To Play or Not To Play

by Emily Bow

  Whatever. She didn’t even mention what she had done. Brat.

  I started to reply but another email popped up, saving me from breaking my silence. This one was from the professor. Wythe and Kira are in the lead. First, with their King Richard solve. Now with a creative take on “red.”

  Nice. I tapped Wythe’s arm so he’d lean in and read with me. May the other teams strive to match their superior progress as we speed to the end of term. I expect a paper on King Richard from the rest of class for failing to guess Shakespeare first. Really, lads. The progress toward solving my literary puzzle has been less than stellar. In the words of Ian Fleming, “Never say no to adventures. Always say yes. Otherwise, you’ll lead a very dull life.”

  The thrill of a win made me grin at Wythe. I waved my pasty and my soda in a small circle, Felicity forgotten. “Ha.”

  His eyes glinted, but he didn’t say anything.

  My phone blinked with an incoming video chat invite. Names appeared: Vihaan Laghari and Peppa. I accepted the chat and a window opened. Vihaan and Peppa stared back at us. Vihaan was as dark as Peppa was fair. I hadn’t seen him before, but his identity was a safe bet because Wythe had said they were partners.

  Behind them was a black lion statue. They were at Trafalgar Square. Vihaan leaned into the camera. “Live big for now, team one. But remember we are doing well also. First place.” Vihaan’s voice became strangled. “Is this the doing of your new partner?” He turned to Peppa. “Did you know of her, Peppa?”

  Peppa inclined her head. “Of course.” But her brow wrinkled. I didn’t know if she had known. I hadn’t told her.

  “How did you get a girl on your team? We haven’t seen her.” Vihaan clicked on his phone instead of waiting for me to answer. “Did you transfer? How come we don’t know you?”

  I leaned in closer. “Hi.”

  Peppa narrowed her gray eyes. Vihaan widened his dark brown ones.

  “Live small, team two. You’re about to lose again.” I drawled out the words.

  Vihaan said, “She is American. Wythe, you joined forces with an American on a British literature quest?” Vihaan laughed, and his words came out garbled. “Well done, mate, that’ll get you far.” He’d gone from speaking as if I were a threat to dismissing me.

  I didn’t like it.

  “I’m sure your team will do better next go around,” Wythe said, sounding like he wasn’t sure they would.

  Peppa pushed Vihaan’s shoulder. “Move in. They can see where we are.”

  Vihaan leaned even closer to the camera, sending the lens up one of his nostrils. “When will we be meeting with Kira?” He sounded eager. There must not have been that many women in the class.

  “She’s busy,” Wythe said.

  Vihaan shook his head. “But as the only two teams in the top, we should get together and share notes. Have a cup of tea.”

  Peppa was facing her partner, her profile to us. There had to be a phrase for that. Giving us the side-face didn’t cover it. Peppa said, “You heard she’s American, right? Doesn’t that establish that she doesn’t drink tea? She’s staying with us at Downing Street. Can you believe it?”

  She said “Downing Street” like the place was holy, like she owned it.

  “Yep. Downing Street. A place built on a Middle Ages brewery.” I’d read my packet and my UK Telegraph. “Named after Sir George Downing. Educated at Harvard. You know, in America.”

  Peppa frowned as I yanked her chain.

  “How about the pub then?” Vihaan asked.

  I nodded. “I haven’t been to an English pub.” I shook my head at Wythe, so he’d know I was lying. “Sounds fun.”

  Their heads jerked back in incomprehension.

  “We’ll do that then,” Wythe said.

  “We’ll do that then,” Peppa echoed and turned back to us, her eyes so narrow now they were almost closed. “How about now? Where are you? Are those trains?”

  Wythe clicked the screen off. “We’ll text you.”

  Chapter 16

  We entered the crowded pub. Wythe looked around and said, “Downstairs.”

  I followed him, weaving through the small tables. “I thought we were meeting them at a pub with a Goat in the name, not a Cheese in the name.”

  Wythe entered the stairwell. He was bent at the waist, barely making it down the low dark stairs ahead of me. “Did I say that?”

  “Yeah. You did.” I was glad the other two wouldn’t be joining us, but I wanted to know his reasoning. The steps were steep and awkward; I grabbed the handrail. They took us into a drinking cellar, and we found a corner table. I sank into the dark wooden chair. Music played down here, classic British pop tunes. At home, they’d play Top 40 music. Here they stuck to the proven.

  Wythe shrugged. “They’ll go to a goat pub. We’ll go here.” He looked around at the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese built in 1667. “I thought you’d like it. Dickens and Twain drank here.”

  I did like that. I liked it even more that he thought to pick a pub that would appeal to me. “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ Charles Dickens. It fits my summer.”

  The corner of Wythe’s mouth quirked. It made me want to think of more quotes. Quotes to toast to in this pub with its darkened lighting, low ceilings, and massive bar. Mom would have called this place a traditional proper pub. I didn’t know what she’d think about me being out with Wythe. She’d probably worry. But she would like that security accompanied me. “Your guards won’t come in?”

  “They’re here somewhere. Sometimes, they’re good at achieving discretion. Other times less so.” He seemed resigned and used to it. How long had that taken? I wanted to ask, but it seemed almost a tabloid-type question: Tell us, Wythe, how the son of the Prime Minister really feels about his protection detail.

  I sipped my apple cider. It tasted like bitter apple juice with an alcoholic kick. I’d have preferred a mixed drink where I couldn’t taste the alcohol, but there was nothing on the menu with a drink name I recognized, and nothing that looked like it came with a paper umbrella or cherry on top.

  Wythe drank a dark ale. A guy in a pub. Me here with him. It felt like a date. I snapped a photo of our tabletop, making sure to get my hand in the shot but not him. I showed him the picture and sent it off to a friend back in Texas. My friends weren’t getting the brush-off, just Felicity. #AtaPubwithaFriend. I held in the snicker. #HighStoolWeather. That’s what they called rainy days here.

  “Writing your sister?”

  “She’s getting the silent treatment.” I turned my phone, so he could read my message. “She’s my fraternal twin. Evil, unlike your siblings. Caroline’s a kick. I see her around. Why haven’t I seen Zane much?”

  “Zane’s not as patient as I am when it comes to all this.” He gestured around the bar.

  Like he was patient. “Beer and pubs?”

  Wythe wore a small frown. “Guards and expectations. They get old. Beer and pubs? Zane likes those.” He seemed less angry.

  I had to ask him if he meant what he’d said. “Speaking of…are you really not going to any more charity events? Not even one?” I peeled at the corner of the label on my bottle, tearing off the stem to the apple. All I needed was one more point. My tone was casual, but my heart thumped hard as I waited for his reply.

  He tilted his head. “I might.”

  “If?”

  “For the right incentive.”

  I knew he didn’t mean a kiss. He was still too upset with me. “Such as my helping you with this class?” Which I’d already agreed to do.

  Wythe waved that off. “Your grade is the reward.”

  “We don’t seem to be getting graded.”

  “We’ll get a grade at the end.”

  “In the U.S., we get regular graded tests and papers. You know where you stand.” Though we were probably thinking about literature now more than if we’d studied for a test and then forgotten what we’d written as soon as we turned it in. “Why are you even taking another class
? I read the packet, and you’ve graduated. I hadn’t realized that.”

  He sighed. “I can’t easily take a job. Not in my field. Civil engineering contracts come from the government.”

  It would look like a civil engineering firm gave him a job in exchange for winning a government contract. He’d been trapped by his mom’s success. There was probably something Freudian I could say about that, but I couldn’t think of anything offhand.

  “I was kind of forced to take this internship. There was a lot of family pressure. And a lot of helpful advisors saying it would be great for my resume. I couldn’t get out of it. But your pressures…” I gestured to the entry with my glass. “Your family challenges put mine in perspective.” I put my glass down and threw my arms back. “I’m free.” I may have extended the “e” a bit long, because he chuckled. Which was good. I poured the last of the cider into my glass and went back to toying with the bottle. “How did you end up in a lit class?”

  “I told my parents I’d delay a job while Mom’s in office. She has enough pressure. I told her I wanted to take another class.” He scowled. “Peppa was sorting it, hounding me for a response, so I told her I didn’t give a…” He paused without cursing. “To sign me up for anything.”

  I finished for him. “So, she put you in her own class.” It made total sense to me. I might have done the same thing if given the opportunity.

  Wythe nodded. “I committed to taking a class. So, I’ll finish it.” His drink had mellowed him. “What would you be asking me if we’d just met for the first time?”

  I tilted my head, mirroring his motion. “Well. In Texas, we’d be at a party. Your beer would be in a red plastic cup, that at some point you’d squeeze too hard, so it would spill. Or I would spill mine. It would give the whole place a light beer smell. Not unlike this bar. Also, there’d be fewer soccer jerseys than here, and more t-shirts. And some guy would be walking around carrying a bag of wine. You’d slap the bag if you wanted some.”

  He leaned forward. “Yes?”

  “Yep.” I made myself sound super enthused about “slap the bag.” Though wine wasn’t my favorite drink. I preferred this cider.

  He leaned back and laughed, sounding free, and looking younger, and so attractive. If I had seen him across a party… Whew. I would’ve been the first over to meet him. Not that I would’ve been obvious about it. I’d have gotten near and given him the look, and watched to see if it worked. If it hadn’t, I’d have had to pull out other tricks.

  I clicked my glass to his bottle. “‘Bring in the bottled lightning, a clean tumbler, and a corkscrew.’ Dickens.”

  He arched a brow. “Dickens? Really?”

  “Dickens. Really. A great quote. But not my favorite.” I winked at him.

  He arched both eyebrows. “Is it, ‘More, please?’”

  I grinned. “Yeah, that’s good.” I waved my empty bottle. “More, please.”

  He brought me another drink.

  I took a sip, apple with a kick. This one was somehow even better. “No, we’re off Dickens.” I toyed with a paper coaster that advertised a German beer. “So many great drinking quotes. You’ve never truly toasted until you’ve drunk with a Lit major.”

  “Give me one then.”

  “‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.’”

  He tapped my glass and took a long pull from his drink. “I must say, living literature is much better than reading it.”

  I was in turns defensive of literature and in love with his phrase. I chose to go with the love. “Living literature. Love it. Some version of that would make a good ‘ultimate’ guess for class.”

  “Maybe.” He grinned. “Not familiar with the ‘no good’ quote. Courtroom book?”

  I snickered. “Harry Potter.”

  “I’m a fan.”

  “I’d hope so. Harry Potter is a national treasure. Which leads me to a question for you.” I was eager for this one, and I leaned in.

  Wythe kicked his feet out. “Okay.”

  “Why don’t we go see the Harry Potter play?” A couple of ciders in, and I was asking him out. Yep. Heat flushed my cheeks, well, heat and the warm room, but I didn’t take the offer back.

  He blinked and sat up straighter. His eyes searched mine. “I’ll go if it’s off the books. You and me.”

  I loved that. A smile curled my lips. An inappropriate smile, given that fraternization wasn’t allowed. I didn’t care. He’d just turned my proposition officially into a date. An unspoken date, an unsaid date, but a date nonetheless. This way, if questioned, I could say I hadn’t dated him. If the interrogator went into kissing… Well, then, I’d have to plead the fifth. Did they have the fifth amendment here? Or was it all guilty first and self-incrimination and ship her off to the Colonies? I didn’t know, and I wasn’t keen to find out. But I was eager to go with him. Me. Him. Him and me. London theatre. The dark. “Okay.”

  His eyes grew heated.

  I wanted to pursue that.

  Ping.

  Both our phones went off. Email. It was from the lit professor. “Clue: super American steak.” The clues were coming faster.

  “This one’s all you,” Wythe said, his voice teasing and challenging. “What’s an American steak?”

  I thought about the first clue, that flash of red. “Super. Super. Superman, Supersize. Superduper.” I sounded slightly tipsy. I’d order a water next.

  “Okay, super, and what’s an American steak?”

  “I don’t know…T-bone, sirloin, chopped beef.”

  He ran through probabilities with those. I closed my eyes and thought of England. Red, white, and blue on both their flags. Steak. Steak. Steak. I had nothing.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m closing my eyes and thinking of England.” It was an old joke about how one tolerated bad sex.

  Wythe choked out a laughed. “Is that what you do?” He put his drink down and looked really interested. “Does it work?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Yep, the cider made me put it out there. I hadn’t gone there with my ex. Almost. But nope.

  “You haven’t had bad sex?” He hadn’t lost his intrigued expression. If anything, I was fueling it.

  This was the point in the conversation where I would change the subject if I had no interest in him. I didn’t change the subject. “I haven’t had sex-sex.” I wasn’t inexperienced, but I hadn’t gone all the way there.

  He rolled his pint glass between his palms and didn’t break eye contact with me. His blue eyes glinted. “You wouldn’t have to think of England with me…or close your eyes.”

  I swallowed and closed my eyes again. Partly to stop how much his gaze and words were turning me on. I was soft enough around him. No guy liked an easy catch.

  “What are you doing now?” Wythe sounded challenged, like I was the puzzle.

  “I’m closing my eyes and thinking of America. And steak.” And I made myself do it. Dinner, Angus beef, Nolan Ryan beef, Kobe beef. Those were choices at home. They even had steak at the dorm cafe. A chopped beef patty with brown gravy and a single spongy mushroom floating in the sauce every week. There was something there. “On the school lunch menu, we had Salisbury steak. It was disgusting.”

  “That’s what you think of English food?” He shook his head. “We don’t have that.”

  I Googled it. “It’s named after a New York doctor…but…York. Back to the King Richard reference. I bet it’s right.”

  Wythe tapped his fingers on the table. “We do not have Salisbury steak, but we do have a Salisbury. Salisbury has a cathedral, and it’s known for its connection to Richard III.”

  We spit out random theories, each growing wilder and bigger as we finished our drinks.

  I dropped my forehead to the table and wanted to pound it. “Salisbury…”

  “Salisbury Plain has Stonehenge,” he said, sounding even more into this.

  He was so right. “Yes! What’s England without Stonehenge? Stonehenge. How far?” I pulled up my
phone’s map app. “We can Google it.”

  “We have a car. Want to go there in the morning?”

  That moment was fantastical. We were in sync, and in this crazy country. We could drive to Stonehenge. How amazing was that? I looked into his eyes. “Yes.”

  There was a pause in the night, and then the music changed to one of those songs everyone knew. As if they’d been trained, the pub crowd started singing, including Wythe. It was such a European guy thing to do I just stared at him. He smiled at me, and it was so tempting to keep him smiling that I found myself singing, too.

  It was a great night at the pub.

  ***

  The day was gorgeous, and Wythe shrugged out of his jacket on the way to the car. He wore a gray t-shirt over a long-sleeve t-shirt. English weather required layers. I wore a cream t-shirt under a rust-colored jacket. We both wore jeans and hiking shoes. We were headed to the countryside.

  Wythe wasn’t as easygoing this morning as he had been after a glass of ale. His armor was back up. I didn’t want any awkward silences, so I Googled facts on the drive and read more about the Neolithic period and the eighty-three stones than I’d ever wanted to know. It wasn’t until Wythe Googled super and Stonehenge that we got our answer. In 2015, they discovered a new hidden circle of stones surrounding the existing monument. They called it Superhenge.

  “I still don’t get how ‘red’ fits in,” I said.

  “It’s enough. We’ll type it and send it off to the professor.” Wythe sounded eager to get our outing over with.

  That bummed me. I held up my hand to slow him down. “What’s this have to do with lit?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll figure a connection out later.”

  At least he’d said “we.”

  Moving together, we trudged up the gravel path, looking for the answer. Rolling hills surrounded us, and the air was chillier here outside of London. Ten minutes in, invigorated by all the clean air, I thought to take a shot at the real question hovering over us. Can we be friends again? Something more? I looked at him.

  He faced straight ahead. No more little looks at me. Not angry. Just not interested or happy with me. He was right there. But not there. Not really. And I missed him. “Since this place is all supernatural…”