“Miss Bryant, it appears they are en route to Bangkok.”
My mouth drops open. “Thailand?!”
His knuckles pale against his grip on the counter. He probably has these conversations every day. God, who’d want this job? Somebody hardcore failed Rupert on career day.
The lady behind me elbows her way back in. “Pardon me, Cinderella, but you aren’t the only one with lost bags.”
I narrow my eyes and mumble as I slide down to an empty spot at the counter. “Cinderella. Good one.” Leaning over, I yank off my other shoe and chuck it in the wastebasket marked rubbish next to the wall. Rupert turns his attention to her and they exchange a knowing look. Like I’m the drama queen here.
Stiff carpet crunches between all ten of my toes, and a little thrill wiggles loose in my belly. I smile, a few inches closer to the dream. As I fill in my contact information, my phone dings. I set the pen on the counter with a thump and retrieve the text.
I return to the paperwork and fill in the address for George’s place, then list the description of my bags and their contents. How specific does that need to be? Do I list everything, all the way down to my prescriptions? The tampons, too?
A documentary narrator voice interrupts my thoughts.
“You must be Jojo.”
If words were punches, this would be the KO.
My mom calls me Josephine when she isn’t yelling (Josie Michelle when she is), and everyone else calls me Jo. Nobody’s called me Jojo in a very long time. Hearing it on a stranger’s lips slides me off my axis.
A tall, lean guy with messy brown hair steps up to the counter next to me. He wears faded jeans with holes in the knees. Chucks. A t-shirt hoodie peeks out from under his black peacoat. He drops an elbow on the edge of the counter, cool as a vintage cigarette poster. Behind black-framed Warby Parkers, he has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like he’s figured out how to use a color saturation filter on his real-life face.
“J-jojo?” I overcompensate for the trembly voice by sticking out my hand for a shake, like we’re closing a business deal or something. “Just Jo,” I say. “Just call me Jo.”
God, I’m so bad at this whole scene. New people. New situations. Awkwardness abounds. If only Pfizer made a pill that could make me say all the right things without thinking, I’d take it with no complaints.
“Just Jo, then.” He accepts my handshake politely and pencils in a dimpled smile. Suddenly I’m glad he looked like a weirdo on his Instagram page and that Dylan didn’t see this. It’s like this guy graduated summa cum laude from a boy band.
“And yeww must be the wayn-kuh.” I fake a British accent and grin. Who has two thumbs and on-the-fly wit? This girl, that’s who.
But his smile evaporates and he drops my hand.
“Henry, actually.” Ach-chu-ally.
My joke flails on the ground at our feet. Dying slowly like a Shakespeare character. He doesn’t even chuckle. Welp, that settles that. I barely know Patrick, but I’m certain he would’ve laughed.
Instead, Henry looks down and does a double take. His nose ach-chu-ally curls, as if there’s an odor to accompany the discovery of my toes, neatly pedicured with black polish.
He meets my eyes again. “Did they lose your shoes, too?”
Chapter 4
: Baby You’re a Rich Man :
I’VE TAKEN QUITE a few retail excursions with unwilling participants in the past.
Mama, for example, is a get-in-and-get-out shopper. Dylan will go with me if it means we get to spend an afternoon on a blanket at Biltmore afterwards. Like most boys, he’s motivated by reward. When I take him thrifting, he’s always looking over his shoulder—like he’s worried his lacrosse teammates from his snooty private school will see him in a secondhand store and assume he’s poor. (He isn’t; his parents are doctors, for God’s sake.) And of course I’m rushed when he does this, which is the most annoying thing. He sometimes makes me feel inadequate. Like he didn’t know what he was signing up for when he asked the girl from public school to be his girlfriend. At a lame hospital work party for our parents, no less.
But my current issue is a different situation entirely.
Number one: because I’ve been to three stores in terminal two, and none have a pair of shoes for less than £200. Number two: because Henry looks more pissed off than anyone I’ve ever taken shopping with me before.
As I tiptoe through Harrod’s, Henry leans against a white column a safe distance away, flexing his jaw and staring at his phone screen. I get the distinct impression that he’s only here because someone forced him to be. But I shake off the thought and concentrate on the task at hand. Shoes of every variety are impeccably displayed on gleaming tables. My fingers fumble with the price tags. I can’t think of a single place back home that would charge this much for such basic shoes.
A bright orange pair of rubber rain boots called Wellys are the least expensive I find, and they’re still £80. I pick up one boot and turn it over in my hands. It smells like a tire shop. The like-new satin knockoff Louboutins I got for junior prom on eBay were only $41. These are ugly rubber rain boots, more than double that. Forget it. I refuse to chisel that much from my budget before even boarding the tube. I only paid $7 for the ballet flats I was wearing before the creeper stole one. Yes, seven dollars! Originally $59, can you believe it? Someday, people will look down into my corpse-stuffed coffin and compliment my outfit. I’ll probably use my very last dying neuron to scream IT WAS ON SALE.
My feet make a slapping noise on the pristine white tile as I approach Henry, and something warm and electric sizzles at the base of my skull. It percolates outwards to my fingers and toes—the unmistakable trigger of déjà vu. I glance at the floor. Marble! From-the-dream marble! It must show on my face, because when Henry glances up from his phone, he squints.
“Let’s just go,” I say, ignoring the urge to stare at my feet and grin like I’m full-throttle disturbed. “I have plenty of shoes in my luggage. I’ll have to deal till the airport elves can get my things to me.”
His eyebrows climb his forehead. “You can’t ride the tube without shoes.”
“Crap.” I cross my arms. I didn’t even think about that. “Is it illegal or something?”
He squints again, like my stupidity has a radioactive glow. “Because it’s bloody grotty.”
I swallow a snicker. Wanker or not, I could listen to him talk all day.
He shoves his phone in his pocket and stands from where he’s been leaning. I crane my neck and try not to make it obvious that I’m admiring his station in the cosmos from my position below on earth. Lexie would say he’s a taaaaalll drink of water.
A refined voice speaks over my shoulder. “May I assist you with something?”
I pivot to tell the saleslady no thank you, I’m browsing, but Henry speaks up first.
“Yes, she’ll be needing shoes, as you can see.”
I ignore the way he speaks for me and tell her myself, “No, thank you. These are well out of my price range.”
She glances down at my bare feet, disapproval darker than her mascara. “Please do let me know if I can help you with anything.”
When she saunters away, Henry says, “Nonsense.” He glances down at my feet. “What size do you wear? 40 or so? Wide?” He walks over and picks up the Welly boot I put back on the shelf. “I’ll buy them myself. The next train leaves in ten minutes.”
An incredulous squeak escapes as I follow him. My feet—which by his calculations are dinosaur-like—slap the slick tile as I go. I try to grab the boot, but he does something that makes me fully understand the definition of wanker: he holds it up out of my reach.
Heat engulfs my face. Aren’t British people supposed to be polite? This is not polite. I know polite. I am a Southerner.
“Are you serious right now?” I prop my hands on my hips to keep from smacking him. Because manners. People sneak glances at us. The saleslady eyes us from across the store.
“Of course I�
�m serious.” He laughs, but not like ha. “You need shoes and you don’t have the money for them. I’m your host and will purchase them on your behalf for the sake of time. This is the third store we’ve been to. I have things to attend to this evening.”
My eyes flit from his face to the boot. He’s right. I’m being difficult. But so is he, and I did not ask for his escort service. I jump—actually jump—to grab the boot. God only knows what possesses me. But it doesn’t matter because I still can’t reach it.
“Your dad is my host. Not you. And I do have the money to buy them,” I insist. It isn’t a lie. I put two years of saved babysitting money—nearly $2,000—on a prepaid debit card. It has to last the whole five weeks, though, which means I can spend approximately $57 per day, food included. “I just think it’s ridiculous to pay that much for a pair of shoes I don’t need.”
“But it appears you do need them.” A mixture of challenge and irritation simmers in his big green irises. Now that I really look at them, they’re the color of slime. The Grinch. The Slytherin crest. He’s Malfoy, but with better hair and eyes and… well, pretty much better everything, but his actions render him toad-like.
He slowly brings his arm down. I snatch the boot out of his hand, grab the mate, and stomp toward the cash register. Déjà vu ripples through me with each thud.
Chapter 5
: There’s a Place :
MY OVERPRICED BOOTS squeak with newness as I bounce my feet.
Just as I suspected, the transfer from Piccadilly to Jubilee is no more difficult than catching a city bus to Biltmore back home. I’m even more irritated with Mama for sending me an unwilling chaperone than I would’ve been if he hadn’t turned out to be such a reject Bond villain.
The train jolts as the brakes are applied. Henry holds on to a pole to keep from falling into my lap in the crowded tube car. The doors open, and people file off and on. He swings around and plops on the emptied seat next to me. A breeze sweeps by and I shiver.
“Are you cold?”
I jump, because it’s the first thing he’s said to me since he hastily showed me how to use my Oyster card.
“Not at all.”
Patrick warned that a tank top was more June-in-North-Carolina weather than June-in-London weather. It was 87 degrees when my plane took off at home. 59 when it landed here. I brought a short-sleeved cardigan, but it’s insufficient.
I ignore Henry’s smirk and focus on the people nearby—an older man reading a book through thick spectacles, a bedraggled mother with two fidgety offspring, and scores of commuters, attention glued to their phones. I hug my elbows closer.
Henry blows a chest-deflating sigh and scoots toward the edge of his seat. I pretend to pay him no attention whatsoever but watch from the corner of my eye as he shimmies out of his peacoat.
“Here, take it.” He dangles his coat right in front of my face. Act of kindness or not, it irritates me something fierce. He’s just so pushy, and pushiness is the surefire way to get on my bad side.
“Really. I’m fine.” When I flash him a fake smile, a tinge of violet blooms around his head. I blink and it disappears, but the distraction lasts just a split second long enough for him to place the coat on my lap.
“Honestly. This isn’t necessary.” I try to hand it back to him, but he won’t take it. “I’m hot-natured,” I plead. “But thanks.”
He cocks his head and squints. “Your arms are covered in gooseflesh.”
A little boy next to us asks his mother, “Are they fighting, Mum?” She shushes him instead of answering.
“Fine,” I say through my teeth, trying to crush the aggravation between my molars. To keep from making a spectacle, I throw the jacket on. The sleeves are so long I have to roll them up at the bottom. It smells a bit like a campfire and, as much as I hate to admit it, is crispy warm.
Shoving my hands in the pockets, my knuckles bump something cool and smooth that feels like rocks. Imagine that: the wanker keeps rocks in his pockets. He probably throws them at elderly people and then offers to help them up afterwards.
I retrieve one from the right pocket. It’s the size of a domino, oddly heavy, with engraved letters etched into its rusty brown surface: an N on one end, and an S on the other. Before I can examine further, Henry takes it right out of my hand. His fingertips brush my palm.
“Sorry, I forgot about those.” He shoves it into his jeans pocket. “There’s one in the other as well.” He points to my left side. I take it out and hand it to him.
“Rocks?” I ask, doing an excellent job of withholding the comment about elderly people.
He fiddles with the silver ring on his thumb. “Magnets.”
When I realize he isn’t going to explain further, I press. “What are they for?”
His eyes move to the tube door. “Just a hobby.”
“So, voodoo then?”
He ignores me. At least we’ve established that Henry has no appreciation for humor.
When we pull into our last stop at Southwark (Suth-urk; it sounds nothing like it’s spelled), I grab my bag and follow him off the tube.
“It’s just a short walk away,” he assures me, like he’s counting down the seconds to get away from me, too.
We make our way up to the busy street above the station, and London fills the background like someone’s lifted a curtain at a play I’ve been waiting to see all my life. The sky is sterling silver, and everything glistens with dampness. The air smells like food and exhaust fumes and rain.
Three story brownstones flank either side of the wide roadway. Shops and pubs and cafés undulate in every direction. The sidewalks are tidy, with manicured trees and charming wrought iron benches along the street. Like Asheville, but classier. I spin in a circle as I walk, marveling like a muggle.
Why Pop didn’t make good on his promise to bring me here himself—before it was too late—I’ll never understand. My eyes wander over the windows and doors and business signs, searching, until I find the blocky letters and blackbird silhouette.
BLACKFRIAR’S CROW.
My chest pulls tight as I force my feet closer to the windows. Sadness slips over me, and some irrational urge makes me want to scour the place for Pop. Make certain he isn’t inside. People fill the tables in the dining room, eating and talking and drinking, completely unaware of how empty the place is without Pop in it. A bartender towels the counter as he takes orders. I study every face, then the backs of each of the men sitting at the bar. Too old to be him. Too pudgy. Too skinny.
I glance at the flyer pasted on the door: Open Mic Night, Saturday at 10.
Sometimes the universe sends messages that seem like they’re meant specifically for me. Walrus Gumboot got their start at an open mic night here.
Henry’s reflection watches me through the glass, stock still at my back. I realize I’m still wearing his coat. It’s enough to make me get myself together. This could get super awkward.
“My pop used to play here.” I shrug out of the coat and hand it to him, determined to stay casual as we continue on our way. Of course Pop isn’t still here. “This is the first—and last—place he ever played.” Henry catches up with me.
“Good place.” His vowels are suddenly softer. “We’re right down this way.” He points down a side street. I walk beside him, trying to ignore his pity. I notice every person who passes. I see Pop’s face in all of them.
Chapter 6
: Julia :
MAMA MET GEORGE Pemberton in some Facebook group for people overcoming grief.
George’s wife, Julia, died of cancer not long after we lost Pop. Over the past couple of years, George and Mama have become close. When he first came to visit us in the states a year or so ago, I thought maybe they were starting a romance. But then they slept in separate rooms. I could tell they liked and respected each other in a just-friends sort of way. And I was glad she had a friend like him.
Bonus for me: it meant I had a possible place to stay in London.
“We know peopl
e there now!” I insisted, over and over. “Maybe they’d let us stay with them!” We don’t exactly have a vacation budget, after all. Mama’s been an emergency room nurse since before I was born, but Pop’s death left us broke in unexpected ways. Did you know it costs nine thousand, three hundred eighty-eight dollars to fly a dead body home from a foreign country? You get a discount if you cremate them first.
Having a free place to stay would’ve made the trip doable for both of us, but she goes out of her way to avoid things that remind her of Pop. Which by default means we don’t talk about Pop. We don’t do things that remind us of Pop, including travel to his favorite places. She wouldn’t even budge on me coming by myself until a couple of weeks ago, when George made the suggestion. Let’s swap kids for the summer, George told her. It’ll look good on their university applications. God bless George for that.
Patrick and I are the same age, just a few months apart. It made sense, so Mom finally agreed. It’s too bad Patrick and I can’t hang out this summer, though. From the moment he landed in Asheville, he felt like a kindred spirit. Quite different from his brother, the wanker.
When I step through the heavy glass doors of Fox Den Records—George’s store—he meets me in the middle of an aisle of vintage vinyl records. He looks older than when I saw him last. A little bedraggled. His salt-and-pepper hair is more salt than pepper. He gives me half-hug-back-pat thingy.
“So sorry I couldn’t come meet you myself, love. We had a rescheduled delivery of new inventory and things have been completely mad all afternoon.” He steps back and grins. “Here, let me take your bag.” He reaches for my carry-on. “Is this all?”
When I fill him in on the luggage, he juts his bottom lip out in sympathy. From the corner of my eye, I notice Henry outside with his back facing the store. When he turns, he has a cigarette dangling from his lips. I physically recoil. Ew.
All the Lonely People Page 2