You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter

by Alexandra Potter

  Honestly, I’m useless. Why didn’t someone tell me this was a first date? I’ve narrowly missed being arrested, I’ve burst into tears, I’m not wearing a scrap of makeup, my hair is tied up in a scrunchie, and I just lunged at him.

  And yet . . . I glance at Adam, sitting across from me on the fire escape, and my nerves disappear into the darkness as quickly as they appeared. And yet none of it seems to matter.

  Well, maybe the hair scrunchie, I decide, hastily pulling it out. I’m trying to shake out my hair surreptitiously when I notice we’ve finished the wine. “Oh, look, all gone,” I say, standing up quickly. This is a good excuse to dash back inside and take a quick peek in the mirror, I realize. “I’ll just grab us another bottle.” Actually, I don’t know if we have another bottle, but I’m sure I can dig out some beers from somewhere.

  “Hey, I can do that.” Adam makes to stand up, but I push him down.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I say urgently. “I want to get it.”

  “Oh, OK.” He sits back down, looking slightly puzzled. Never has anyone appeared so keen to go into the kitchen to get a bottle of wine as a girl who has suddenly realized she’s on a first date and needs to put on some concealer and lip gloss. Pronto.

  Leaving him on the fire escape, I climb back through the window and hurry into the kitchen. There’s no wine. There aren’t even any beers. There is, however, Robyn’s and my emergency bottle of tequila. I eye it for a moment, weighing up how this could be perceived, then grab it anyway, along with two shot glasses, and make a quick detour to the bathroom.

  A few minutes, some concealer, a smear of raspberry lip gloss, and some hasty scrunching of hair products later, I head back into the bedroom to join Adam on the fire escape. Only instead he’s sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor with his back to me, looking at something.

  “Who did these?” he asks as he hears me walk back in.

  I glance over his shoulder to see what he’s looking at. “Oh, that’s one of my old sketchbooks.” I hold out the bottle of tequila. “I’m afraid we only have this.”

  He ignores me. “These are yours? You did these?” He’s flicking through pages. Stopping at one, he holds it up to me. “You drew this?”

  “Um . . . yeah.” I shrug absently, put the shot glasses down on my dressing table, and unscrew the tequila. I begin pouring it out. “A long time ago.”

  “Who is it?”

  I stop what I’m doing and look at the sketch again. It’s a pen-and-ink drawing of an old lady, her face turned to the light, her body in shadow. “I don’t know who she was. I saw her sitting on a park bench one day.” My mind flicks back. “She was reading a book—I remember it was open in her lap—but she had her eyes closed and her face to the sun, as if she was lost in her own world.”

  “It’s amazing, Lucy.” Adam’s voice is hushed. “These are all amazing.”

  I smile with embarrassment. “Oh, don’t be silly; they’re just drawings.” I hold out a shot glass and he takes it from me wordlessly.

  “Seriously, Lucy.” He looks up at me, his eyes wide. “They’re incredible. You’re really talented.”

  I feel myself blush under his praise. Taking a sip of tequila, I kneel down next to him.

  “Are those all your sketchbooks?” He gestures to a pile of books stuffed into my shelves.

  I nod. “My canvases are back in England.”

  “Canvases?”

  “My paintings,” I explain. “I couldn’t bring them with me. I keep them at my parents’, in their garage.”

  “You keep them hidden away?” He looks at me, incredulous. “You should have them out so everyone can see them.”

  “You haven’t even seen them,” I say, amused by his enthusiasm. “You might not like them.”

  “Don’t you have pictures?”

  “Um . . . somewhere I think I have some Polaroids.”

  “Where? I want to see!”

  I know that he’s never going to rest until he sees them, and so, leaning over to my shelves, I scrabble around for a bit until I find an old shoe box. “Here you go.” I pass it to him. “The colors are probably a bit faded now, as the shots were taken a few years ago.”

  I watch while Adam opens the box. It’s filled to the brim with a jumble of photos.

  “Wow!” He looks up at me. “I had no idea,” he says, his eyes wide with astonishment.

  That really I’m a complete pig and this tidy room is merely a temporary situation? That I’m addicted to tuna melts and I have the thighs to prove it? That my middle name is Edna?

  “You’re an amazing artist, Lucy. You have so much talent. The colors, the shapes . . .” He’s waving Polaroids indiscriminately. “I mean, this one is incredible.” He grabs another. “And then this one. Just look at their faces.”

  I watch him, feeling embarrassed by this show of eagerness, and yet . . . and yet I feel something else. An old excitement. A possibility. A dream.

  “You really think so?” I say, my voice almost a whisper.

  He stops looking through the Polaroids and gazes at me. “Yeah, I really think so,” he says quietly. Reaching for my hand, he pulls me closer beside him, his eyes never leaving mine. “I really think so.” He leans toward me—or is it me who leans toward him? I can’t remember. All I’m aware of is his lips brushing against mine, my heart racing in my chest, as we start kissing.

  I close my eyes. I’ve been wanting to do this all evening. I lean closer.

  Abruptly he pulls away. “Lucy.”

  I let out a little groan of dismay and try to pull him back toward me.

  “What are those?”

  Reluctantly I open my eyes. My heart is still racing and I can still taste him on my lips. “What?” I murmur thickly.

  “Those,” he says, only firmer this time.

  I turn my head to see where he’s looking, slightly woozy with desire, wondering what it is, surely not more sketches....

  Oh. My. God.

  Suddenly I see them. My backpack has fallen off the bed, spilling out the contents, and there, lying on the rug, mocking me, taunting me, ruining my evening, are Nate’s—

  “Boxer shorts,” I gasp, my face contorted into a rictus of horror.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Adam shoots me a look. His usual easygoing expression is gone and his face is set hard.

  “No,” I say hastily. “I mean yes, but, well, no.” I’m flustered; my mind is racing. I can’t tell him the truth about this evening, about magic spells, and soul mates, and ham bones wrapped up in boxer shorts. He’ll think he’s been kissing a crazy girl. “There was a mix-up. I got someone else’s laundry,” I gabble. Well, that’s the truth.

  A tiny little bit of it.

  “OK . . .” he says slowly, seeming to accept the explanation, before asking, “So where’s the rest of it?”

  “Um . . . I gave it back.”

  “But kept the boxer shorts?” He raises his eyebrows.

  Shit. He doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m sleeping with someone. And do you blame him, Lucy? pipes up a little voice. You have another man’s boxer shorts lying on your bedroom floor. I cringe inwardly. This does not look good. I suddenly remember his story of his cheating ex. Fuck, this really does not look good at all.

  “It’s not what you think,” I say urgently.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” he fires back contrarily.

  “I don’t. I’m guessing.” With a deep sigh, I raise my eyes to meet his. There’s no point trying to explain; I can’t. “Look, I know it seems kind of weird, and I know how it looks, but you’ve just got to trust me on this one.”

  There’s a long pause and he looks at me for what feels like the longest time. Then slowly he gets to his feet. My chest tightens. So that’s it. He doesn’t believe me. I feel a heavy thump of dismay.

  “OK,” he says after a pause. “I trust you.”

  “You do?” Relief surges. For a moment there I thought that we were over before we�
�d even started.

  “There’s just one thing.”

  I look up at him, feeling a beat of apprehension.

  “Why are they covered with pineapples?”

  As his mouth twists up into a smile, I burst out laughing. “Funny you should ask that. I’ve asked myself the same question.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The next morning I arrive at work to be told I’m flying to Martha’s Vineyard to meet with the new artist Magda’s been raving about.

  “What? Today?” Mid-sip of my latte, I freeze and stare at Magda, taken aback.

  “No time like the present,” she breezes, tearing off a piece of bagel and feeding it to Valentino. “We need to snap him up before someone else does.”

  “But what about flights, somewhere to stay . . . ?” I start firing obstacles like a knife thrower.

  “All done.” She deflects them by handing me a large brown envelope. “A friend at the health club has done it for me. Her daughter works in a travel agency. She owed me a favor—I found her a husband. And trust me, not easy.” Magda clicks her tongue. “Forty-one, three cats, a Judy Garland habit. Y’know what I’m saying?”

  Only I’m not really listening, I’m tearing open the envelope and pulling out my airline ticket. “My flight’s at two thirty this afternoon?” I gasp.

  “Wonderful,” she says absently, tickling Valentino under his chin.

  “Magda, that means I have to leave for the airport in . . .” I quickly do the math. “Less than two hours!”

  “I know. Shouldn’t you be home packing?” She frowns, looking up at me as if surprised to see I’m still standing here. “You don’t want to miss your flight.”

  “But . . .” I open my mouth and then close it again. It’s pointless. When Magda wants something done, she wants it done yesterday.

  “Oh, and here’s some reading material for the plane.” Magda passes me a few pages torn from various magazines. “Articles all about Artsy.”

  “Artsy?” I repeat, feeling slightly dazed.

  “You know, our new artist!” exclaims Magda, pausing from hand-feeding Valentino. He begins yapping loudly, and picking him up, she shushes him with a flurry of kisses. “Remember, Loozy, the gallery is counting on you!”

  I force a smile. Great. No pressure, then.

  I catch a cab home and chuck some things into a holdall. I haven’t a clue what to take. I’ve never been to Martha’s Vineyard and have no idea what to expect. I vaguely remember reading something in my guidebook about how it’s a little island off Cape Cod where American presidents go on holiday, but I haven’t had time to Google it. I mean, is it an actual vineyard? Am I going to be bumping into Obama? Should I take my posh dress or a pair of shorts?

  In the end I take both, plus lots of other things that don’t go together, and jump into the waiting cab and drive straight to the airport. As Manhattan whizzes by outside, I look at the rest of the travel documents. My return flight isn’t until Friday morning. Friday?! That’s ages.

  Well, it’s not really—it’s only two days away—but it feels like ages because I’m not going to be able to see Adam until then.

  Adam.

  As he pops into my head, I think about last night. Gosh, that was a close shave. For a moment there I thought I’d completely blown it because of Nate’s stupid bloody boxer shorts, but thankfully I managed to rescue the situation. Though I’m not sure for how much longer. Feeling a beat of anxiety, I dig my phone out of my pocket and text Adam:

  Thanx for last night.

  I pause. I think about adding more, about what a lovely evening I had, how I’d like to see him again. I start texting, then stop. Argh, no, I can’t put that. It looks far too keen, I decide, quickly deleting that bit. I stare at my phone, agonizing. Texting is so hard. It’s as if every single word is loaded with all this meaning and then you’ve got the whole decision about whether or not to put a kiss at the end or not.

  I look back at my text and add an x. Well, I don’t want to appear unfriendly. And I do want to kiss him. Even if it’s only in a text. Quickly I press Send before I can change my mind.

  A few seconds later one beeps up from him.

  Hey, trouble. Where R U? Don’t tell me you’ve been arrested again . . .

  I laugh to myself. By the speed of his response, he obviously didn’t agonize over his text, I muse, hitting Reply.

  No, in a cab going 2 the airport. Am flying 2 MV to meet a new artist.

  Two seconds, then another text:When R U back?

  Friday.

  Keep Friday eve free. I have surprise 4 U.

  I feel a rush of delight.

  What is it?

  If I told U that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?

  I smile to myself and say ’bye, feeling more comforted. Perhaps it’s actually a good thing I’m getting out of town for a few days, I reflect, looking at the positives. This way it will put some distance between me and Nate and I won’t have to worry about bumping into him, or think about him. And I can concentrate on Adam.

  Cheered by this thought, I turn and gaze out the window.

  Hopefully by the time I get back on Friday, my relationship with Nate will just seem like a bad dream.

  I arrive at JFK Airport and go straight to the JetBlue check-in desk, where I discover it’s not a direct flight and I have to get a connection in Boston. But that’s OK—Boston’s only an hour away. I’ll read my articles on Artsy, I decide, settling into my seat on the plane. Ooh, this is really nice: plush leather seat, comfy footrest, my own TV screen with lots of different channels. Ordering a glass of wine, I fasten my seat belt and settle back happily with my article. You know, I’m beginning to have a really good feeling about this trip.

  The flight is so comfy I almost don’t want it to end. I read my article, surf a few TV channels, and then before I know it we’re landing in Boston and I’m wandering around the airport shops, killing time before my connecting flight. I love airports. There’s something about them that makes me feel as if I’ve stepped into some parallel universe, where real life doesn’t exist. All these people coming and going, the buzz of excitement, the sense of transience. It’s as if nothing matters.

  Like, for example, money, I muse, picking up an expensive moisturizer. Normally, in the real world, I would balk at the price, but somehow in Airport World ninety dollars is like Monopoly money. It doesn’t seem to count, I reflect, cheerfully handing over my credit card. Ooh, and look at those cute little fridge magnets that say Boston Red Sox on them. Spying them by the register, I put a couple in my basket. I’m not exactly sure who the Boston Red Sox are, but Robyn might like those as souvenirs, as she’s always sticking horoscopes, vegetarian recipes, and to-do lists all over the fridge. Speaking of souvenirs, what about that tea towel with the big red lobster on it for Mum?

  I end up leaving the shop with two bulging carrier bags and am just wandering into another, which sells electronic gadgets (strangely I’ve never been even slightly interested in a vibrating neck massager or a sound machine to help you sleep, but here in Airport World they’re fascinating), when I hear my name.

  “Last call for Miss Hemmingway. Please make your way urgently to gate four B. Your flight is about to depart.”

  And I look at my watch.

  Fuck. Seeing the time, I feel my heart plummet. How did that happen? A whole hour and a half has suddenly vanished and now I’m late! I’m going to miss my flight!

  Fuck, fuck, FUCK. Cursing under my breath, I charge through Departures, my carrier bags banging against my legs. Of course the gate has to be the farthest one away and by the time I get there I’m breathless and pouring with sweat.

  “Miss Hemmingway?” A member of the ground crew in a fluorescent orange jacket is waiting for me. She has a walkie-talkie and a very cross-looking expression.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I pant. My heart is thumping against my rib cage and I feel as if I’m going to collapse.

  “Hurry! The flight is about to depart,
” she reprimands, snatching my boarding pass.

  “I know, sorry—” I begin apologizing, but she quickly ushers me through the turnstile.

  “The bus is waiting to take you to your plane.”

  I glance out the glass doors at the little minibus. “Thanks,” I gasp, then pause. “Em . . . where’s the plane, exactly?” I’m scanning the concourse for a jet like the one I just flew in on, but there’s nothing, apart from a tiny little propeller thing.

  “Right there,” she barks, as if I’m stupid, and points.

  To the tiny little propeller thing.

  Still, now is not the time to feel nervous, I tell myself firmly, as I hurry onto the waiting minibus and it sets off swiftly across the concourse. The flight is only thirty minutes. How bad can it be? I’ll be up and down before I even know it.

  The propellers are already whirring loudly as I clamber up the metal stairs. Gosh, it’s even tinier inside than it looks outside, I realize, getting to the top of the staircase and glancing in through the door to see only a handful of seats. And so noisy! Ducking down so I don’t bang my head, I climb in through the doorway, where a flight attendant in a pair of headphones is waiting impatiently to grab my shopping bags from me and hurry me to the one remaining seat, before rushing back to close the door.

  Flustered, I quickly sit down and fasten my seatbelt, just in the nick of time. I’ve barely had a second to catch my breath or take in my surroundings before the engines grow even louder and suddenly we’re off, accelerating down the runway. I close my eyes tightly, listening to the propellers whirring, feeling the wheels juddering on the tarmac, and then the nose of the plane tips up and we’re in the air, climbing steadily.