LONDON
Chapter Twenty: Single Room
“All right, folks, attention! It looks like some of you will be getting single rooms here in London-town. Congratulations, you lucky dogs! If you are tired of your roommate but weren’t assigned a single room—tough luck. There’s nothing I can do for you, so suck it up,” Abbott ordered. He stood straight and confident in the middle of our London hotel lobby, his feet shoulder-width apart, ready to begin handing out a new set of room keys. “Veronika, since Ms. Terranova earned herself an early trip home, you will be rooming with Riley in 320. Andrew and Ofir—room 321, Liam and Jordan—room 323, Will—room 324. Congratulations, buddy, you’re on your own. Helen—you’re in 329. Jamie—330…. Oh, Liam, Jordan, can you unstick your faces from each other for a bloody minute? Half the goddamn bus ride from Dover you’ve been at this. Lips aren’t tired yet? Put a little pin in the PDA, would ya?”
Trying not to acknowledge or, God forbid, exhibit the painful pull of disappointment (and also somehow, relief) at the announcement of my single room shooting down my torso, I looked over to the boys Abbott was busy shaming. Tall and handsome, they were the best looking couple I’d ever seen in my life, gay or straight. The two looked at Abbott (while the rest of the crowd looked at them, at his behest) before giving each other another lengthy peck.
“Oooh, Mr. Abbott is jealous,” Sophie giggled, much to Wisdom’s loud amusement.
After reprimanding Sophie by threatening her with Paz’s fate, Abbott turned to Wisdom. “Wisdom, have I ever told you that I once had a student named ‘Yunique?’ No? Oh well, thought you’d find it of interest. Perhaps you have a soul mate out there. Or an illegitimate sister,” he noted, sarcastically, before resuming calling out numbers as if we were all playing Bingo.
The boys kissed again before disappearing up the stairs, new keys in hand, but I wished they’d stayed. Their jaws seemed to move in such graceful circles. Their unity, their rhythm, was beautiful. It made me wet and lightheaded just looking at their youthful hunger. It seemed like those guys never bumped teeth or fought to relax the other’s lips. They had only gotten together about a year prior, while I had spent the last seven years of my life kissing the same person, having it feel like armed combat each and every time. For someone who spent his mornings trying to center his mind and his afternoons building muscle mass, George’s mouth always seemed confused—his jaws tense but his tongue loose. It had long ago stopped being a pleasurable exercise. Now, looking at Liam and Jordan, I suddenly wanted to be kissed—softly and passionately. I may have forgotten how to do it, I feared.
“We will be in 410, should anyone need us, which, needless to say, I hope won’t happen. Wisdom and Sage—room 412, Megan and Abby, you’re in 413, Olivia and Aisha—414, Sophie—415…,” Abbott continued reciting, handing out the last of the key cards.
I looked around the bright lobby, its anonymous, devoid of character, beige couches covered in our luggage. Déjà vu. Our kids stood slouched under the weight of their backpacks, their eyes heavy after having spent the entire day on the road—a bus ride, a ferry ride, and then another bus ride. We all woke up in France that morning and sailed our way into England by mid-afternoon—eating the last of our last genuine croissants at the port of Calais, biting into our first genuine scones inside the musty liner that took us across the English Channel and into Dover.
“All right, do all of you have your keys? Yes? Feel free to go up to your rooms and settle in. Freshen up, if you must. We meet down here in half an hour. Nicole will show us around the neighborhood, which is great, by the way. We really lucked out here. Covent Garden is literally steps away! And Trafalgar Square is nearby. If you are up for a walk, you can even schlep all the way up to Buckingham Palace…. But anyway, we have dinner at eight, if you don’t want to come with us on this walk beforehand. Nicole will give you each the restaurant’s business card so you can make your way there, directly, should you be so inclined,” he recited academically, gesturing to Nicole, who sat on the arm of one of the tired couches, fiddling with her phone. She looked somehow even more uncertain on her home turf; her raincoat seemed to hang looser on her here, as did her acid-wash jeans.
Slowly, I rotated my head toward Jamie. From across our makeshift semicircle, he nodded at me as he picked his wedding band with a corner of his card key.
Our last night in Paris was uneventful, at least as far as Jamie and I were concerned. Abbott, perhaps feeling guilty about not having tried hard enough to persuade Mr. and Mrs. Terranova to give Paz another chance, took everyone out for dessert after the river cruise. When we returned to the hotel, Jamie got a call on his cell phone and stayed in the lobby, leaving me to go up to our room alone. When I rode the elevator down to check on him half an hour later, he was nowhere to be found. I was all packed by then, and, having taken the last of my French cold medication, wanted to go to bed early, intent on ignoring all three calls from Jessica. They all came mere minutes apart. This type of calling always left me inexplicably full of rage, so when my side table rattled again that night, for the fourth time, I almost convulsed right out of bed, prepared to tell Jessica that I wasn’t interested in talking.
“You’re sexy when you’re angry, have I ever told you?”
George.
“Come on, Helen, don’t hold out on me. I know you miss me,” he’d cooed. Momentarily closing my eyes, I was sure I could smell his sweat.
At once nauseous, I’d sat up and folded myself in half, falling forward, my forehead just grazing my knees.
“Hi.”
“Well, hi. Just about ready for bed, according to my calculations?”
His smile was audible.
I’d muttered something in agreement.
“Touch yourself,” he had instructed then, determinedly. “For me.”
Despite the slight pant, his voice was icy. Measured and deliberate, too.
“Come on, Helen. You used to love this.”
Maybe I did. Seven years ago.
I could hear him nod in encouragement.
“George, I—”
“Shh,” he’d egged on. “Do it. I know you’re wet. I saw this thing on-line the other day that I’d love to try with you….”
It grew huskier, his voice. Powerful. He still knew just what worked.
And I’d let myself fall back on the mattress then, allowing my lids to close. With my arm flung across my eyes, I’d grunted in spite of myself, half-hoping that Jamie would walk in at any moment, the urgency of it only exciting me, spurring me on. The image of Jamie’s black eyes made my hips grind harder.
That’s the last clear memory I have of that evening.
Sometime after it was over, I’d mumbled that this was a bad idea. Confusing. Disorienting. Inappropriate. Though I don’t remember for sure, he must’ve mumbled something, too, rushing to the bathroom to clean himself up as per his personal protocol—he did always have to take a shower seconds after coming. Before I knew it, my phone was back on my side table and I was asleep.
When I woke up, Jamie’s things were gone, including his guitar. There was no way for me to know if he’d spent the night next to me or walked the city all night, instead, popping in only to claim his belongings. He was aboard the bus parked outside by the time I’d boarded it, seated in the last row with his head pressed against the window, his hair covering his face—a silky curtain. Perhaps he missed his baby.
On the ferry, he seemed to want to avoid company, taking his coffee to the outside deck, drinking it in the rain, contemplating the darkness of the English Channel for a song, for all I knew. I watched him from behind the grimy glass doors, trying to read his posture, but other than the fact that his guitar looked too heavy to balance when paired with his backpack, I got nothing.
It was strange not hearing that velour voice of his all day, not seeing those full lips stretch into a smile at the drop of a hat—a smile that always managed to look just a little reluctant, no matter how genuine or sarcastic.
&nb
sp; I’d always gotten used to things, to people, too quickly, too easily. That’s probably why I’d barely ever spent a month of my life being truly single since high school. It was a dependency: a touch, a presence, really, was all it took for me to get hooked.
When we finally arrived in Dover, Wisdom cornered me before I could even consider approaching Jamie myself.
“Ms. Levit, what language do they speak in England?” she had yawned, pulling me into the seat next to hers aboard yet another bus of the day.
“English, Wisdom! You were in my World History class as a freshman!”
“You mean ‘Global?’”
“Yes!”
The anger this question borne within me scared me. She was only a child. She was my responsibility. It was my fault that she didn’t know the answer. That’s what I’d sworn to Jamie.
“Oh, and Ms. Levit, why were the bathtubs so tall or high or whatever, in Paris? I meant to ask you this before. Don’t these hotels know they got Americans staying there? I’m not a gymnast! Will they be like that in England?” Sage had immediately joined in, plopping down into a seat in the row behind us.
Before I could attempt to deal with the level of inaptitude coming from my own students, I saw Jamie hurry past us, his guitar case in hand, backpack square on his back. His hair (frizzy with the humidity in the air) was picked up in a ponytail I’d never seen him sport before. Without stopping, he’d walked all the way to the back row, sat down, and threw his head back. Now, in this new hotel lobby, with Jamie sliding the corner of his key card under his ring and back out again a few times in rapid succession—this was the first time that entire day that we’d even made legitimate eye contact.
I allowed myself a smile.
“Looks like we’re sleeping alone tonight,” he said when we bumped shoulders walking up the stairs to our likely neighboring rooms. The elevator looked like it could only fit one person (and his suitcase) at a time, so it simply made more sense to walk.
“Now you won’t have to sit in the lobby or walk the empty streets all by yourself in the middle of the night with your mysterious phone calls,” I joked, cautiously.
He chuckled at this, sending a familiar, giddy charge through me. It was simultaneously welcome and upsetting.
“Yeah, I know I’ve been a little flighty—”
“The baby teething?”
“What? Oh no, no,” he quickly answered as we turned onto our floor. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. It’s been pretty messy. I’m sorry,” he sighed by way of some kind of admission, pausing by my door before taking the extra step to his own. Only a piece of sheetrock would be separating us here. And, I suppose, a couple of beams.
“You don’t owe me an apology,” I stated plainly, shoving my key into the lock before pushing the heavy door in. I propped it open with my suitcase and stood on the threshold with a stance wider than my mother would’ve liked.
“No, I know…I want to though, believe me. My God, I know I’m not making any sense…,” he seemed to almost plead now, though it seemed improbable. His usually rich voice sounded thin and tight. The velvet that caressed my ear before sounded worn and tattered now. He seemed to reach for my hand but changed his mind half way. “See you in the lobby in a few?” he asked instead, having instantaneously regained his cool, the color and texture of his voice audibly attempting to match its reputation.
I nodded before wobbling inside my room on soft legs.
~ ~ ~
Inside stood a twin bed that was pressed against a wall covered in faded pink wallpaper. If I were to sleep as designated by the place’s housekeeping staff—laying my head down where the pillow was placed for me—I’d be facing a large window that was heavily shaded by a leafy tree, just like the one back home…old home, former home. Through it, I could just make out the sun as it was setting, soaking my narrow room in a pale orange glow—the kind that tickles your belly from the inside. I considered turning on the light but didn’t have the heart to flip the switch. Instead, I kicked my suitcase into the small closet by the door and sat down on the bed that felt too soft.
The only shelf space in the room was the dresser, which stood only a step away from the skinny bed itself, directly below an institutional mirror that seemed to hang there more out of obligation to fulfill a certain promise by the management rather than to try to serve a decorative purpose or even a utilitarian need. I hauled my purse and laptop on top of it without having to move, which was a relief, given that moving so much as a muscle felt like a dare I wouldn’t risk. I often pick truth, anyway.
Alone is what I needed to be, I told myself. I deserved worse than a single room in the heart of London, most expenses paid. I owed myself this bit of solitude. I needed to think, and that’s something I clearly couldn’t do in Paris—not with Jamie’s pout and those rose-vines crawling up his arm. It was high time I did something on my own.
I let my coat slip down my arms, my phone clumsily tumbling out of its pocket, and placed my head gently in my hands, letting myself sway. I knew I should’ve washed my hands first, but I wasn’t going anywhere now. My eyes screwed shut, I felt myself swim as my brain tried to plow through all the recent events at once—Jamie’s ever-so-effortless braid, George’s panting—
No, this was good. The distance, albeit no thicker than a wall in one case, and no wider than an ocean in the other, was good.
When a wave of nausea rolled up my esophagus in my inverted position, I swallowed it back. I deserved it, I reminded myself, again, as a shudder of disgust rumbled through me at the memory of the sound of George coming.
Slowly uncurling my spine, I reached for my purse and wrestled out the new cold medicine I’d bought in Dover. At least this batch had instructions written in English, so I wouldn’t need Abbott to translate. I swallowed two capsules down without water, feeling them fight their way down my throat.
Resolute to move on, I groaned out loud. I would drum out these last few days like the pedagogue that I was and fly back home whole and my own. Once there, I would take a bus to Marlboro without any pit stops. I would be frugal with my expenses and save up for my own studio apartment somewhere in New York. I’d move out in no time, given that all I needed, really, was maybe a year to get into the groove when you factored in my student loans. No, this would be good! It was even better this way—the last thing my disappointing life needed was a married distraction. And maybe Jess was right: maybe it was high time I stuck to my own kind, whatever that actually meant.
When I finally just about convinced myself to get up and turn on the light, my bed vibrated. Seeing Jessica’s name on the caller ID of my phone, I reluctantly picked up.
“I keep ‘nudging’ you in Words with Friends but nothing happens. Do you know what that feature is even supposed to do? Whatever, I don’t really care, but I do think the game will make you forfeit if you stay away any longer,” she rattled off as soon as I mumbled an uneager hello.
I walked over to the window and tried to open it, wedging my phone between my shoulder and my ear. Jess must’ve heard my muffled grunts.
“Easy there, Levit. I’m your captive audience…are you into that now?” She was cautious, I could hear, but her words were as sharp and deliberate as ever. She was back for more.
“Don’t worry, I’m not screwing the Turk whose mere existence you find so offensive,” I spat right back, louder than the thumping in my chest. Despite my attempts at putting my shoulder into it, the window, seemingly painted shut, refused to budge.
Jess sighed. I sensed her hesitate.
“You were right—it wasn’t about your Turk.”
“He is not my Turk,” I protested. “And his name is Jamie.”
“Right, so sue me. I was wrong. Blah, blah, blah.”
I kicked off my boots and walked back the three steps toward the closet to fish out my tennis shoes.
“So, what was that white supremacist rant about?” I inquired when she failed to elaborate on her own. “You know, other than to tell me how I
’m just a snooty, bleeding-heart liberal—”
“He’s cheating, okay? I am due in a single digit number of weeks now, I have two who don’t listen to a word I say, and he’s out screwing some girl.” She recited this so matter-of-factly, I had to stop stomping into my shoes, my heel hanging over, to make sure I heard correctly. Slowly, I stood up to full height.
“Max? Let me guess—she’s Turkish?”
“Ha! Yeah, I can see why you’d ask that, but no—Uzbek or Kazakh, but same shit, right?” she chuckled to mask a sniffle. I imagined her nose swelling, much like mine would.
“No, not really.”
“Well—”
I pulled out the small ottoman parked by my new dresser and slowly lowered myself onto it, careful not to miss. My heart raced. So my mom was right—there are men worse than George, I thought.
“Are you sure? Is this for real?” I asked, unsure as to what else I could bring to the conversation.
“Oh yeah, but you’re going to pay for these roaming charges like crazy, so I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, I wish I were less sure, because this heartburn is already a bitch.”
Brutally funny, strong as brick and mortar, as usual.
There was a knock on my door. Rather, there were three hesitant taps. I stumbled to answer, still only half-wearing my right shoe.
“Coming?” Jamie asked when I accidentally threw the door open to capacity, underestimating my strength.
Jess must’ve heard him.
“Send me a picture of the dude! I know you’re paying for this call, but I’m pregnant and alone—it’s the least you can do,” Jessica urged. I heard a tremor there—tears competing with laughter.
I removed the phone from my ear and quickly snapped a photo of Jamie—his hair down, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands at his sides. Startled, he half smiled.
“Done,” I reported, after fumbling with the touch-screen to send her the image. “You owe me ten-thousand-million-trillion dollars.”
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