Been Searching For You

by Nicole Evelina

  I perched on the arm of the couch. “And did this message self-destruct after you received it?”

  “Nope. Mia destroyed the evidence by eating it. Girl will eat anything.” Miles snickered, and Mia punched him in the arm.

  “So what’s in the box, and who sent it?”

  “That’s classified—need to know only, and we didn’t need to know.”

  “You guys are really starting to weird me out,” I said in partial honesty.

  “Just open it.” Mia pulled me onto her lap and forced my hands around the edges of the paper-wrapped box.

  After inspecting it for any signs of who gave them this mysterious “mission,” I tore open the paper. Inside was an expensive white-and-red striped decorative box, the kind in which an uptown woman might store correspondence or invitations to snooty parties. Lifting the lid carefully, I found a single sheet of cream stationery on top covered in Alex’s elegant, Catholic schoolboy handwriting.

  Annabeth, since there is much I cannot be with you for in body over the coming months, I wanted to make sure I was there in spirit when you needed me. I made this while I was waiting to hear the final outcome, knowing we’d have use for it eventually even if I didn’t get in at Oxford. Please consider each one of these envelopes a work of love.

  The letter ended with his signature and a quote from a Florence and the Machine song about finding a way around an ocean for the sake of love.

  Speechless, I handed the letter to Miles. Mia craned her neck around me to see it.

  Underneath, standing in neat rows, were at least two dozen multicolored envelopes. Selecting one at random, I pulled out a bright green envelope that reminded me of those glow sticks they used to sell at skating rinks in the eighties. I even had the urge to shake it to see if it would light up. In the upper left corner, where a return address would normally have been, were the words, “Open me when…” In lieu of an address, he had written, “you need a laugh.” Below the words was a giant smiley face sticker. Thumbing through the others, I noticed they all bore the same return address but were meant for different occasions—everything from my moods to situations that might arise at work or in other areas of my life.

  Typical Mia, she made a beeline for the only red envelope, which said, “Open me when… you’re Fifty Shades of Horny.” She waved it in my face. “I want to know what’s in this one.”

  I made to grab it away, but she squirmed out from under me, scampering around the couch and holding it out of my reach like a schoolyard bully. She shook it. “Too small for even a silver bullet.” Her face lit up with inspiration. “Someone’s getting lucky online,” she sang.

  “Damn it, Mia. Give it back.”

  Miles calmly got up—unnoticed by Mia because she was too busy capering around—plucked it out of her hand, and tossed it to me. “My darling, we’ve completed our mission. We should probably leave Annabeth alone.”

  She gave Miles an incredulous look. “Why, so she can fondle her envelopes? Nope. This calls for a day on the town.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  April

  Friday couldn’t come soon enough. In the last few weeks Nick had already called me out for socializing too much with Miles (which might have been true depending on one’s definition of “too much”), being late twice (which I wasn’t), and sticking my nose into projects that weren’t my concern (Rick had always valued my opinions, so silly me assumed Nick would feel the same). At least I was finally learning the ground rules under Nick’s regime. It seemed the only way was the hard way. But still I felt as if my every movement was under constant scrutiny, and I couldn’t wait to get out of that office.

  I was out the door like a shot at five, and within half an hour, I sat cross-legged on my bed with the computer at my feet. Several thousand miles away, Alex was telling me about his first few weeks navigating the labyrinth of rules—some spoken, some apparently floating in the ether—among the professors at Oxford.

  “Did you know Oxford has its own time zone? Seriously. It’s five minutes after Greenwich Mean Time. It’s going to take me forever to learn that what I think is late is actually on time.” He took a sip from the steaming cup of tea on the table in front of him. “Oh, and they have their own vocabulary too. I know every workplace has a certain amount of jargon, but this really is like being in a foreign country. Most of what I’ve heard has to do with rowing and proper dress, but there are other things. There’s even a dictionary online.”

  “Really? I may have to study so that when you come back, I’ll know what you’re saying,” I teased.

  He laughed. “Yeah, just don’t let me affect an accent like Madonna. Oh, and speaking of strange traditions, dinner at high table here in Merton College takes place in several different rooms. It’s like a moving cocktail party with seating charts. I kept forgetting to take my napkin with me, and I spilled food on myself once, but all in all, it’s great fun.”

  He carried on in this vein for quite some time. It was all funny and kind of amusing, but after a while, I found my mind wandering, even as my reflected image in the little window in the lower right corner of my screen maintained her interested expression. Only eight days remained before the university’s poetry event, and as far as I knew, Nick still hadn’t come up with anything. It wasn’t my project anymore, but I still didn’t want to see the school—and by extension, Alex—suffer.

  “Babe, you don’t look like you feel so good,” Alex said, concluding one of his stories. “Do you want to keep the call short tonight?”

  He had been talking for forty-five minutes already, so we really couldn’t label this call short, but I wasn’t going argue with him. “No, I was just thinking about something at work. Sorry. I should have been focusing on you.”

  “Are you kidding? I was just babbling. It’s nice to have someone I can talk to about mundane things. Everyone here is so uptight, and I don’t know who, if anyone, I can trust yet. Unfortunately for you, that means you get to hear it all. What’s up in your world?”

  “Oddly enough, it involves your world too. Kendra let it slip that the university hasn’t liked any of Nick’s ideas for National Poetry Month. At this point, they’re either going to have to move it or cancel it.”

  Alex thought for a minute. “Didn’t we send out save-the-dates around Christmas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I doubt they’ll cancel then.” He looked at me appraisingly. “I know you have an idea. Tell me what it is.”

  I cupped my jaw. “Does it matter? I’m not the AE.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Well,” I said, shifting to get more comfortable, “I was thinking about what you were saying a few months ago about popular music being a gateway into poetry. What if we showed them, in a very physical and auditory way, how poetry and music are connected?” I explained my idea of how the night could go. “We could even challenge them to adapt famous poetry to music and have a competition in the end.”

  Alex’s face lit up. “I love it. Seriously. But can you pull it off in a week?”

  “I think so. I already told Miles about it when I was complaining that I could do better. He’s willing to help.”

  “I don’t want to cut my time with you short, but it’s still early enough that if I make a call, you’ll be on it by morning. You’re sure you can do this on top of all the other materials?”

  “Yep. We’ll keep it simple, invitation-only, but we give out a lot of invitations to key groups, like a rave. This is something people should want to go to, so we’ll fire them up via social media and word of mouth, a very underground vibe. After all, at one time, poetry was dangerous. And it doesn’t have to last long, just long enough to leave an impression.”

  “Okay then. Judging solely from the glow of your face, I know you’ll make it happen. Record it for me so I can see it. I hate that I’m going to miss it.”

  “I will. And thanks for not thinking I’m weird for wanting to do this. I mean, we both know I’m weird, but I can be weird
with you, and that means more than you can imagine.”

  As we disconnected, a half-remembered quote—I thought it came from Dr. Seuss—popped into my head. It went something like, “I am weird and you are weird. Eventually two people come together in mutual weirdness and fall in love.” I admired the clasped hands ring from Alex. Dr. Seuss was right once again.

  The very next morning, Dean McAllister phoned Laini and insisted that if Smith and Grenwick wanted to keep their account, they would reinstate me as account executive. By lunchtime, Miles and I were sitting in the dean’s office along with Kendra, hashing out plans for the fastest event we’d ever created.

  I got back to the office in the late afternoon, disappointed that I wouldn’t be seeing any of the sun-drenched, temperate weather the rest of the city was enjoying. But the extra hours would be worth it. I was determined to make the dean and Laini happy.

  I still hadn’t had a chance to thank Alex for his intervention, so while my computer was booting up, I dashed off a quick text, promising to text him since I wasn’t going to make it home in time for our usual Skype call. When my phone dinged a few minutes later, I reached over, expecting a reply from Alex.

  I had to read the text twice. It was from Alex all right, but it clearly wasn’t meant for me. Be ready in a few. Come up when you get here. It’s open.

  I vaguely remembered Alex mentioning some event at his college that night, so I didn’t think anything of it. But it was followed immediately by a second message. Thanks again, Jolie.

  Jolie? Who the hell was Jolie? I imagined some gorgeous college girl with long legs and the kind of shiny hair normally only seen in shampoo commercials. Taking a deep breath, I told myself not to freak out. So he was texting another woman… so what? Did I really expect him not to communicate with other people while he was there? I should have just let it go, but I couldn’t.

  This isn’t Jolie, I typed back.

  A few seconds later, Alex’s frazzled reply came. Jesus, Annabeth, I’m so sorry. Running late and hit the wrong name on my list. Will explain all tomorrow.

  He’d better.

  I was still staring blankly at my computer when Miles came back bearing a large pepperoni pizza from the place across the street. He kicked my chair. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing,” I lied. “Just a little overwhelmed by what lies before us.”

  “Please, you thrive on this shit. What’s really going on?”

  Silently, I handed him my phone and let him read the text trail.

  “Ouch. That’s awkward. But it doesn’t deserve all of this.” His finger circled my disconsolate face.

  “What if he’s lying? What if he really does have someone else?” I cried, my trust issues spiraling out of control.

  Miles hugged me. “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just the stress talking. You do know that, right? I’ve never met anyone who loves someone as much as he loves you. He wouldn’t throw all that away for some girl.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I can be.” His muscles flexed beneath my head, and a whiff of pepperoni and melted cheese assaulted me as he opened the box. “Now eat. It will help.”

  I took the piece of pizza he offered and nibbled at the crust. “How did you get used to Mia being gone so much?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” he answered, pulling on a stretchy piece of cheese and popping it into his mouth. “I went through all the same things you are and then some. Then one day I got tired of second-guessing everything and just decided to go with it. I know who Mia is. As long as she comes back to me in the end, I don’t care what else she does. It kind of comes with the territory—like dating a musician on tour. But Alex isn’t like that. I bet you he swore off all other women the moment he met you. He’s one of those chivalrous old souls.” He took a bite of his pizza. “That reminds me, do you have any of those envelopes around here?”

  I opened the middle drawer of my desk and handed him a stack.

  “Nope, you pick.”

  I leafed through them and picked out a purple envelope with an image of a hooded figure on the front. It read, “Open me when… you feel like Dementors are sucking at your soul.”

  “Nice Harry Potter reference,” Miles commented.

  I took another bite of pizza before shaking the contents out on my desk. Three gold coins the size of half dollars rolled toward me along with something that looked like a stick and a folded sheet of paper. I opened the note and read it aloud. “‘To banish the demons of sadness or rage, perform this ritual: eat at least one piece of chocolate (provided), look at this silly picture (see reverse)—’”

  I flipped the page over to see a picture taped to the back. In it, an adorable cat was peeking through its upraised paws. The caption asked, “You still mad?” I laughed in spite of myself.

  “He’s good. You have to admit that,” Miles said.

  I turned back to the front and kept on reading. “‘You back now? Okay, the last thing you need to do is point this wand and summon your Patronus.’” I picked up the wand—now that I looked at it closely, I saw it was actually a wand and not a stick—and waved it at Miles. “Do I really have to do this?”

  “Yes. Alexander the Great says so.” He crossed his arms. “Come on. Before the food gets cold.”

  I walked up and down the hall just to make sure there would be no witnesses, but almost everyone else had gone home for the night. Standing in the open area between the two cubes, I lifted my wand and took a deep breath, feeling extremely silly. I closed my eyes, then I chickened out.

  Miles grabbed me before I got back to my chair. “Do you want to feel better or not?”

  “Fine.” I shook him off and closed my eyes again.

  I raised my hand and said the words of the spell, imagining a stream of white light jetting from the tip and shaping into an eagle. When I opened my eyes again, I gasped. The tip of the wand was glowing.

  “Whoa,” Miles said. “I have to try this.” He took the wand, and the glow faded. He repeated the procedure, and surely enough, the tip lit up. He shook the wand. “It must be battery powered.” He scrutinized it, turning it over and over. “Ha!” He stopped and pointed at a set of barely visible holes in the base. “It’s voice activated. Watch.” He repeated the words of the spell, and the wand glowed.

  “Where in the world did Alex get it?”

  “Internet probably. Hey, do you think this thing will help us create our materials faster?”

  I took it from him. “It’s worth a shot.” I gently tapped his head with it. “Bibbidi-boppidi-boo. I am creative, and so are you.”

  He grinned and touched the wand to both of my hands. “Hocus pocus. May my words give your fingers focus.”

  “That was pretty clever for a designer,” I said, winking at him.

  Miles’s soda fizzed as he cracked open the top. “Oh, honey, it’s only six. Just wait until about midnight. That’s when the creative’s gonna come out up in here.”

  I smiled and said a quiet prayer of thanks to Alex. Jolie or no Jolie, Alex was definitely a keeper. He had just made my day from another continent.

  By six the next evening, I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. Miles and I had worked until around one the night before and reported back to work at seven in the morning to finish materials for a nine o’clock presentation to Laini. We’d spent all day revising and finalizing concepts, working through lunch to get “exclusive” invites into the hands of influential teens and leaders across the city, including a few DJs at radio stations popular with students. I’d wanted to stay to finish the event script, but Laini sent me home, and now I was so glad she had.

  My brain was so fried I had completely forgotten about what Miles termed “Jolie-gate” until Alex answered my call not in his rooms, as usual, but on what appeared to be the front steps of one of Oxford’s Gothic buildings. Behind him, students came and went through an oak door large enough for a mounted rider to pass through. At his side was a pretty young redhead wi
th enormous blue eyes and pale skin.

  Before I even had a chance to wonder who she was, Alex launched into his apology. “Annabeth, this is Jolie.”

  The cute girl waved at me enthusiastically, grinning like the “after” model in an acne commercial. “Hi, Annabeth. Professor Grantham told me you’re a writer. I’d love to talk to you about your career sometime if you have the time.”

  I gaped at her, brain still trying to catch up to my mouth. “Of course,” I managed politely.

  “Jolie is John Fitzpatrick’s daughter. He brought her along since she’s going to be attending here beginning at Michaelmas term this autumn. She’s only sixteen—quite a scholar this one.”

  Jolie’s thousand-watt smile only increased, and her blue eyes shined under Alex’s praise. “My dad is really enjoying the research he’s doing with your boyfriend.”

  “What about you? How are you enjoying Oxford?”

  “It’s great. I can’t wait to be a full student. I’m finishing my high school classes online. Plus, I’m doing an early research paper to try to test out of one of my courses here.”

  “I wish I was that ambitious when I was your age. Actually, I wish I was that ambitious now.”

  Her cheeks pinked at the compliment. “Oh, I’m sure you are. Dr. Grantham was telling me about your plans for National Poetry Month. I wish I could be there for it. It sounds really cool.”

  Her energy was infectious, and I sat up a little straighter. “Actually, we decided today that we’re going to broadcast it live online. If you’re willing to stay up for it, you’re welcome to join us. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you the URL.”

  “Sweet!” She wrote it down. “Can I share it with some of my friends?”

  “Of course. Share away.”

  “This is so cool!” Behind her, faint bells tolled midnight, and Jolie’s head whipped around. “Crap, I have to get inside. I don’t want to break my dad’s curfew before I’m even officially a student.” She turned back to the camera. “It was nice to meet you, Annabeth. I hope we can talk again.”