Beautiful

by Christina Lauren

  “Yes, that. She’s—that,” Ziggy spluttered, and my chest tightened with love for my adorably goofy sister and her perpetual need to protect me.

  “She’s fine,” I said, picking up a slice of carrot and eating it. “I don’t think she’s evil, just historically not great with the communication.”

  “For the record,” Will said, “I think you handled it perfectly.”

  “He did, but—ugh. I am so over her.” Ziggy took a deep breath and then looked down at the knife in her hand. “Let’s change the subject before I need to find something to cut.”

  Will looked at her with a fond smile and gently took the knife from her. “Good idea. Jens, you up for a run this weekend?”

  I reached for another carrot. “Maybe. As long as we go early enough that I can still get in to work.”

  My sister turned and stared at me in renewed shock before clapping her mouth closed and turning to pick the knife back up, her shoulders tense.

  I watched her for a few seconds. “Is there a problem, Ziggs?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, slicing cucumber with gusto. “I mean, it’s none of my business, but it’s interesting that you can run with Will on the weekend and you’re free tonight, being last week you told Pippa you were working nonstop.”

  “I told Pippa what now?” I asked, pulse tripping before thundering down my limbs.

  “Well, not in those exact words,” she said, somewhat mollified. “And, obviously, I’m so glad you’re here. But that you were too busy for dinner with her and yet”—she looked dramatically around the kitchen—“here the three of us are.”

  “Is there wine?” I asked Will, who reached for a glass and an open bottle and put them both on the counter in front of me. I poured myself a good amount, took a long drink, and then set it down again.

  “I have no idea where this is coming from,” I said, “or how you know what I said to Pippa. But this—being here? It isn’t work for me to come over and hang with you guys. If I don’t feel like talking I can stare into my plate and eat and thank you for dinner and head home. It’s not the same, even with Pippa, even if things were good. And I did have to work, by the way,” I added. “I was still at work when Liv sent me a text that you weren’t able to get hold of me.”

  Ziggy turned to look at me like I’d said something absurd. “I don’t understand why you’re always—”

  “Oh my God,” I said, putting my head in my hands. “Can we have dinner before we get into this? At minimum another glass of wine? It’s been a really shitty day.”

  My sister seemed to deflate and looked immediately apologetic.

  “Don’t do that,” I added quickly, guilt filling my chest like a balloon. Ziggs was only trying to help, I knew that. Her intentions were good, even if her method was maddening. “Just, let’s at least get some food in us, and then you can yell at me all you want.”

  Will had made a roast with baby red potatoes and brown-sugar-glazed carrots, and as I sat there, eating the best meal I’d had since leaving Vermont, I felt a little cheated that he’d learned all this now and not when we were still roommates in college.

  As usual, dinner was relaxed and easy. We talked about my parents and their upcoming trip to Scotland. We talked about our family’s traditional after-Christmas-before-New-Year’s trip we usually took together. With the babies due in December, I’d been given a reprieve of sorts for this year, but I steeled myself for the inevitable discussion about next year’s destination choice—Bali—and, in the event that I couldn’t get away, whether we’d have the But poor Jensen will be on his own conversation.

  By the time I’d finished my first helping of roast, the subject had moved to Max and Bennett and the beloved text thread filled with Chloe the Saint and Sara the Monster stories.

  Will turned to me after confirming that, yes, both women were still behaving suspiciously. “How’s your reentry going?” he asked, stabbing a bite of roast.

  “This international merger I’ve been overseeing is a mess right now,” I told them. “And even though the things that went wrong don’t have anything to do with our office, it still reflects badly on the team. Just going to take some extra work to clean up.”

  “That sounds aggravating,” Will said.

  “It is, but it’s the job.” I took another drink of my wine, feeling the warmth work its way through my bloodstream. “So what about everyone else, they get back okay?”

  Ziggy nodded. “Niall and Ruby left the day after we got back from Vermont. Pippa left last Sunday.”

  I stilled. How had I not realized Pippa left four days ago?

  “Oh,” I said, busying myself cutting a piece of meat. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  “Well, you might have known her schedule if you bothered to see her before she left,” my sister said in flat challenge.

  I picked up a hot roll and tore it open, letting the steam escape. I took a bite and chewed it slowly before swallowing. It settled like a ball of flour and glue in my stomach. “Actually, I did see her.”

  Ziggy froze with her water glass almost to her mouth. “When?”

  Nodding down at my plate, I tried to sound as casual as I could. “She was there when I got home from work last Wednesday. I think she came over after having dinner here.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then smiled slowly. “Well that’s great, then! Are you two doing the long-distance thing or—?”

  “I don’t think so.” I pulled the butter dish toward me, spreading some over my roll.

  “You don’t think so?” she repeated.

  “Honey, I told you, I have work.”

  If anything, this only annoyed her more. “There are seven days in a week, honey. Twenty-four—”

  “She lives in England.”

  My sister put her fork down and braced her forearms on the table, leveling me with a steely look. “You realize this is exactly why you’re single, right?”

  “I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question?” I asked, and took another bite of my dinner. It went down worse than the last. I knew I was goading her; she hated my calm exterior and wanted some kind of reaction out of me, but I didn’t care.

  “You meet someone you like and you can’t find a way to carve out even a bit of time for her? To cultivate—”

  “Cultivate what?” I said, voice raised, surprising myself with my own anger. How many times did I need to explain this? “We live in different countries, want different things. Why would either of us work to prolong the inevitable?”

  “Because you were so good together!” she yelled back. Will put a calming hand on my sister’s arm and she shrugged it away. “Listen, Jens, your career is crazy, and I’m so proud of you. If that’s all you want out of life, then fine. I’ll let it go. But after watching you last week, and seeing the way you laughed and lit up whenever Pippa walked into the room, I don’t think it is. And don’t say it was all for Becky’s benefit, because she wasn’t at the cabin. You were so happy.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, my face heating. “As opposed to what? How miserable I am the rest of the time?”

  She lifted her chin. “Maybe.”

  Will cleared his throat, glancing between us. “Why don’t we all take a breath,” he started, but I wasn’t finished.

  “I don’t understand what the big deal is and why everyone is suddenly invested in my love life.”

  Ziggy slapped her hand down, laughing angrily. “You have got to be kidding me!”

  I actually laughed. “You can’t possibly be comparing the two situations. You’d never actually dated anyone. I’ve had relationships; I’m divorced, for God’s sake. That’s a little different than never coming out of the gate.”

  “You got divorced six years ago!”

  “Why can’t you let this go? It was a fling, Ziggy. What Pippa and I had was a fling. People have them every day—ask your husband, he has a little experience in the matter.”

  “Didn’t look like a fling to me,” Will said,
and gave me a warning look.

  “And not that it’s any of your business,” I said, putting down my fork, “but this decision wasn’t only mine. We’re on the same page. Neither of us was in a position to want more.”

  “How do you even know what page she’s on? You’ve never called her.”

  “I—”

  “You sent her a fucking text!”

  Both Will and I gasped, instinctively moving back in our seats. My sister did not swear. And if she did, it was because something was on fire or a new copy of Science had shown up early at the house. It was never directed at me.

  “Pippa just got out of a relationship,” I told her, trying to soften my tone. Ziggy only wanted what was best for me. I knew that. “She was living with someone, Ziggs. What she and I had was never meant to be more.”

  “That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be,” she said.

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Why? Because you were a rebound? Because you’re a buttoned-up lawyer and she sometimes has pink hair? Anyone with a pulse would bang Pippa. Heck, I would bang her.”

  Will’s head snapped up. “Really?”

  “Well, yeah, in my head I would.” Ziggy shrugged. “And if Jensen would stop being such an—”

  “Enough!” I shouted, and the room went still. “This isn’t about you, Hanna.”

  “Did you just Hanna me?” she asked, face pink. “You think it’s fun to watch you like this? To know you go home to your empty house every night and that that will never, ever change because you’re too scared or too stubborn to make the first move? I worry about you, Jensen. I worry about you every fucking day.”

  “Well, get over it! I’m not worried!”

  “You should be! You’re never going to be with anyone at this rate!” Her eyes went wide and she sucked in a breath. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yeah, I know. You didn’t mean to say it out loud.” I pushed myself back from the table.

  Ziggy looked horrified and apologetic, but I was too riled up to listen to more.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I said, tossing my napkin on the table and walking down the hall.

  Despite the cold, I drove home with the windows open, hoping the sound of the wind whipping through the car might blast away the echo of my sister’s words.

  The street was silent when I pulled up in front of my house, cutting the engine. I didn’t get out, and not because there was somewhere else I was considering going. I just didn’t really want to go inside. Inside it was tidy and quiet. Inside there were vacuum lines across most of the living room carpet that were never disrupted by footsteps. Inside there was a stack of well-worn takeout menus and an expansive list of shows in my Recently Watched category on Netflix.

  Inside suddenly felt unbearable.

  What was going on with me? I’d always loved my house, excelled at my job, and enjoyed my routine. I could admit to not being downright ecstatic most of the time, but I’d been happy settling for content.

  Why did that not seem like enough anymore?

  I finally climbed out of the car and walked up to the porch, slowly pulling my keys from my pocket. My windows were dark save for the lamps with the timer, and I refused to make yet another comparison between my porch and Ziggy’s, my life and Ziggy’s.

  Hanna’s, I thought, catching myself for the first time. I don’t want to compare my life and Hanna’s.

  She’d grown up.

  She’d even surpassed me in how well she did it, how much gusto she gave it.

  I unlocked the door and stepped inside, tossing my keys in the direction of the entryway table. Without bothering to turn on any lights or grab the remote first, I sat down in front of the dark TV.

  Hanna was right, I should be worried. I had a job I’d sacrificed everything for and a family I adored—which was a hell of a lot more than most people had—but I wasn’t doing anything to make my life fuller.

  Sixteen

  Pippa

  Perhaps for the best, the flight back to the UK was less eventful than the one to Boston. The mildly disheveled gentleman next to me was asleep within five minutes of fastening his seat belt, and snoring quite robustly throughout the journey. Sadly, Amelia was not present again, but the flight attendant who was there offered me earplugs and a cocktail.

  I accepted the earplugs, turned down the cocktail.

  I wasn’t sure how to feel about the holiday, in hindsight. The trip had been a dream while I was there, of course, but—holy Christ—was I really better off having gone? Sure, I was over Mark’s thrusting bum, but after that last amazing night with Jensen and then his disappearing back into work, I felt dreary, like my best friend had up and moved to a city across the globe. And, worse maybe, the bar on decent blokes had been raised to a level that, sadly, I was unlikely to find passing through the streets of London, or anywhere, really.

  Is that how it is when you meet The One? Do they raise the bar so impossibly high that you don’t even bother anymore? Jensen was fit, and tall, and clever. He was sexy in a secret way—where he gave it out in tiny pieces but turned into the most skilled and attentive lover behind closed doors. And . . . it felt like we fit. I was chatty, he was thoughtful. I was eccentric, he was classic. But when we came together, we worked.

  Ugh, I hated when my thoughts turned into sentimental greeting cards.

  I put in the earplugs and tried to think of anything else.

  New clothes.

  Hair dye.

  Cheese.

  Avoidance, the lot of it. I had to face the reality of my life head-on. I had to decide whether I wanted to spin my wheels indefinitely in London, or . . . try something new.

  When I thought of work, any sense of dread morphed into the imagined joy I would feel walking into Anthony’s office and quitting on the spot.

  And when I thought of the Mums, I didn’t see them wringing their hands over the prospect of me moving away from home, I imagined how happy they would be for me if I had a Boston adventure, living there for a few years.

  And when I thought of my flat, all I could feel was . . . nothing. No sentimentality, no sadness at the prospect of moving. Everything there—from the shaggy blue rug in the living room to the white duvet on the bed—was associated with the wilder days of my early twenties, or with Mark.

  Mark, who had been so similar to me in so many ways. We had everything in common: a love for the pub on the corner, the tendency to get a bit drunk and sing loudly, louder than our tone-deaf voices warranted. We shared a fondness for color, and sound, and spontaneity. But it was such an easy routine, almost frivolous. It required nothing of me to live like that; a life without challenges.

  When I stepped away from it all, I saw that my life in London was easy, but it wasn’t satisfying, and it wasn’t ever going to give me what I wanted.

  Unfortunately, what I wanted right now was for Jensen to come for me, and to have a flat in Boston near a circle of friends with floppy-eared golden retrievers and children who dressed up as Superman and goblins. My life in London was stuck in days spent working at a job I hated and nights of pints and passing out on the couch. Ironic, maybe, that the holiday that seemed to change my outlook on drinking consisted of four days straight of wine and beer tasting followed by another nine days in the cabin full of board games and debauchery. It occurred to me that the reason my friends had been excited about what lay ahead after the trip was because they—unlike me—had real lives to return to.

  Case in point: of the three hundred and twenty-six emails in my inbox when I returned, only three were from someone other than department stores like House of Fraser, Debenhams, or Harrods. No one had called me the entire time I was away, although Mark had come by and cleared out the pantry of most of the food.

  What an unbelievable wanker.

  I sat on the floor in my quiet flat, with my still-packed suitcase next to the door, and ate peaches out of the tin.

  Was this rock bottom? This image of me, disheveled and unshowered from the flight, skirt ask
ew for completely respectable reasons, eating my dinner on the floor? Is this how the authorities would find me, sprawled on the carpet, slowly being nibbled apart by rodents?

  Maybe rock bottom was several weeks ago, when I walked in on Mark and his lover in my bed?

  I should have been depressed that there were multiple rock bottoms from which to choose, but I no longer felt sad about that, or even angry. I felt hungry for something . . . something other than peaches.

  I tossed them into the bin, walking into my bedroom. I didn’t even want to sleep here.

  Resolution is an odd thing. In films, it looks like a startle, the dawning realization of an answer, and—finally—a smile aimed toward the sky. For me, resolution to completely uproot my current reality was more of a prolonged blink, a slumping of the shoulders, and an audible “Aw, fuck me.”

  I quit on Tuesday afternoon.

  I’d planned to quit Monday, but once I was at work, I realized I wouldn’t be able to afford rent on my flat without gainful employment and should probably make sure it was okay with the Mums that I return home while figuring things out. Of course, they were over the moon.

  “You want to move to Boston!” Coco said, clapping. “Honey, you won’t regret it. You won’t regret it at all.”

  “I’ll need a job, though,” I mumbled around a carrot stick.

  “You can figure that all out,” Lele said, curling an arm around my shoulders. “You’re our only kid. We can help you land on your feet.”

  Anthony, my boss, was less cordial about it all.

  “Where are you off to, then?” he’d asked Tuesday morning when I’d worked up the nerve to enter his office and break the news.

  “Not sure yet,” I said, and watched as his expression turned from one of disappointment to scorn. “I’m looking at a few different options.”

  And I was. I’d sent out letters to every address on Hanna’s list that morning. Well, every address on the list but Jensen’s. He hadn’t called, texted, or emailed since I’d left his house the morning after. Nearly a week, and I wondered if he even realized I wasn’t in Boston anymore.