To Play or Not To Play

by Emily Bow

  The door clanked and swung inward.

  Wythe rose to his full height with an athletic fluidity.

  I scrambled up beside him, heart re-thumping, head re-spinning, new nausea forming. “What do we do? It could be anyone coming in. Where are the weapons?”

  “Protocol…” Wythe began to answer.

  A guard peered in. “All clear.” He assessed me with cautious eyes set deep in his serious face.

  Adrenalin left me with his words. “Thanks.” As all the high-caution chemical reactions left my body, my lack of sleep fought with a new shaky feeling. My stomach squished. I felt sick, physically sick. “I’ve got to go. Can you point me to room 5B?” That or Heathrow Airport. This place was crazy.

  The guard pointed and held his arm out for me to precede him.

  I turned to look back at Wythe, who was watching me quietly. I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to thank him for the comfort while we were standing in front of the guard. I settled on a small nod.

  He returned it.

  A very British exchange.

  “Okay, then.”

  “I’m going to find my brother and go for a run.” His voice was tight, but his eyes were on me, a lingering hint of concern in them. “See you tomorrow?”

  I nodded. Where did he run? Outside? In a gym? That was a good way to burn off his adrenaline. I’d go watch. No. I was wiped out. I had to snap out of this or I’d lose myself on day one. I struggled to give him an American thumbs-up instead.

  I went up to the top floor, again, no elevator, and the guard pointed down the hallway. “Intern and staff apartments are on this floor.” I waved and walked down the corridor to 5B, breathing deeply through my nose and closing the world out.

  Concentrate on the mundane. Get out of your head.

  The apartment was better and worse than I’d expected. In terms of décor, it had the same old-building, tall-ceiling, crown-molding vibe that the rest of the place did. A studio apartment. Probably 300 square feet. A two-seater sofa, a TV on a chest of drawers, and a partial kitchenette with a mini-fridge and a microwave. I shuddered to think what rent on this tiny place would draw, given its central London location. Maybe 2,000 pounds per month. That was about 3,000 dollars, or 4,000, depending on the conversion rate. In Texas, that would get me a four-bedroom house on the right side of town or a whole semester in the dorm.

  In September, when I wrote my first rent check, I’d laugh at the memory of this place. Assuming I got a job. Lit degree, new graduate for hire didn’t scream “Compete for me” to most corporations. Finishing this program would do more than keep me even with my sister. It would give me an edge in the job market, one that my choice of major didn’t provide.

  I pushed through the tiredness, knowing I needed to scope out the room because if I stopped moving, I’d collapse right there. Bed, where are you?

  The total square footage was small, but I liked the privacy more than I liked the idea of more space or a commute. A corner door opened into a small bathroom. A twin bed lay under the slanted roof, and an armoire served as a closet. Both were weird. We didn’t build rooms like this in Texas. No one had anything but a flat ceiling; no one I knew anyway. I was a tall American servant in a British period drama with no interest in serving.

  Someone had placed my bags in here. I thought about showering and unpacking, but the tsunami of tiredness was taking me down. I put my bag in front of the door to trap invaders and traded my dress for a t-shirt. I probably had somewhere to be, but the jetlag wouldn’t let me care.

  I grabbed my book and crawled onto the hard, twin mattress. I knew I should read my informational orientation packet…but I didn’t. The book I was reading was not recommended in any of my literature classes. However, I knew it would truly take me out of my own head. Hornicorn: An Erotic Shape-Shifting Unicorn Paranormal was the kind of reading material that did that. I turned the page.

  Aurelia-corn pranced through the forest until she reached the reflecting pool. She looked down upon her unicorn image and thought of her lost love. Longing and lust rolled through her. “Oh, Brady-corn. When? When will you return to me?”

  She thought of their time in the waterfall, and then again in the rose fields. Afterward, he’d made her a wreath of petal pink roses. And when she sniffed it. Ah, when she sniffed it, the memories rolled through her like the most potent lustrous lust dust.

  She knew where he was. The evergreen forest. But she could not go there. Not yet. Not until she could fully open her heart again and offer him her hoof.

  Rain pattered against my window. The book folded over my hand. I’d close my eyes a moment…

  When I woke up, soft London light from the window told me it was afternoon. I rolled out of bed and checked my cell phone. The screen read low battery and 18:30 or 6:30 PM. Great. I was wide awake now as if I had the whole evening ahead of me. A day I’d already lived.

  Ugh, I’d done what everyone advised against after an overseas flight. I’d gone to sleep. I unpacked, plugged a converter into the wall jack, and plugged my phone in. A pop sounded, and smoke puffed out. Ignoring the slight burning smell, I pulled out the electrical converter and just used the plug part. Smartphones weren’t supposed to need electrical converters anyway. I crossed my fingers and found another wall outlet.

  I needed to read my packet. I didn’t want to. I wanted a cup of English Breakfast tea. One dose of caffeine and I’d be thinking clearly. I leaned into the counter and stared at the kettle. Go steam, go.

  My phone buzzed. The video chat came on. Felicity was on the floor doing sit-ups in front of a small two-seater dining table. Her accommodations weren’t much bigger than mine if she only had that small table. But at least she had a table. “Did you get all my texts? You didn’t respond to them all.” She said the sentences between sitting up.

  “Must be the Wi-Fi here.” She actually might believe that, given the sketchy Wi-Fi at our grandparents’ house. But probably not. London had killer Wi-Fi.

  Trapper barked through the speaker. Longing, homesickness, and envy stirred in my belly. Trapper, our black and white Japanese Chin, crawled around the table legs, looking for crumbs. I knew he’d find some. Trapper had mad crumb-hunting skills.

  Then it hit me again. Anger. I wanted Trapper here with me. I propped the phone on the counter and moved away so Felicity wouldn’t see she’d gotten to me. I poured the hot water over the teabag. Steam wafted the tea fragrance into the room. Calm down. Calm down. Don’t let her see your reaction.

  “Did it arrive?” Felicity asked.

  I blanked my expression and moved back into view while glancing across the counter. A fat over-stuffed package sat there. Return address. White House. Felicity Kitman.

  As if the post office in DC used the words White House. We both knew she lived off the grounds. She’d penned that to dig at me.

  I tore open the end.

  Chapter 7

  I was not enthused about the gift. It was from Felicity, after all. A gray-green wool sweater bulged from the opening, trying to escape. Threads of resentment tightened in my chest. I couldn’t breathe enough to form an answer, or a curse word, or a lie.

  “It came today, didn’t it? The package I sent you?” Felicity asked.

  I lifted it from the box and held it in front of the camera lens, blocking my expression.

  We’d both gotten wool sweaters for graduation. What Texan didn’t want a wool sweater for graduation? Especially one made from Grandpa’s own sheep. I had used my own graduation sweater for a cushion in Trapper’s dog bed.

  “There are ways to rainproof it.” Felicity twisted her upper body so she faced the screen, her hands behind her head, her elbows out. “You’ll need to Google that.”

  I shoved it back in the box, my fingernail snagging the wool. I shook free and grabbed my mug of tea. The hot wet drink spilled over the back of my fingers, burning. “Mmm, yes. So thoughtful. It is summer here, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” Felicity resumed he
r sit-ups. My sister had more discipline. It had gotten her a higher class rank, an attentive boyfriend, and longer nails, currently painted hot lavender. She’d doomed me in the womb to come in second like my birth order.

  Trapper barked and slicked his pink tongue across a table leg. I didn’t ask what had spilled. I didn’t offer any further conversation, just toyed with my jagged thumbnail, picking at the tear and the snagged strand of wool. I needed a file.

  Neither my sister nor I had wanted to be interns, but family pressure was a heavy thing. Dad had been a summer intern for the White House; Mom had been an intern for the Prime Minister. It was how our parents had met, at an international function in London.

  Here’s an opportunity on a silver platter. Take it.

  We didn’t want it. We’d agreed on saying no together. The intern family tradition would end with us. We’d gone into Dad’s office. I’d chickened out and pushed Felicity forward. “Go ahead, Felicity, tell them what we decided.”

  Felicity had pointed at Dad’s computer screen. “Is that the email to the president’s coordinator?” She knew full well it was. Our parents pressured us about it daily.

  “Yes.” Dad squeezed lemon into his iced tea. “Well?”

  “Type my name there.” Felicity smiled big and tapped the screen. “I can’t wait to see Old Glory flying over the capital.”

  I froze at the betrayal. We were supposed to be turning down these internships.

  Mom clapped and then lightly patted my shoulder. “You chose England?” Her tone grew sentimental, and her British accent hit heights that needed subtitles. Twenty years in America and she hadn’t lost it.

  Panic, betrayal, and a grave dislike for the island that was Britain clogged my throat, but love for Mom muted me.

  Dad tapped on the screen, shooting our acceptances across the states and over the pond. The clicking keyboard screamed in my ears like an amplified commercial.

  Felicity leaned across the table. Victory glowed around her like the sparkle-dust on her cheeks. “I’ll lend you my new wool sweater.” She winked. “You’re going to need it.”

  She’d made good on the promise. Here I was in England, clutching her sweater.

  Felicity had been a total sneak then and was rubbing it in my nose now.

  She was going down. I moved my mouth like I was talking. “…Wi-Fi…” I said and shut off the video chat. I’d make the most of my evening and then fit in some exercise of my own so I could possibly sleep tonight.

  ***

  Sleep that night was fitful, but I was going to make the next day great. I was going to go see Wythe, but first I checked the rest of the apartment. I found unfrosted flakes in the kitchen, ate a handful, brushed my teeth, showered, and dressed. They’d given us the wireless Internet key code along with my physical room key, a heavy brass thing. Sitting cross-legged on the couch in jeans and a t-shirt, I logged in.

  After checking my favorite Internet sites: email, movie news, and the university website, I checked the forum set up for the interns. When I clicked on my name, I got a further login that showed charity event options for the summer. I went back to the main screen and clicked on the giant green circle that said Intern Status. Fifty or so eggs lay in a pile. A few had rolled onto the grass. They were headed toward a set of bleachers. I was so going to be up high on those bleachers when we took that August intern photo.

  Glorious blond bobble-headed images of the Prime family stood at the top of the bleachers. I’d need three points to be in that photo with them.

  Why couldn’t my parents have met at a bar?

  I hovered the cursor over an egg. A name popped up along with a score. I clicked compulsively over the eggs until I found mine. As I clicked on it, a waft of green steam rose off the top. Kira Kitman. Arrived late. Missed Chelsea flower show.

  Wait. The flower show was in May. I’d gotten points off because Wythe didn’t show up at a flower show last week? The Royal Horticulture Society could… I let the thought die off. It wasn’t their fault. The fault was Wythe’s. He’d pay.

  Right now.

  I headed out, going down the stairwell a level to the main residences. Wythe’s rooms were on the third door down on the right, per the guard. Peppa caught up with me at the top of the hall. “You missed the Chelsea Flower Show special summer exhibit.”

  I paused. “I saw that.”

  “It was today. I’m sure you saw that in the packet.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t elaborate further, since I’d already said that I’d seen it. Though I’d only seen it afterward. And not in the packet. I smiled a polite but distant smile, one of those that don’t show teeth or show in my eyes, and moved down the hall.

  Peppa paced me and held out a computer tablet. “Now might be a good time to go over Wythe’s schedule.” Peppa was on the petite side compared to me. If I wasn’t going to ignore her, I’d have to slow my walking pace to match hers.

  “Thanks.” I took the tablet with a glance at Wythe’s schedule. Pleasure and confusion swirled in me. It was odd that I wasn’t assigned to some American contingency, but I wouldn’t buck the assignment. A quick glance at Peppa showed me how annoyed she was, eyes narrowed, stance rigid. “So, this means…I’m assigned to Wythe, after all.” I kept my words slow and dug in with a deeper Texas drawl than I possessed. Obviously, it meant that, and it meant Peppa didn’t have the power to get me moved. Peppa needed that little reminder. Search for easier prey. Neither Peppa nor Felicity were stomping on me any further. Not this summer. Not ever.

  Peppa tapped on the bright blue box in the corner as if I weren’t moving fast enough for her. The calendar filled with tiny text and words like cricket, derby, and garden. “Charity options are listed here.” She pointed to a tall door at the end of the hall, the same one the guard had already directed me to. “Go on in. It appears you are staying. For now.” Her voice sounded tight. Her bottled rage would backfire one day. Keep it on the inside.

  I had to admit I did want my assignment. Not just to stump her, but Wythe was…well, I didn’t know what he was yet, but he did interest me. “Thanks,” was all I said. I’m not one to draw out a gloat. That trait went to my sister. I preferred a milder celebration, a glowing, internal joy.

  I continued down the yellow corridor, walking faster now, internally chanting the name of the first event to make it happen. Dog show. Dog show. Dog show.

  Peppa paced me.

  I did not need her watching me as I persuaded Wythe to attend the dog show. I got to his door and knocked.

  No answer. I turned the knob. Were my hands sweaty? Yes. Were my insides eager? Yes.

  “Don’t go in yet.” Peppa held up a hand and was still freaking watching me. “Wait. You should wait. That’s Wythe’s private study.”

  Waiting would not get him out in public. I stepped in, and Peppa followed me. A seating area consisted of a pair of wing-back chairs and end tables. Empty seats. A large desk, made of ornate rosewood, which couldn’t be his style, centered between bookcases. Empty black executive-style chair. Picture window, gray English sunlight, window seat.

  Wythe sat at one end, ignoring the garden and us and typing on his laptop. He wore dark trousers and a navy shirt. Not the usual casual at-home wear.

  He typed, then paused and read, and then typed some more.

  The sight of a guy hunched over his laptop made me flinch. I did not want to know what he was reading. My friends always thought they did and blithely popped over a guy’s shoulder, but I’d seen that cause more than one breakup. Okay, it had caused one of mine, the last one. But I’d learned my lesson.

  Peppa shifted on her feet, and her gaze moved, too, as if searching for a reason to stay. She was probably going to come up with some boss-type excuse to observe my work.

  I had to shut that creepy idea down before she got the idea and dug her sensible shoes into the rectangular rug with the unfortunate floral pattern. I raised my eyebrows at her like What do you need?

  Her gaze was on Wythe.


  He still hadn’t looked up, but he’d stopped typing. His posture had that kind of alert motionlessness that said he knew he was being watched but was choosing to ignore us.

  That seemed to do it for Peppa. She turned and left, leaving the door open.

  I shut it and moved to stand by the window seat. The sun was up but clouds softened the light. I started with a comment on the décor. “You have a passion for daffodils and shamrocks, huh?”

  He glanced at the rug. “Gift from the Irish ambassador.”

  I had my doubts but took his bothering to answer as an invitation. I climbed up with my back to the opposite wall, so I was facing him. The window seat was firm, covered in a rose print fabric, and not as plush as I’d want. It was the kind of thing that made me realize this place wasn’t a real home. He’d have replaced the floral rug and this cushion. This was a furnished loaner home, a crazy expensive, historic loaner.

  Kind of like me. I was a crazy, young, international loaner secretary.

  Time to persuade.

  I positioned myself cross-legged and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. I had a great view of his polished leather loafers from here. Barely any scuff marks. Scuff marks must mean a lack of control, resulting in lower voter confidence. But really, who wore loafers while reading alone at home? He wanted to go out.

  He wanted to go out to the dog show. Now, I had to make him realize that truth. By any means necessary, even honesty. “I have zero points on the intern status sheet. But I don’t want to manipulate you into going to the dog show.” I was being sincere despite my agenda. I widened my eyes and flipped my palms up in the universal, “nothing to hide” gesture.

  Wythe looked up and eyed me steadily with his bright blue knowing gaze. “What’s wrong with manipulation?”

  Was he teasing me? Flirting? Challenging me? I couldn’t read him.

  “I’ll be straight with you. I need you to go to the dog show so I can get an intern point.” I put it all out there for him, being honest. Now it was his turn to respond.

  He still held his computer. Was he busy? I’d just finished college, and it was hard to shake the feeling that I had deadlines, but I didn’t. The pressures of college were over for me. Maybe that was his reason for resisting the event. “We don’t have to stay for the whole champion breed winner selection. Just make an appearance. It’ll be quick.”