All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  “You made it!” Her eyes twinkle with the sort of kindness you’d expect from someone who offers to spend her morning break giving a tour to a girl she barely knows. Every time I look at her, I think about the photo that was hanging in the darkroom and I get a sour feeling in my stomach. Which is ridiculous and makes me one hundred and twelve percent more punchable.

  “Thank you for doing this,” I tell her. “My mother’s nagging me via George about doing all the things I came here to do. Like visit universities.”

  “I think you’ll be glad you did this.” She adjusts her bag over her shoulder and motions for me to follow her, then smirks as she says, “Creativity abounds here, even in the summer session.”

  I look around for the first time and consider what that actually means. Students lounge on the grass, deep in their books. Others gather around tables and discuss politics or art or upcoming tests. I pick up bits and pieces of their conversations as we pass.

  I raise my phone and take a panoramic photo. Caption: the real world

  Zara takes me through the sliding glass doors in a state-of-the-art building. It smells a little like a library inside. She motions to doors as we pass. Science wing. Arts wing. She explains the different campuses and what each specializes in.

  I snap pictures the whole time as I take it all in.

  “Do you know what your major will be yet?”

  I shake my head, a little sheepish.

  She places a reassuring hand on my arm. “You’ll figure it out. It took a bit for me to decide on theatre.”

  “Everyone I know seems to already have a life plan in place.” Dylan’s going to Duke to play lacrosse and be a doctor like his parents. Lexie wants to go to SCAD in Savannah and design clothes. Maddie is going to whichever school offers her a soccer scholarship. “I’ve failed miserably at coming up with a plan of my own.”

  We stop at the end of the hallway.

  “You can’t fail at something you haven’t even done yet.” She smiles. “If so, I’m failing at breakfast right now. You hungry?”

  My stomach has been a mess since I boarded the train. But I nod anyway.

  “Come on. I’ll show you where the café is.”

  We walk through more identical hallways until we get to an area that looks like a food court. As we take our trays and place items from a buffet style setup, she tells me her experience with Saint Catherine’s.

  “First year took some adjustment. I was really busy. Barely had time for anything, including friends. I missed Henry and Mons and Sanjay, of course, because we’d been together for so many years that I wasn’t sure how to function without them.”

  I nod. “I texted with my friends back home every day when I first got here. Now it’s super sporadic.”

  She shrugs. “It happens. Sometimes it’s good to peel ourselves from our comfort zone, though. It forces us to grow. Discover who we are as individuals. Even though sometimes that means growing apart from the people you care about.”

  We sit down at a table in the courtyard. It’s a rare sunny day in London, but I’m wearing my rain boots. I prop them on the chair across from me.

  As we eat our breakfast, a guy approaches us with an armful of papers. He hands me one. It’s bright green. Free community workshop sponsored by the Photography department.

  I read over the details, considering.

  “I wonder if Henry would be interested in this,” I say. Zara leans in and reads over my shoulder.

  “Probably not. This is more entry level.”

  “Oh. Yeah, he’s definitely not entry level.”

  “Have you seen his work?” she asks.

  I shake my head. Lying like a guilty lying liar.

  She leans down and reaches into her bag and pulls out the envelope she picked up from the Den last night. Carefully, she slides the photos out on the table.

  “He shot these for my acting portfolio. I’m trying to get some side gigs while I’m in school. Build my resume a little.”

  I shuffle carefully through the photos, stopping when I get to the picture of her on the floor. I widen my eyes and pretend to see it for the very first time.

  “Wow. This one is…” I look up at her. “Intimate.”

  She casts her eyes downward at the photo, maybe a little shy.

  Fighting the sour stomach feeling all over again, I point to the contrast in the picture.

  “He’s good.”

  She nods. “I don’t know why he wants to waste his life being a boring ass scientist.”

  We both laugh.

  She tucks the photos back into the envelope and into her bag again.

  “So are you two… like…?” I bite off the end of the sentence, wishing my mouth ever bothered to ask me for permission before saying things.

  Zara shakes her head. “No, not anymore.”

  Ah, so there’s history. I try to gauge the way she feels about it.

  “Henry is the best friend anyone could ask for. He’s fiercely loyal. He’ll take a secret to his grave and keep it for the next three lifetimes after that if you ask him to. He’s of course funny and smart and not difficult to look at, by any means. But…” She pauses and picks at her fingernail. “I love Henry, but not like that. Going there was a mistake. He’s terribly messy. We’re better as friends.”

  I choke down the obnoxious relief gathering in the back of my throat and look over the workshop flyer again.

  “Funny, I’m actually doing a photography project for school. This workshop covers some of the techniques required for the pictures I have to take.”

  “You should do it.”

  I glance at the dates again. “I won’t be here long enough. I go back home before this starts.”

  She shrugs. “Can you extend your time in London? It might give you a feel for campus life here.”

  I concentrate on the flyer as I consider. “I’d have to buy a real camera.”

  “I’m sure Henry would let you borrow one.”

  I start to shrug it off, but as I fold the bright green piece of paper, one, two, three, four times, a little prickle of déjà vu dances along the edge of my consciousness. I lift my hips and tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans, along with the idea.

  Chapter 26

  : Got to Get You Into My Life :

  THE REST OF the week passes in a blur.

  I barely have time to process all the competing ideas at war in my head: the photography workshop, the vortex at Eleanor Rigby’s grave, the excitement about spending my Saturday in Liverpool. I drop in on Nigel to see if he and Walter can chat, but Ethan tells me he’s out, and that he’ll be sure to relay the message that I stopped by. I leave my number for him. George and I work side by side diligently, and he seems satisfied by my visit to Saint Catherine’s. I guess Mama gave him the stamp of approval.

  On Friday evening, as I have my regularly scheduled FaceTime call with Dylan, I notice that his aura has become progressively darker.

  “What if you love it there?” Dylan leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. He’s talking about Hope University in Liverpool, where I’m supposed to visit tomorrow, though I never bothered to make an appointment. I didn’t even tell him about Saint Catherine’s.

  “We’ll deal with it when the time comes. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “You know, Duke is a pretty amazing school.” He gives me a half-hearted smile.

  Dylan is a shoo-in at Duke, both for his lacrosse accolades and the fact that his father gives them big fat alumni checks every year. A few months ago, I made the mistake of saying I might apply there. I thought it was pretty noncommittal at the time, but he brings it up each time this conversation arises. There’s no way in hell I could afford to go to Duke without the same level of scholarship I’d need to go somewhere overseas, and the fact that this completely eludes him annoys me.

  “It sure is.” My face feels like it may crack from smiling. “Nothing is set in stone yet.”

  Every night, we talk via FaceTime at 9 p.m. my time, 4
p.m. his. Around the ten-minute mark, my gaze starts drifting towards the clock.

  “I get why you want to at least look at the place,” he says. “But think about how much easier the transition would be if you go somewhere in North Carolina. In-state tuition, easier to see your mom on the weekends, easier to see me…”

  He lets that hang there, but I don’t take the bait. A frown has replaced my carefully composed expression at some point, and I watch as his smile fades, too. The distance between us is vast. More than geography.

  I have to hope that once this trip is behind me, once I’ve done what I came to do, Dylan and I will be okay. If the meds were the problem all along, then maybe we will be fine since I’ve stopped taking them. Maybe a college in North Carolina will be perfect. But right now, I’m more interested in filling in blanks from my past than penciling in an outline of the future.

  “We don’t have to think about it yet.” I try to muster some enthusiasm. “We have senior year ahead. The best year of our lives, right?”

  Dylan nods, unconvincingly, and in the middle of it, the screen lags. I wait a few seconds, but it doesn’t refresh. After a full minute of staring at his paralyzed expression, an unflattering technology glitch, I hang up and text that I’ll call him tomorrow.

  Packing is tricky because I’m not sure how long my investigation will take. Maybe it’ll be a day trip, or maybe I’ll stay overnight. Depends on what I find there.

  This ley line intersection feels like the key to something important.

  My late-night research has led me to a couple of promising theories: First of all, a vortex means double the power. If there’s any place I might have a chance of finding Pop, it’s in a vortex. And it can’t be coincidence that one happens to exist in the same place I’ve been dreaming about finding him for years.

  Henry couldn’t have known how significant this atlas was when he gave it to me.

  I need to know how his ley line theory is connected to the dreams about Pop, though. There has to be a simpler explanation than a dizzying crash course in quantum physics. I want to be prepared, with whatever equipment is necessary, but I can’t find a single thing about the magnets online. I could buy some, but I don’t know what they do to locate the ley lines.

  I’m going to have to ask Henry.

  I search the texts in my phone until I find where he texted me at the airport. I save his number to my phone.

  I wait a few extra minutes before I respond.

  I imagine him sitting wherever he is, in some dorm or whatever, or at the pubs near Bristol, smirking down at his phone the way I’m smirking down at mine.

  The type bubble pops up and disappears. Pops up and disappears. Then finally…

  * * *

  I set my phone down. He can’t very well show me right now, and I’m leaving in the morning. I get up and finish packing. Some extra clothes. My phone charger. Brush. Toothbrush. When I’m finished, I drop the bag next to the bed and crawl under the covers.

  As I’m lying awake, mind racing, footsteps get louder on the stairs outside my door. Then down the hall. Henry’s door opens and shuts. I sit up and pull the covers up around my neck. Is that…? He said he’d be back this weekend. It’s Friday night, so technically it’s the weekend.

  My phone dings.

  * * *

  I hold my breath, listening as he moves around in his room. Shuffling things. Opening and closing drawers. I wipe my sweaty palms on the blanket and reply.

  * * *

  * * *

  The notification dings on his phone in the other room. He doesn’t respond. All is quiet. I lean back, in utter stillness, waiting. Then footsteps again. Coming toward my door. I’m torn between rolling off the bed and crawling under it, or making a mad dash to the bathroom to lock myself in. But I have no idea why.

  A gentle knock. “Jo?”

  I sit up and smooth the blanket over my lap. Clear my throat. “Yeah?”

  Henry opens the door and peeks in. His hair is messy and his eyes are tired. He looks like he’s just solved some week-long math problem.

  “What time does your train leave?”

  It’s weird to resume a text conversation in person. “Nine a.m.”

  He stares at my packed bag at the foot of the bed.

  “And how long will you be gone?”

  I shrug, heart in hysterics. Maybe he had a weird case of missing me this week, too.

  “I was gonna play it by ear.”

  He nods.

  “You, uh…” He scratches his head and drops his hand. “You want some company?”

  Chapter 27

  : Day Tripper :

  WHEN I WAKE up, I have three missed calls from unknown numbers.

  There’s no voicemail. I check my messages—a goodnight text from Dylan. Nothing else.

  I’m surprised to find Henry waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. Some part of me believed he’d sleep in and pretend we never had that conversation last night. Not that you could exactly call it a conversation, per se. He said you want some company? And I said sure. And shrugged. Oh, the dichotomy between inside me and outside me. Other than discussing what time we’d need to leave, we said our goodnights and I drifted off with one eye open.

  He stands from the bottom stair, dark jeans and white button-up neatly pressed, and shuffles into a backpack. His hair is a little unruly, like he rolled out of bed without combing it. It works for him.

  “Ready?”

  “Totally,” I squeak. Totally? God save the queen. Who am I, even?

  We don’t talk on the walk to the tube station, but I’m thankful that he doesn’t try to fill all the silence with small talk. I keep a polite distance but close enough that I can smell his bath soap—something herbal, with a hint of eucalyptus. (It sits on the shower ledge in a little black bottle. Not that I’ve ever unscrewed the cap and sniffed it. Definitely not something I would do.)

  The tube takes us to Euston station, where we purchase tickets for the London Midland Train, which will take us the three hours to Liverpool. As we’re standing on the platform, waiting to board, my phone rings. Another unknown number. I answer it this time.

  The British voice on the other end of the phone has a vaguely familiar croon. “Josephine Bryant?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Rupert with British Airways.”

  Ah, Rupert. Here it comes. Your luggage has been lost in a freak plane disappearance over Southeast Asia. Your luggage is in the Australian outback. Your luggage was stolen by rogue penguins in Antarctica. It’s been two weeks. Nothing would surprise me at this point.

  “Your luggage has arrived.” He says this so proudly, I imagine him growing a tail just so he can wag it.

  “Uh…”

  “We’ll have it out to you within the hour.”

  I pull the phone away to glance at the time. “I’m actually boarding a train to Liverpool at the moment.”

  “Oh,” Rupert huffs, like this is a massive inconvenience to him. “Shall we re-route it there?”

  “No!” Who knows where it’d end up then. “Please deliver it to the address listed. George Pemberton can accept it on my behalf.”

  “Let me just write that down. That’s George P-e-m-b-e-r-t-o-n?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right then. So sorry for the mix up.”

  I thank him and hang up. Henry stares at me as I send George a text to let him know.

  “Luggage is finally on its way. Of course.”

  Henry gives me a puzzled smile but doesn’t say anything.

  We board the train and take our cushy seats next to a picture window with a table in front. It’s much different from the crowded discomfort of the tube. I take the window seat and Henry takes the aisle. Nervous energy swims around in my belly. Maybe I’m just hungry. I happily accept a ginger ale and some crackers from the trolley service as the train begins to move.

  “I have a question,” Henry says, at precisely the moment I bite into a cracker.

&nb
sp; “Mmm?” I chew fast.

  “Why did you fib to your boyfriend about your luggage arriving last week?”

  I chase the cracker with some ginger ale to buy some time. “None ya,” I finally say.

  “Too bad.” He smirks and pushes his glasses up his nose. “My relationship advice is quality.”

  “I like to keep some things private. But thanks for asking.” I give him my best RBF.

  “You know, Jo,” he says, tracing the end of his armrest with an index finger, “sometimes it’s good to talk things out. Instead of taking the whole load on yourself.”

  I give him a funny look. “Thanks? I guess. But I’ll choose what I do or don’t tell Dylan.”

  “I wasn’t talking about him. The guy’s a duffer. I was talking about… well, anyone. Me, even.”

  Something flips in my stomach. Why does he think we’re in a place for me to talk to him about my relationship? Maybe Zara told him about our conversation at breakfast the other day. I scoot closer to the window.

  “You’re being weird,” I finally say. “Did your dad send you to babysit me again?”

  “I’m being serious.” Definite sincerity detected in his voice, lavender aura to match. “And I’m here because I want to be.”

  “Besides,” I say, ignoring that last thing he said and the way it made my heart beat a little faster. “I don’t know what duffer means, but Dylan’s a great guy. Just sometimes I don’t feel like telling him everything.”

  Like, you know, the entire reason for this trip. Which Henry knows about. But whatever.

  He flexes his jaw. “I’d want to keep things to myself, too, if someone oscillated between lecturing me about medication and sending me boner pics.”

  I jerk my head to look at him, take a mental snapshot of his narrowed eyes.

  Caption: judging you

  “I don’t love that you unapologetically bring up sensitive information your dickhead friend invaded my privacy to get.”