All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  “Wait, what?” I take it, confused.

  “It’s yours,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “I don’t understand.” I glance at each face staring back at me, then to Patrick again. “That’s your guitar.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s yours.”

  Mama looks at me like she was expecting this. Like it was previously discussed.

  “He bought it the day he died,” George says. “And we are certain now that it was for you. It was in his hotel. Tags still on it.”

  “But…” I glance down and feel the warmth in the wood as I turn it over in my hands.

  Then I remember. PS - I picked up a little something for you today.

  “He told us for years that he wanted to buy you a Lennon replica.” George smiles.

  I blink away tears and glance at Henry, remembering the night he refused to let me ruin it in the rain. “You knew?”

  He nods.

  My hands trace the pickups. I stare at my reflection in the shiny finish. A tear splashes beside it and I wipe it away.

  I look up at them. “Thank you.”

  Patrick steps toward me and wraps me up in a hug. Mama drapes her arms around us both. Then George does the same. Henry places a hand on my back. He squeezes us into the most epic group hug I’ve ever felt.

  As we stand there, one big dysfunctional family, a warm sensation shivers over me and a familiar voice whispers in my ear.

  We’re finally together.

  Chapter 55

  : Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da :

  HENRY’S ROOM IS unusually tidy.

  I am certain that he’s cleaned it up for my benefit. The bed is made. Sheets are fresh. Books and papers and records are organized and stored in a way that makes me think Patrick supervised the cleaning. The blanket he bought in Liverpool is folded across the bottom of the bed.

  “Oooh! I’ve got it!” Zara flips her phone screen around. I lean in from my spot on the (vacuumed!) rug and look at the map. “There’s a place in Newbury. About halfway between.”

  She’s planning ways for us all to hang out after Henry leaves tomorrow. There’s a two- hour commute between Bristol and Saint Catherine’s, but if we all get on a train and meet in the middle, it’ll only take an hour. I look up at him.

  He’s wearing a new pair of glasses that look like his old ones, and his bruise has faded to palest yellow. He leans on his dresser and grins at me. I still haven’t told him I forgive him. Not aloud, anyway.

  “Some of us prefer verbal communication,” Patrick says, spinning in circles in the desk chair, balancing a soccer ball between his knees. “Is that a yes? To Newbury?”

  I laugh. “It’s a yes.”

  “Brilliant.” Patrick stands and smooths his uniform. He has his first game today since he got back. He points at his brother. “If I don’t see you before you head out, be safe.”

  Henry leans in and gives him a fist bump.

  “I’ve got to go, too.” Zara stands up from the bed and stretches her legs. “Rehearsals in an hour.”

  I hop up and give her a hug.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay with me?” she asks. “We can fit a foldaway in my dorm.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll be good here, I think. It’ll give me more time to hang out with Patrick.”

  It’s still weird every single time I remember I have a brother.

  “Okay. Call me tomorrow.”

  I nod as she steps over and gives Henry a hug. “Don’t become too important for your friends once you’re back at Bristol.”

  “Never.” He grins.

  As Zara waves and heads out the door, I move to follow her.

  “You’re leaving, too, Jo?” Henry says to my back.

  I look over my shoulder at him. It isn’t that I want to leave. It’s just that I haven’t been alone with him since that night before everything happened. It’s easier to be near him when other people are around. Makes things less complicated. Doesn’t affect my heart rate the way this does.

  “Hang on a sec, okay?” He goes over to his closet and opens the door. A few things fall over and spill out onto the floor. Which explains how he cleaned his room. I chuckle to myself as he stands on his toes and pulls something off the top shelf.

  When he turns to me, the déjà vu shimmies through the room to meet me where I stand.

  It’s a blue notebook binder.

  He outstretches his arm and I take it from him. My fingers trace the smooth outside edge as I flip it open. Inside, there are plastic sleeves with photos. Some are from our trip to Liverpool. Ones that I took, ones that he took. I sink to the bed and flip through without saying anything. There’s the one of him sitting on the steps at Abbey Road. The one of me in the grass at Glastonbury. Closer to the back, there’s a full-on photoshoot I did with Felix when I was bored.

  I blink up at him.

  He shrugs. “I developed the roll that was in the camera. Maybe you can compare those to what you learn at the workshop. Use some of them for your school credit, too.”

  It’s a great idea, but I don’t think I want to skip photography my senior year now.

  I stand up and hug him. No warning. No thinking. I just do it.

  “Oh,” he laughs, and slips his arms around my back. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I say into his chest. He’s warm and smells good. I get a lump in my throat when I think about going home after the workshop. Facing an entire senior year with an ocean between us. While he dates college girls and maybe forgets about me altogether.

  “I’ll miss you, Henry.”

  He draws a little circle on my back with his fingertip. “Two hours. That’s it.”

  “Actually, one hour, if we stick to Zara’s plan.” I don’t mention what happens after the workshop. The ocean-between-us part.

  He loosens his grip and pulls back a little. I don’t focus on the relative proximity of our faces. How easily I could kiss him with a tippy-toe climb. No, I don’t think about that at all.

  “I ought to tell you I’m sorry,” he says. I start to interrupt but he shakes his head. “No, let me finish. I ought to have told you as soon as you arrived in London. Barefoot in the airport. I should’ve come clean right then. But one thing bothers me about that. If I had, would any of the good things have happened?”

  I stare up at him, watch his eyes switch channels between my eyes and my lips. Back and forth. “I don’t think they would have.”

  I swallow. “Somebody once told me it’s foolish to imagine an alternative present. We can only live in one reality at a time, right?”

  A smile dawns over his face. “Right.” He looks down at the bed beside us, where the blanket is folded. “That night with the mugwort tea? I was trying to tell you the truth through a dream. I thought if I communicated it that way, I wouldn’t be breaking my word.”

  My lips part. “Oh.”

  “But it didn’t quite go as planned.” His cheeks flush and he glances at my lips.

  Heat crawls up my neck and I smile. “No. Not quite. But I forgive you, anyway.”

  He leans down and kisses me. It’s fast, but then slow. It burns away my will to live anywhere but the present. This present.

  When it’s over, he smiles against my mouth. “Would you come someplace with me?”

  I can’t remember how to speak, so I nod.

  * * *

  : : : : :

  * * *

  The big red double decker drops us off at the Tower Bridge stop.

  He takes my hand, and I don’t question it. An invisible barrier has been lodged between us for too long. I’m so happy it’s finally gone that I don’t focus on the fact that he’ll be at Bristol by this time tomorrow.

  It doesn’t occur to me where we’re going until we get to the elevator that will take us there.

  “Last list item.” He grins. I tilt my head all the way back and look up at the glass-bottomed bridge. My heart aches in my chest. At the thoughtfulness. I know I’ll compare every boy I e
ver meet to him for the rest of my life.

  “Henry, we don’t have to do this.”

  Traffic and wind roar in our ears as we wait. He cups a hand around his ear.

  “Sorry,” he yells around a smile. “I can’t hear you!”

  Tourists crowd into the elevator with us, and then onto the bridge when we get to the top. The panoramic view takes my breath away.

  Tiny cars pass below. The mighty Thames sloshes beneath them. The memory of how cold that water is will never leave me. I stay close to the side and hold on to the railing, even as the guide tells us how many tons of weight this many layers of reinforced glass will hold.

  Henry steps out into the middle of the bridge. Over the wide empty nothing. And jumps up and down. He wears his trademark mischievous grin. “Don’t be scared!”

  Pop loved him. He would still love him.

  Maybe I even love him.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. After a second of scrolling, Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da starts playing and he drops the phone back in his pocket. He holds out a hand.

  I give him a look “Henry.”

  “Come here.”

  I shake my head. “I think we’ve already established that we can’t dance.”

  “No,” he says, stepping closer. “It’s not that we can’t dance. It’s that we’ve chosen not to, remember? We can always change our minds.”

  I take his hand. Because how can I say no to that?

  He pulls me to his chest. Neither of us know where to put our feet. I laugh as he steps on my toe. “That was clearly your fault,” he says.

  And then I trip over his feet, but he catches me around the waist.

  “That was your fault,” I say, a little giddy.

  Right there on the glass bridge, we dance. It’s awkward and silly, and it’s in front of God and everybody. But it’s the most perfect thing that’s ever happened to me.

  A little seed of happiness sprouts in my heart.

  He twirls me around and I spin into his chest. We stumble and nearly fall over.

  “I have to leave tomorrow,” he says. “But are you free tonight, by chance?”

  I grin up at him. In the worst fake accent possible, I say, “If it pleases his majesty.”

  And just like the song, life goes on.

  * * *

  : : : : :

  Also by Jen Marie Hawkins

  “A luminous YA love story with magnetic characters and literary flair.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  Acknowledgements

  All the Lonely People would still be a messy first draft without my agent, Hilary Harwell. Thank you, Hilary, for your guidance over many iterations of this book. I am eternally grateful for your wisdom, partnership, and unwavering support. You are my life raft in this business.

  * * *

  To Emma Nelson, my publisher, you have made my dreams a reality. Thank you for taking a chance on my work, and for championing it so generously, and for being the reason the world can read my words. I’m so glad to call you friend. Olivia Swenson, my editor and collaborator, you make my books better and encourage me at the same time. Thank you for re-teaching me the same concepts over and over again. You have the patience of a saint. Hannah Smith and Carrie Geslison, thank you for being such an enthusiastic, cheerful-hearted team. Owl Hollow is truly a parliament of dream makers and I am so lucky to work with all of you.

  * * *

  To Jennifer Schildmeier, my sister by marriage but friend by choice, thank you for being my number six. Goahead and count. You’ve been there for me through the highest highs and the lowest lows. You’re an annoyingly perfect name-doppelgänger who never stops challenging me to be better in every aspect of my life. I want to be like you when I grow up, as long as I can still drive like me.

  * * *

  To Dawn Mahaffey Gramling: you are the main reason I fell in love with the Beatles as a kid. Every time I hear I Saw Her Standing There, I’m transported to a dance party in your bedroom in that house on Rainbow Drive. Thank you for your steadfast friendship (and side-splitting voice recordings) even all these decades later.

  * * *

  Sonia Hartl, my OG CP, thank you for reading this book like seventeen times and finding reassuring things to say every single time (though the hairless cat comment is still my favorite). You truly saved me from that Full House moment. Sometimes I think I only write books for your inevitable comment bubble jokes. I couldn’t do this without you.

  * * *

  Kes Trester, thank you for taking time out of your vacation and walking the streets of Southwark to give me live-action updates as I drafted. Your serendipitous presence in London was the perfect failsafe for my imagination. I am so grateful to still be your padawan, long after your commitment expired. I can’t wait to watch a West Coast beach sunset with you one day very soon.

  * * *

  To my writing den—thank you for adding so much to my everyday life. Summer Spence, I can’t wait until the world gets to read your beautiful words. Thank you for always offering an inspiring word or an inappropriate joke, whatever the situation requires, no matter how busy you are. Elly Blake, your encouragement, example, and gentle-but-tough love make me a better writer (and a better human). Thank you for always making me feel seen and validated. Kristin Wright, you are always the first to volunteer to read for me, and then you give me the most insightful, game-changing notes, even on the draftiest of drafts. Thank you for being my steady voice of reason, in writing and in life. Mary Ann Marlowe, you are my go-to on all things music and tech and will be forever, whether you like it or not. Thank you for so unselfishly sharing your infinite savvy. Kelly Siskind, thank you for always being willing to brainstorm or offer resources. You make my kissy scenes kissier. Ron Walters, your work ethic and determination are a perpetual source of motivation (okay, and maybe shame, stop making me look so bad!)—yet you still find time to be supportive to a group of strong-willed women. Thank you for making us laugh and keeping us sane. Every single one of you is simultaneously so talented and humble. You each bring something uniquely valuable to our little group. I love you all madly. Never leave me—you know too much!

  * * *

  April Simmons, my soul sister and unpaid therapist: how dare you move to Hawaii and limit the number of waking hours I can call or text you. I forgive you, though, because you are the best friend a girl could ever have. Thank you for holding my hand as I turn my messy ideas into readable things. I’m glad we are close, no matter how many miles separate us.

  * * *

  I am so grateful to Kristin Reynolds, Shawna Parker, and Sarah Reid for early reads and insight on all things UK, The Beatles, and witchy woo. Someday soon, when this stupid pandemic is over, I am going to press you each to my heaving bosom and cry happy tears that you’re in my life.

  Janet Wrenn and Kristy Wyatt, thank you for always being there with a shoulder or discerning eye to help me overcome whatever obstacle lies in my path. I adore you both.

  * * *

  I offer my most heartfelt thanks to the writers who have helped me countless times along the way and made me feel welcome in this community: Carrie Brown-Wolf, Claire Campbell, Roselle Lim, Heather Truett, Kellye Garrett, Rachel Lynn Solomon, Rebecca Maziel Sullivan, Tracie Martin, Carlee Caranovic, Margarita Montimore, Jennie Nash, Brenda Drake, The 2014 Pitch Wars Mentee Group, Bethany Hegedus, the staff at The Writing Barn, and so many more.

  * * *

  All the incredible women in my life—sisters and moms and nieces and friends—who continue to love me unconditionally: Becky Blanton, Julie Machin, Jamie Gordon, Gwen Hayden, Rebecca Yates, Gracie Schildmeier, Caitlin Gordon Clark, Jane Blanton, Faye Chapman, Joan Hawkins, Julie Walsh, Crystal Morris, Hailey Moore, Kim Collins, Rima Cerone, Angie Holliday, Tamara McGuire-Hall, Robyn Sanders Bivens, LeAnn Carver, Julie Carter, Joanna Diamond, Melissa Vickery Embler, Joy Stringfield, Melissa Speary, Teka Siebenaler, Amanda Wick, and Gwen Whitaker…thank you for reading my books. I would love you even i
f you didn’t, but your support means everything.

  * * *

  My father-in-law, Michael Hawkins, who we lost in 2016, was the biggest Beatles fan I’ve ever known. If he were here now, I’d insist we watch A Concert for George, even though I’ve already seen it at least a thousand times at approximately one hundred decibels because of him. I miss you, Pops.

  * * *

  To my husband, Jeremy: I stopped being lonely the day I met you. For more than eighteen years, you have been my true north. I don’t have the cerebral grasp of physics principles that you do, but I think I understand quantum entanglement because it exists in us. You are an inextricable part of me. No matter what storms life has thrown our way, we’ve weathered it together. I am so grateful our boys have a dad like you. Thank you for making me laugh through my tears, for tolerating my bright screen when you’re trying to sleep, and for making me lattes with little hearts in them when I’m tired but have to press on. You’ve been a relentless supporter of my dreams and a partner in every sense of the word. My love for you exceeds the space-time continuum.

  And lastly, to my boys…

  * * *

  Jonathan: thank you for all the late-night philosophical discussions. Your brain amazes me. Those conversations have given me so many epiphanies on character motivation throughout the development of this story and others, too. Your insight on human nature, and your optimism despite that understanding, make me so proud to be your mom. The only thing I love more than talking to you about music is listening to you play it and sing. I admire the brilliant, hilarious, talented man you are becoming. Jackson: thank you for being my dancing buddy and my constant source of comedy. You have the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. Your sweet little laugh and your squishy mean-it hugs are a bright spot in every day of my life. I’m so proud of your endless sense of compassion. And I love your unique artistic perspective on everything. I’ll never understand why Taxman is your favorite Beatles song, but you do you, ya little weirdo. Watching you both grow up is one of my life’s greatest privileges.