an elbow in the side from Sophie.
“Can we go join the others now?”
I survey the table and wonder if I’ve made enough of an impression. Something propels me to want to be around them. To want them to like me. I see the benefit in quitting while I’m ahead, though, so I leave the table with one last wink at Pierce.
Except it comes out as more of a pained blink, which kills my insides. I’ve never been good at being smooth. So much for quitting while I’m ahead.
“There, you’ve had your fun fraternizing with the cool kids,” Sophie says in my ear, sloshing a bit of her beer on me.
The picture forms in my mind. Walking along the crowded Ponte Vecchio, too enamored with the old jewelry shops and art galleries to be anxious. Well, not actually, but a guy can dream.
In this fantasy, I walk under archways, on a path made of dusty cobblestones. Coming to an opening, I look out, downstream, on the Arno. The wind hits my cheeks and tells me I’m finally here, taking the lead on my own life.
I snap back to reality, and sigh. “I want to go with them. To Italy.”
I don’t hear her overly dramatic sigh as much as I feel the air shifting around us. Her eyes fall; her shoulders fall too. She looks like these people have personally hurt her, but that can’t be the case.
“Why them?” she asks. “With the exception of maybe your cousin, they’re exclusive and a bit snotty.”
I pause, fully aware I’m about to out myself to one more person. And I feel comfortable doing it, but something about it always feels weird. The confession bubbles up in my chest, and I feel hyperaware. Does she already know? Could she?
For a second, despite her worried face, I smile. I want to trust more people with this. I take a breath.
Then, “I may have a crush on Pierce.”
We stop.
“Oh, love. Come, sit down.”
We take seats at the booth where a few musicians sit. Eight empty pint glasses crowd the table, along with various plates of fries and a bag of chips. Er, a bag of crisps. A plate of chips. Whatever they’re called.
“Look.” The crowd around us starts getting louder, so Sophie raises her voice. “You’re cute and funny and a little neurotic—I get that. But Pierce isn’t … and I know I’ve only known him for a month or so, but … he goes through guys pretty quickly.”
My insides freeze. “Define ‘quickly.’ ”
I glance back to the entrance. As I scan the crowd, I can’t even see the door anymore. Students stand in large groups all around, laughing, swaying. I turn to Sophie and focus on breathing.
“He dated this flautist, who was one of my first friends in the program,” she explains, “but Pierce bailed the moment things got too serious. A week later, he was making out with some pianist in that booth over there. Long story short, my friend doesn’t go to the academy anymore.”
“Oh.” I absorb the message, and embarrassment creeps through my body. I remember how sad Pierce looked when I asked him why someone would drop out of the academy. “But I’m—I’m not like that. I can play it casual.”
I look down at the table and tighten my core. Back home, this feeling of anxiety in big crowds would pummel me at pep rallies or county fairs, sports events or even graduation, when the chaos around me became too much. I get the urge to run, to hide, like always. But there’s no avoiding this.
Play it casual? I chide myself. I am the least casual person on this planet.
The temperature spikes. I coach myself through shallow breaths. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat sign. D.S. al Coda until my lun
gs cooperate.
“Hey, Marty. Look, I’m sorry—are you okay?”
I’m exaggerating. I’m making a scene. But I can’t help it; anxiety’s fingernails scrape at my chest. I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out. My brain’s a combination lock, and I need a different code to get out each word. God, I need some air.
“It’s nothing. Really. But I mean, we held hands? I know it sounds immature, but we did and it felt like something more than just being buddies, you know? I’d never done that with anyone before where it could mean anything.”
“Ah, sorry, mate,” Sophie says. “I didn’t know there was something already brewing there.”
“He took me to Big Ben and said nice things and was being really cute, and I believed him.” I wonder if this is why Shane continues to be weird about him. He has to know the story of this boy who was so heartbroken he dropped out of the program.
I suck in my stomach to protect myself from embarrassment. The temperature’s skyrocketed, the noise in the pub is unrelenting, and I don’t know which is affecting me more. To Sophie, it must seem like I’m being overly dramatic about a boy I like. But how do I explain that it’s like the wind’s been knocked out of me?
I know the air’s all around me, but I can’t find it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I feel like an idiot. I have to go.”
I take a few steps toward the front, but all paths are blocked. People are everywhere, just like around Westminster, only I’m inside and trapped. Breathing turns to panting, and the burn sets into my lungs.
I squeeze through two people, step around a third, and trip over someone’s bag. But I see the door, and if I can hold it together for a few more seconds, I’ll be okay, so I take a step and I take a breath and I tell myself it’ll all be okay, and—
I stumble out of the pub and into the night. My lungs fill with much-needed air. I’m alone, and I’m on my own.
And it’s already so, so hard.
I’ve been sitting on a bench outside the pub for about ten minutes now. I’m a little calmer, and I can breathe, and I take the time to process what Sophie said while I wait for Shane to come out of the pub. They’ve only been in this program for a few weeks, and Pierce’s already dated someone, dumped them, and made out with somebody new?
I mean, wanting to have fun and not be tied down is not a bad thing. But with how things went down with the flutist, it seems like they were not on the same page about what their relationship actually was. And whose fault was that?
I don’t have enough information to freak out. And it’s not like we really even did anything. My feelings for him aren’t that strong.
“Marty,” a voice says in front of me. “Hoped I’d find you out here.”
Pierce’s eyes glow in the pub’s soft outdoor lighting. Passersby keep up their chatter, but it all gets muted when my gaze meets his.
He holds my oboe case out to me, his expression unreadable. “You left this inside. Shane said he’d take it back, but I figured I could catch you.”
There’s room on the bench next to me, and he takes a seat. He goes to put his arm around me, but stops halfway, resting on his elbow and draping his hand next to my arm.
“Need to chat?” he offers, and I shrug.
I don’t know what he wants from me, from whatever’s going on between us. And it’s becoming clear that all warning signs are saying that he doesn’t enter any relationship if he doesn’t want something out of it.
“Not really.”
“Understood. Is it okay that I’m here? Or should I leave?”
I pause, considering the question. If you remove everything I’ve heard about Pierce from others, all I’m left with is a slightly obnoxious but super passionate guy. A guy I like, who’s maybe even the first guy who likes me back. A guy who knows how to respect the boundaries that matter, while pushing me out of the ones that hold me back.
“You should come with us sometime, on one of the trips. Shane never goes, and I’m not sure why. He blames work and money—which are valid, don’t get me wrong—but even during short, cheap trips where he has enough time to request off in advance, he gets weird. He was like this in secondary too.”
I grunt an approval so he knows I’ll consider it, and then we’re silent for a bit longer. He builds the courage to move his arm again, this time draping it over my shoulder. I welcome the touch and unconsciously lean into him.
“Why did you agree to come pick me up from the airport?”
“Because Shane needed help.” He says it plainly. Despite myself, I smile. Even if he does go through guys quickly, he’s still clearly a good guy on some level. “Well, I suppose there’s more. Shane talked about you coming a lot. And I thought you were cute. And I knew you were a good oboist—I even saw the navy scholarship finalist performance you gave. I wanted to get to know you.”
“Get to know me as an oboist, or as … something else?”
“Both. Is that so bad?” he says. I turn my head and our eyes meet. “I like getting to know you better.”
I don’t have Megan here to vet all of my choices. I don’t have hours of solitude to overthink things. I have this moment, and I have a decision to make. I like him, and he seems to like me. But is that enough?
Leaning in, slow enough that he can stop me if I’m reading all the wrong signals, I plant a soft kiss on his lips. He puckers as I do, offering the slightest bit of suction between our lips. My chest floats as I give in to one more kiss, one more pull—this one firmer than the last. More confident. Real.
We release, and I feel like I’m panting. It couldn’t have been thirty seconds, but my entire body is charged with electricity. It’s like I’m a whole new person, and I find myself getting addicted to the feeling. Sure, kissing Pierce might be a risk.
If you ask me, a good kiss is worth the risk.
12 MONTHS AGO
DIARY ENTRY 2
It was misty and gross all day. Mom didn’t feel like walking all around the city, so Aunt Leah suggested we take a tour of the city on a double-decker bus. I thought this sounded pretty awesome, but the concept of public transportation makes my parents uncomfortable. Look, I get anxiety—like, right now, I can feel an ache thrumming through me. Why? I don’t know. Because I’m separated from Megan? Because I’m in a new environment? Because I’m so far from home? Who knows, but it’s always there.
But even though I’m uncomfortable with new experiences, I still want to have them. Sometimes. And really, if I could make it all the way here, through airports and cabs and so many people … what’s one more semi-traumatizing experience?
So anyway, that idea was swatted down pretty quickly. Finally, my aunt got them to agree to taking a cab tour. We drove near a lot of things. We drove over the bridge that goes to Parliament and Big Ben, and I almost missed Westminster Abbey completely. We drove by Harrods, that fancy store everyone talks about, and even went by some of the theatres.
Shane was pointing things out to me as quickly as he could, but eventually the joy of being near things fizzled out, and I just tried to enjoy the lackluster ride through this magical city.
It was kind of a flop, but I did learn one thing. I refuse to just be near things anymore, even if it kills me.
ELEVEN
A few days later, I’m walking through Hyde Park, because I’ve gotten used to exploring the city by myself. Shane and I eat dinner together, and sometimes we’ll watch old episodes of Drag Race, but we don’t spend all that much time with each other. What Pierce said about Shane is true—he’s focused fully on practicing and working.
I haven’t seen Pierce since our kiss, but the pangs of this crush aren’t dying off. Each time I think back to our tour of the city, I feel this rush that starts in my gut and spreads out, filling my chest with electricity. He sends me texts within seconds, rarely ever leaving me on read. Though I take Sophie’s warning to heart, I don’t want that rush to go away.
“Marty!” Sophie beams. “You ready?”
&nb
sp; “Ready for what?” I clutch at the oboe case in my hand. When I complained to her about the applications and not getting anywhere, she reminded me that it’s not even been a full week and I need to chill, then offered to help me with my auditions.
I never asked what she meant by “help.”
“There’s a busking platform in the tube station here that has great lighting.”
“Okay?”
“And I’m going to get a video of you performing at it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
My brain screams a red alert. I have a few audition pieces that I can whip out at any point, but that’s for a real audition. Not for an impromptu show while people are running to catch their train. I feel my heartbeat punch through my body.
“I can’t do this.”
“You can,” Sophie says. “Most of us at Knightsbridge have done it. It gets easier after the first time.”
“There’s going to be another time?!”
Sophie laughs. She explains the full plan: I need a video portfolio that includes more than just my stuffy award performances. A social media presence that shows my personality, she explains, and then she goes into detail about all the benefits of being active and building a following. And it sounds like a whole lot of things I’d rather not do.
But in the end, I want a job. Even if that means performing a solo in front of hundreds of people. And don’t get me wrong—I like performances. I like playing my oboe for people.
Except, I like playing for people who (1) have volunteered to hear one of the shrillest instruments on this planet and (2) are sitting down and paying attention. In the tube, people are neither.
“I wish Megan were here,” I say, mostly to myself.
Sophie veers off the sidewalk, taking us through the grass. “Who?”
“My best friend. From home, that is. She’s really good at pushing me out of my shell.”
