Dateless

by Emily Evans

  He scrunched his face. I could see the meaning click, and I laughed harder. Wythe half-smiled and touched my hair. The motion, playful and intimate, made my laughter stop. Wythe.

  He dropped his hand. “What time does Westminster Abbey close?”

  “Six. We’ll make it.”

  He looked away and then back, his expression reluctant. “We can switch trains. If you like. I haven’t been on the trains in a long while. But I do know how they work.”

  I looked around but didn’t see Peppa or his driver or his guards. “Why would we do that?”

  “We’re not going to make it there, put in our final answer, and still make the play. No play, no intern point. Time’s up.”

  It was English-crystal clear then, and it sobered me. I could win at class or win at the internship. Not both. I sank back against the blue cushion on the subway wall and leaned into the pole. This was it. Switch lines and go to the West End. Or continue to Westminster. Life rarely let me have two things I wanted. I had to remember that. There was always a choice, a compromise to be made. Screaming into the screeching subway car as it whooshed through the dark tunnel wouldn’t change that. Even though I’d planned. Even though everything should have worked out. Or could it still? Our glass column picture at the library was a great guess for the ultimate English literature answer. My insides prickled. Why was I even thinking of going on to Westminster to throw another literary location at the professor? I didn’t even need this class.

  Wythe was looking at me as I reasoned. He didn’t try to sway me either way. He was just watching me, and the reason I couldn’t abandon this project before we reached the end became obvious. Because Wythe deserved to win this. Because he was a good guy. It’s who he was. And he was worth much more than my petty squabbles with my sister.

  The mantle. The Christmas card. The photo.

  I closed my eyes, and my stomach sank. It wasn’t petty to me. Getting credit for the internship mattered to my family. And I could do it. I was close to that third point. It was a guarantee. Wythe would let me. But then he’d lose the class. He didn’t care about literature. He cared about winning, especially after Vihaan and Peppa had cheated. He’d lost his summer and his privacy to his mom’s choices. His life was so constrained by his family’s choices. I could rationalize this any way I wanted. I could truly justify going for the intern point. But only one decision would make me able to live with myself.

  “I choose you.” My voice sounded husky. Because, like always, choices hurt. Saying the words lifted the weight from me, and my stomach stopped panging. My decision was made, and my insides felt good. Not guilty. Not twisty. Not conflicted. Good. Which was how doing the right thing felt. Weird because it had been so unclear before. And now… So clear. I looked into Wythe’s eyes. “Let’s go to Westminster.”

  He blinked, and then he grinned. He moved so he was beside me on the little bench, and I leaned into him. Who knew I’d have one of my favorite moments ever in London rocking along in the back of a subway train with my head on a guy’s shoulder?

  ***

  Marble floor, marble statues. So many royal weddings had taken place here at Westminster Abbey. Weddings. Like the Austen quote had said, “Men in possession of a fortune, needing a wife.” But that was only a small part of what had sent me on the path to the Abbey. The ultimate answer was the Poet’s Corner. I led Wythe through the abbey to the Poet’s Corner, where British authors were commemorated.

  “They’re all here. All your writers, buried or memorialized forever. Amazing. Makes you proud, right? Your small island. All these amazing poets, authors, and thinkers.” My voice was enthusiastic and reverent, but it didn’t take much to persuade him. The way Wythe was grinning at me, I could have said, Take a picture of that black tile and send it in as our ultimate answer, and he would have gone with it. He was pleased with me. We took a selfie together at Poet’s Corner and sent it in. This was our guess to the ultimate in British literary clues. “Done.” I was satisfied and content with our answer.

  Wythe pulled me around to face him. “That’s it. We’re all in.”

  Gazing into his blue eyes, here, the moment felt oddly serious. “We’re right. Whatever the professor says. No matter how many papers we have to write. I’m confident about what we chose.”

  His arms tightened, and he said nothing, but I knew he felt it, too. With epic certainty. Like minds. The moment was odd. It bonded us. He threaded his hand through my hair and absently rubbed a strand between his thumb and index finger. Our phones beeped, and he held onto me while we checked the incoming messages. We checked our screens.

  All votes are in. Alea iacta est—The die is cast. Some teams went with volume, some with obscure facts. One team exemplified success. Kira and Wythe. Their “living literature” theme showed me they understood this project in a way no one else did. Their ultimate answer showed us all the ultimate honor our authors can obtain—to be studied, to be relished, to be remembered. While there were an infinite number of ultimate answers, they answered best.

  First. My heart stopped as my mind processed the professor’s words, and then the thrill went through my veins. We’d come in first. Wythe grabbed me and swung me around. The motion was a rush. His arms were a rush. I laughed, ignoring the tourists and their curious gazes, ignoring anything but him and our win. When we stopped, and the world stopped spinning around me, the history, the literature, all my focus was on him. The past dropped away, and I felt with absolute certainty that I was looking at my future.

  He took my hand, and we walked back to Downing Street swinging our clasped hands. Me. Him. Passing red mailboxes, shops, the bustle of people, the iconic sites. Every step in this ancient city was extraordinary.

  That we could walk home from a place like that. Amazing.

  We arrived back, still floating on the high of our win, my heart full, and were hit by the modern and practical: security checks, guards radioing in our arrival, and an escort to the family room.

  Peppa was there.

  I didn’t care.

  The Prime Minister was there, looking like a mom waiting up for a minor. “You escaped your security detail.”

  I wasn’t sorry.

  Wythe moved away from me and over to his mom. “Really? We’re going to do this here?”

  The PM’s face tightened further. “Peppa sorts your schedule for a reason.”

  Peppa came around them and stood in front of me, blocking my view, which was super annoying because while I could easily hear the lowered voice British argument going on behind her, I couldn’t see their expressions. I couldn’t help.

  Peppa cleared her throat. “Internships officially ended at close of business today. You’re not my problem anymore. You’re free to your evening.” Peppa was dismissing me. “Rooms should be vacated by Sunday. You should probably go and start packing.”

  Wythe and I were a team, but I didn’t know how to handle this situation. I moved, walking to the doorway like I was leaving. Peppa turned back to the PM, holding a pose like a parishioner waiting for a wafer. I picked a spot where the hall opened and leaned against it to eavesdrop. I needed to understand the situation to help Wythe fix it.

  “I’ll have an explanation of your actions, Wythe,” the Prime Minister said. “Peppa says it’s been hours.”

  “The driver sold out my location.” He looked at Peppa and added, “I’ll have a new driver.” It was a particularly English way of saying the guy had betrayed him, put him at risk, in danger… and his guards hadn’t caught it.

  “Your driver will be transferred.” The PM nodded. “Peppa can sort it.”

  I wanted to yell about how the driver had taken a bribe, how Peppa had used him, but I didn’t. I didn’t get it, but I was following Wythe’s lead on this, though I didn’t understand his reaction at all. He wore a cold expression, and he didn’t search me out with his gaze. It was as if crossing the threshold to this place had wiped away our partnership. Class was over. The internship was over. A hollow ac
he took hold in my stomach.

  “The guards will be reviewed. You’ll be expected here until the change can be made.” The PM went to the door but turned back to him. “I’m going to need some compromise here, Wythe. An answer today. Saturday’s ball?”

  “I’ll be in attendance.”

  Would he? We hadn’t talked about it.

  “And your date? Peppa says you haven’t given a name?”

  “Does she?” Wythe’s voice was tight. “Well, she can just put her own name down.”

  What? I almost stepped out in the open at that nonsense.

  The PM blinked. “Wythe.”

  Wythe’s jaw was tight, and he was walking past his mom now, but I could still hear him. “As you said, Peppa can sort it.”

  Chapter 21

  I didn’t move. I stood there in my eavesdropping spot feeling as if the centuries’ old floor had dissolved under me. Peppa? Peppa! What had just happened?

  “Do sort it out, Peppa.” The PM left.

  Peppa came up to me, knowing exactly where I was standing. “You look so forlorn.”

  I swallowed and tried to blank my expression. I didn’t care to have her pick over my emotions like a buzzard over an armadillo on the highway. She arched her blond eyebrows. “Oh. Did you think you’d be invited Saturday? To the ball? That he’d say your name?”

  I said nothing, but I blinked and felt the hollow in my stomach expand to my chest. I had to get out of there.

  “You’ve never understood how things work here. Not truly.” Her gray eyes glinted. “Balls. Westminster events. These things are for the English. You’re American. You were never going to be invited.”

  I hadn’t said I thought I would be invited. My breaths shallowed because I couldn’t get them past the bubble in my throat.

  Peppa’s condescending expression turned pitying. “Your duties with Wythe are complete. You may leave.”

  What could I say to that? Was this how it ended? Because it didn’t feel like an end or closure. It made me mad and I welcomed the feeling. Anger burned away the hollow in my chest. I knew what mattered. She and I might be done. The class might be done. The internship might be done. The summer might be done. But Wythe and me? We were not done.

  I stomped upstairs. When I reached my door, my cell phone beeped an incoming text. Wythe. My head shook in instinctive rejection and my hand tightened on the phone. I needed to work out how to handle this. My intern duties were officially over. I didn’t have to respond until I was ready to respond.

  Instead of going in my room, I went down the hall and tapped on Georgiana’s door. Too impatient to wait, I opened it a crack and stuck my head in.

  Whoa.

  The temperature of her room was chilly, and the room itself was like some freaky alternate universe version of mine. It was the “after” on an HGTV home décor show. All the décor was new and posh and pretty. It made the space seem bigger. One more thing to dump on me today. I’d gotten a dog of a room.

  “Want to come in?” Georgiana asked. She was curled up on her little blue velvet two-seater couch, wearing pajamas and a robe, and had been typing on her phone. She set it aside at my entry.

  “Just wanted to see if you were interested in going to Regent Street with me tomorrow for some shopping?”

  “Oh, yes.” Georgiana nodded. “For anything in particular or just retail therapy?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  Georgiana nodded harder. “Absolutely.”

  I was no good with secrets. I slipped in and shut the door, but I kept my voice low. “For a dress for the ball.” I wiggled my fingers. “Maybe a manicure.”

  Georgiana blinked. “Fun,” she said, and then she whispered, “Why is that a secret?”

  “Because interns aren’t allowed at the ball. I’m going anyway.”

  Georgiana pressed her lips together and looked at me, big-eyed. “Okay. Tomorrow at ten?”

  “Ten it is.”

  ***

  I met her the next morning. We headed out and got manicures and lunch. It was wonderful being away from the constraints of the household and walking the streets of London, loving how the white-gray limestone buildings curved along the street and how every other alleyway held a hidden treasure, just appreciating the city.

  We went to several gown stores and browsed gorgeous things. None were “the one,” but there were plenty I’d be very happy to wear. All Wythe had seen me in this summer were casual clothes. The thought of dressing up had kind of an “in your face” thrill to it. Going out on a high note and the like. That’s how I’d leave here. I’d relish every second of that ball, and he’d regret not taking me. I held an angular peach dress in front of me and looked in the mirror. “What do you think?”

  Georgiana hung the poofy green dress she was eying and came over to me, her blue eyes narrowing. “Like the length, hate the shoulders, and that would be a lot to get altered before the event.” She wiggled her mouth left, then right. “If you can wait until tomorrow, I have some gowns coming to the house to look through. I know it seems risky, the day of the ball and all, but we’re not that far off in size. I know there will be one in the bunch that you’ll like.”

  The bunch? “Why are there dresses being delivered?”

  She looked uncertain, and then she said, “For me. To pick from. For the ball.”

  The answer was confusing. She was American. Had she been invited by Wythe’s brother Zane? Was it only me who wasn’t invited? I fought off envy, and I didn’t want to poke further. It was one of those times I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer, so I took the easy way out and asked nothing else. We spent the rest of the day hitting the tourist shops and talking about anything but interning. I didn’t bring up the ball again.

  ***

  The next morning, I got a text from Georgiana. They’re here. Squee. Join me.

  I wanted to see the dresses, but I also wanted to get more sleep because going to bed with unanswered questions had led to a restless night. I yawned and went down the hall to her room. Today her room seemed smaller because it was filled with racks of dresses. I scooted around one and met Georgiana on the couch. She held out an OJ to me.

  I accepted the drink, took a sip, and sank down beside her. “What are we in for?”

  Georgiana sat straighter, her face glowing. “You’re going to love them. I couldn’t decide on the perfect dress. These are my final picks.”

  Three ladies hovered around the gowns, sorting them, fluffing them, and muttering about security wrinkling them as they’d performed their search at the gate.

  Georgiana handed me a gray puffy throw blanket, and I put it over my lap. Her cold room plus the chilled drink made me shiver. My side of the hallway definitely had less air conditioning going on. “Caroline’s coming by.” Georgiana wore an indulgent expression. “I told Nanny to give us an hour first. I thought we’d do the serious business of picking without her here, and then we can do measurements for the adjustments while she goes through the dresses.”

  She must have planned this ages ago. How was she going to the ball? “I’m sorry, Georgiana, I gotta ask… Peppa said interns wouldn’t be invited. She made it very clear. How are you invited?”

  Georgiana wrinkled her nose and tilted her glass to and fro, watching the orange liquid swirl through the crystal instead of looking at me. Her face pinked further. “Errr, how are you invited?”

  Evasive. That made me feel weird. I clutched the puffy throw blanket, squeezing my fingers into its warmth. “I’m not invited. Not at all.”

  “Ohh.” Georgiana made an appreciative sound and looked up. Her robin’s egg eyes were big and somewhat admiring. “And you’re going anyway?”

  “I’m going to try. Sorry, you’re as New World as me, and I was told no Americans.”

  “That’s right.” Georgiana spoke slowly and put her glass down. She scooted back on the couch, put her feet on the edge of the cushion, and wrapped her arms around her knees. “This ball is aristocracy, insiders, an
d English… and the hidden exception to those rules.” She made air quotations around the word “exception” and then clasped her hands together.

  Ohh. What was the exception?

  One of the dressmakers paraded forward before I got the answer, rolling a single dress rack with a full ballgown hooked on front. She had her chin in the air and looked at us like we should bow down.

  Georgiana moved back to a more ladylike pose. Feet on the floor, knees folded to the side. The formal, uncomfortable pose that was only required for bridal showers or baby showers or when I had to impress some older relative.

  The second dressmaker came forward, too, motioning from us to the gowns. She seemed eager to please. “And now, Miss, the first dress is a waterfall sunshine silk with billowing ruffles like yellow waves.” She motioned a third lady forward, who had another single dress rack. “And this slinky scarlet number could never hide a pocket. It says sex on a hanger.”

  Georgiana covered her mouth, and then whispered in my ear, “It’s either sea princess or whore.”

  “Uh, is there any middle ground?” Because if I had to choose, in the mood I was in, I might not make the tasteful choice.

  “They are gorgeous, right, miss?” the second lady asked.

  They were, but very different.

  Georgiana and I made appropriate murmurs, and Georgiana explained that we wanted to see them all. She asked, and they obeyed. A rainbow of dresses came off the rack, and the dressmaker featured them individually for us. Each gown had a named designer, each was unique, and each was beautiful in a different way.

  It was really fun, and like nothing I’d done before. Midway through, my favorite dress came out. A dreamy shade of blue. Slinky, but in a silky way.

  Georgiana grabbed my arm. “That’s the one for you.”

  I didn’t know if she’d read my expression or heard it calling to me the way I did. The top was strapless. Crystals dripped from the bodice and swirled throughout the almost liquid blue skirt. It was stunning.