Meant to Be

by Lauren Morrill

  If there were a red light and a siren in my brain, you’d be able to hear the screeching and see the flashing all the way back in Boston. I have exactly eleven minutes before our class is supposed to meet in the lobby for some cultural hours touring. I still don’t have a key to my room, and there’s no way I, rumpled and half-asleep, can sneak down to the lobby to get a key, change, and make it back downstairs in time.

  As much as I want to bolt straight out of bed, I don’t want to risk waking Jason and confronting the fact that I slept (oh my God) in his arms last night. So I carefully reach over and slowly shimmy my way across the mattress, careful not to disturb him. I’m nearly home free, about to swing my feet onto the floor and make a run for it, and I hear a snort and a cough coming from the other side of the bed. Jason’s arm flings across the mattress, hooking me around the waist and pulling me clear back across to him. All that work, and I’m spooning with him again.

  I start my escape again, slower this time, but I barely get an inch away before I hear him mumbling. It’s muffled, but I definitely hear the words “another kiss” coming from his pillow.

  OH. MY. GOD. I’m spooning with Jason Lippincott and he’s dreaming about kissing? I give up on the slow and steady and instead launch myself off the bed. I land on the floor, my butt cushioned by a stray pillow that was apparently flung aside at some point in the night.

  I spring up and catch a glimpse in the mirror and curse myself for ever leaving my room last night. I’m still wearing my neon running shorts and the “Reading Is Sexy” T-shirt that I wore all day yesterday. I’m not sure if I’m popular enough for people to notice my attire, but I do not care to find out today. Besides, Sarah saw Jason and me stumbling upstairs together last night. If she sees me in the same clothes today, there will be no end to the rumors, much less the barrage of text messages. Thankfully, my phone was in the other pocket.

  The floor is littered with various articles of clothing. I start plucking things up off the carpet, holding them between my thumb and forefinger while I sniff for freshness. I recoil in horror when I realize that some of these shirts are definitely not fresh. I drop to my hands and knees, crawling around in search of something—anything—that is clean, or even semi-clean. I finally strike gold when my hand lands in a pile that’s been kicked halfway under the bed. I sprint for the bathroom and throw on the green 2008 Celtics Championship tee, which falls well below my knees. If I had a belt, I could pass it off as some kind of minidress (and probably look trendier than I have all week), but beltless I’ll just have to hope that homeless chic is still a thing. I run my fingers through my tangled hair, pulling the elastic off my wrist and winding it into a messy bun. I splash some cold water on my face and make a valiant attempt at brushing my teeth with a squeeze of Jason’s toothpaste and my index finger. When I step back and survey my appearance in the mirror, I still look like roadkill. The shirt is a wrinkled mess and about six sizes too big. My cheeks are splotchy, with the impression of the pillow, and chunks of my hair poke out of the bun at severe angles. My shorts feel grimy from an entire day (and night) of wear, but there’s nothing I can do. I have to go.

  I emerge from the bathroom to see Jason still dead asleep on the bed. If I don’t wake him up, he’ll miss the trip. If I do … well, then I have to face him and possibly explain how I ended up in his bed all night long.

  “Sorry, Jason,” I whisper, grabbing his fleece off the back of a chair and creeping out the door.

  Mrs. Tennison doesn’t hand back our keys until we are all gathered in the lobby, ready to head out to Notting Hill. For someone who was up late last night having her own illicit adventures, she looks surprisingly chipper.

  “Where’s your buddy?” she asks me as she finally presses my key into my hand. It’s clear that I am out of the doghouse with Mrs. T.

  “He’s not feeling so well,” I blurt out. This is the understatement of the century. “He thinks he might have a stomach flu or something.”

  As Mrs. Tennison narrows her eyes at me, I do my best “I’m Innocent!” expression. Hey, it worked in third grade after I accidentally dented Mrs. Hardwell’s Toyota hood during a game of stickball. I somehow managed to convince her that a squirrel must have pegged it with a massive acorn.

  “That’s a shame,” Mrs. Tennison says finally. “I hope he hasn’t given it to you.”

  This is how I end up third-wheeling it with Ryan Lynch and Susan Morgan. Sarah gives me a scathing look and whispers something to Evie. My cheeks begin to burn. I remember how she saw Jason draped around me in the elevator last night. Oh God … if she somehow figures out we slept in the same bed …

  I take a deep breath. Nobody knows. Nobody will know. Nothing happened.

  Mrs. Tennison shoos us out the door and points us in the direction of the nearest tube station.

  “Where are we going?” Evie’s voice quavers. Today’s excursion was noted on the agenda as “shopping.” Clearly, the idea of a luxurious day spent in the finest boutiques in London is getting her all worked up.

  “We’re headed to Notting Hill,” Mrs. Tennison replies, constantly counting and recounting our group as we make our way up the street.

  “Like in the movie?” Sarah squeals.

  “What movie?” Mrs. Tennison asks, and Sarah just stares at her, mouth gaping. Mrs. Tennison shakes her head and returns to her unceasing head count. “We’ll be exploring the street markets, home to some of the most exciting and interesting antiques in the world!”

  “Antiques?” Evie cries. I can practically see visions of cashmere and Jimmy Choos melting away before her eyes. I know from my reading that it also features a pretty impressive secondhand clothing market, but I don’t want to give her the pleasure of knowing. Besides, Evie hardly ever wears the same outfit twice; she definitely wouldn’t be down with vintage.

  I smile thinking about all the used-book shops in Notting Hill. I’ll have to settle for browsing, since all my money is in my broken purse in my locked-up room. It’s going to be a long day.

  Unfortunately, with Ryan and Susan, used-book shops do not appear to be on the agenda. I try to lead them into a crowded, narrow shop with a shockingly blue facade, but Susan rolls her eyes, grabs Ryan’s arm, and drags him off down the street. It’s soon clear I won’t be observing any impressive antiques today. It appears I’ll have to write my reflection paper on the awkward flirting techniques of one Susan Morgan, with footnotes detailing the equally awkward behaviors of Ryan Lynch, the object of her apparent affection, and his inability to pick up on a single clue. Part of this intricate mating dance appears to be a strict adherence to the belief that I’m not here at all.

  At least I don’t have to worry that they’ll notice I’m clad in Jason’s clothes. They wouldn’t notice me even if I ripped off this shirt and ran around the market in my bra, arms over my head, laughing maniacally. I’ve never slept in the same bed as a guy before. Which makes Jason, literally, the first guy I’ve ever slept with. That thought makes me want to scream or wet my pants or transfer schools.

  I spot Sarah at a stall full of jewelry made out of broken clock pieces and quickly duck around a different vendor’s stall to avoid her. I’m bracing myself for another mean text from her. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised it hasn’t already binged in my in-box. The only text I’ve gotten today is from Chris. I haven’t written back. How can I? I have no idea what to say to him.

  While Susan stops to buy an ice cream from a street vendor, I finally get the opportunity to look around a little more closely, and I spot a table filled with rows of teacups and matching saucers. Each one is made of delicate porcelain and hand painted with brightly colored floral arrangements. It looks like if you breathe on them too hard, they’ll shatter into a million pieces. They look so fragile and vulnerable out here in the open. I close my eyes and instantly have an image of Jason executing some kind of ninja kick for fun, accidentally flipping the table and sending shards of porcelain raining down on the road. I open my eyes to see the cups
all still intact and feel weirdly disappointed.

  Oh my God.

  Am I actually missing Jason? Okay, maybe not missing him, exactly. But I realize that without him, these tours are definitely less exciting. Maybe it’s Susan’s ridiculous mooning over Ryan, or maybe it’s that I’ve never gotten giggly over shopping, but I’m bored out of my mind.

  “Um, are you coming?”

  Susan is dragging Ryan up the road by his sleeve again, a melting ice cream cone in her free hand. I sigh and trudge along after them. I have to get out of here. All this flirting makes me want to barf.

  I scan the crowd for Mrs. Tennison, who is luckily only two booths away, looking at porcelain figurines of farm animals. I walk over to where she’s standing, holding up a sheep about the size of a fist with a creepy smile painted on its little sheep face.

  “Have you ever seen such an adorable thing?” she asks. Oh, no. I should have known. Mrs. Tennison is one of those women who never quite outgrew their doll collections. I bet she collects embroidered pillows, too.

  “Um, Mrs. Tennison? I’m not actually feeling so well,” I say. I place my hand on my stomach, hoping this will help my cause. “I—I think I maybe did catch something from Jason.” I try to think of something that will make the color drain from my face, but all I can think about is waking up next to Jason, which has the exact opposite effect. I can feel myself blushing like a madwoman.

  “Hmmm.” She frowns, setting down the sheep. “You do look slightly feverish.”

  Yes!

  “I feel really hot,” I say, going with it. I dab at my forehead like I’m about to break into sweats.

  “Well, I’ll put you in a cab, you should probably go back to the hotel and lay down,” she says, taking my elbow and leading me down the street. “I certainly hope there isn’t some bug going around, or you will all have a very uncomfortable flight home. Have you two been sharing food or swapping drinks?”

  The thought of swapping spit with Jason is enough to make me choke a little, which only helps my cause. Mrs. Tennison rubs my back, muttering, “Oh dear,” to herself and sighing.

  “Welcome back, miss,” the doorman says, holding open the heavy door to the hotel with a white-gloved hand.

  I give him a weak smile. I don’t feel like a “miss” this morning. First I woke up in a boy’s bed; then I wore an outfit that was half-stolen, half-grimy; and then I lied to Mrs. Tennison about feeling sick. I just couldn’t take watching Susan giggle at Ryan anymore while he lazily scoped out British hotties passing by.

  When I get back to my floor, I stroll right past my own door and head straight for Jason’s. I pound hard on the door; then—thinking back to my own hangover—I switch to a gentle knock.

  “Jason?” I call softly, but loud enough that he can hear. “Jason, are you in there?”

  The door flings open. Jason’s wearing the same clothes he was wearing when I left him this morning, the same clothes he was wearing last night. His eyes are bloodshot, probably partly from the hangover and partly from that asinine shot he did. His red hair is sticking up in crazy clumps, a giant cowlick protruding from the top of his head. So much for never getting hungover.

  “What?” he mumbles. He presses his hands to his temples in what may be an attempt to hold his brain still.

  “You need food,” I say, marching into the room past him. “You need to clean up, and you need some fresh air.”

  “Ugh,” he grunts, throwing himself back onto the bed. I walk to the dresser and fling open the top drawer, but it’s empty. Same with every drawer underneath it.

  “Where are your clean clothes?” I ask with the efficiency of a drill sergeant. I am not taking my chances with the piles on the floor again.

  He mumbles into his pillow and his hand falls out to his left, pointing toward the corner. I follow the point to see his suitcase, overflowing with wrinkled T-shirts and holey jeans. Of course he didn’t unpack. I rifle through his suitcase and pick out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, trying to ignore the fact that I’ve added a pair of navy blue boxers with battleships on them to the top of the pile. I toss the clothes onto the bed next to him.

  “Get up,” I say. “This will be good for you.”

  He makes another unintelligible noise into the bed that sounds like a cross between a grunt and a groan.

  “Get up,” I repeat, marching to the bathroom and turning on his shower. “This is your last chance before I start singing show tunes as loud as I can. And I’m a terrible singer.”

  He lies there for another moment, so I take a deep breath and launch into the opening lines of “Tomorrow” from Annie.

  “Ahhhhh!” he yells, springing up off the bed. “Fine! Geez, they should send you to Guantánamo.”

  “Excellent,” I reply, heading toward the door. I do not want to stick around for Jason’s dropping his pants. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Please be showered and ready to go, or it’s Bye Bye Birdie for you!”

  I skip back down the hall to my room, suddenly in an excellent mood. I feel like I’ve stepped off the podium at a meet, a gold medal around my neck. Back in my room, I quickly swap Jason’s oversized clothes and my dirty shorts for my favorite pair of cords and the Scottish wool sweater my mom got when she and Dad were here all those years ago. The sweater is older than I am; I found it in my mom’s closet a couple of years ago and have been wearing it every winter since.

  When I return, I see that there will be no need for more Broadway numbers. Jason is clean and dressed, though he still looks a light shade of green under his freckles, and his eyelids hang heavy as ever. I return his clothes, folded in a neat stack, to his dresser (the only items of clothing actually in his dresser, since everything else is tossed around the room).

  Jason doesn’t say much as we wander out of the hotel and down the street. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all except to grunt and point to a restaurant.

  “ ‘Wagamama’?” I read off the sign. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Hangover food,” Jason says.

  “I thought you didn’t get hungover,” I reply.

  “I said it takes a lot,” he replies, pushing open the door to head inside. “And that’s what I had. A lot.”

  Wagamama turns out to be this great noodle shop, and we both order heaping bowls of ramen with chicken and veggies. As Jason tucks in his meal, his color starts to return to normal. His eyes clear up a bit and that lopsided, lazy smile returns.

  “So how did you get out of today’s tour?” he asks me.

  “I took a page out of the Jason Lippincott playbook and claimed to be sick,” I reply. “And by the way, you have me to thank for getting you off the hook, too.”

  “Well played,” he says into his soup. “I owe you one.”

  “Did you get some sleep?” As soon as I ask the question, I realize I’m inviting conversation about our super-awkward sleeping arrangement. Though I’m not even sure if he remembers it. He was pretty drunk when he fell asleep, and I left before he woke up.

  “Yes, thank God,” he says, abandoning his chopsticks for a nearby spoon. “I slept like a baby. Probably the best sleep I’ve had in a while. You?”

  “Uh, yeah, good.” I blush, wondering if he knows that I stayed in his room. In his bed. The little spoon to his big spoon.

  “You laugh in your sleep.”

  My head snaps up from my lunch. So he does know. “I what?”

  “Yeah, don’t get excited,” he says, smiling to himself. “It’s not cute. It’s kind of creepy. More like a cackle. You are whacked, Book Licker.”

  “Oh, shut it,” I say, tossing my chopsticks wrapper at him. It lands right in his bowl, which is almost all broth now. He picks it up and tosses it back, but his hangover has affected his aim. It sails right over my shoulder.

  I tell him about my shopping trip with Ryan and Susan, and he jokes that they need to buy themselves new personalities. I tell him he was lucky to sleep through it and I wish I could have claimed the same.


  “You can sleep in tomorrow,” he offers. “I’ll cover for you. Tell Mrs. Tennison you got lost in a gigantic encyclopedia or something.”

  “No way! I cannot wait for tomorrow’s tour,” I say, ignoring the jab. “It is seriously going to be the highlight of the entire trip.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “It’s the Stratford-upon-Avon trip,” I say, shocked that he doesn’t remember.

  “Oh yeah. Right. What’s so great about visiting Shakespeare’s old crib, huh?” Jason asks. He slurps broth from his spoon with such force that bits of it spray back onto the table.

  “Shakespeare is probably the greatest writer of all time,” I say. “It’ll be inspiring to see where he came from. Maybe he wrote some of his sonnets there. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day—’ ” I break off, embarrassed.

  “I guess so,” Jason mumbles before tilting his bowl into his mouth to finish off the broth. I make a face at him.

  “I know you don’t believe in love, but I do,” I reply, lining my chopsticks up neatly next to my empty bowl. “And Shakespeare knew exactly how to write about it. Chris would understand. I bet he appreciates Shakespeare.”

  “Why, because he’s British? I think that’s racist.” I look up to see the edges of his mouth turned up. He’s teasing me. That’s a good sign. He looks up from his noodle bowl. “Hey, I never said I don’t believe in love. I just don’t think it comes in perfect, predictable packages.”

  I roll my eyes at him for the ten zillionth time, and he ignores it for the ten zillionth time. It’s an exchange that’s starting to feel routine, and almost comfortable. Even with the soup slurping and the teasing, I’m much happier now than I was this morning, though I’m sure that’s mostly to do with my bespectacled text friend and tomorrow’s Stratford trip.