Carla pretends to think about it. “I don’t think they’d go for the pink hair.”
“Probably not.” Hauling myself up, I turn back to the sea, my smile fixed and determined. If I can feel this good staying upright just a few seconds, imagine how I’ll feel when I get it right. “Now, let’s try that again. . . .”
“We’re so lost.”
“No, we aren’t!”
“I swear we passed that gate half an hour ago.” I stop in the middle of the winding country lane and cross my arms. “Seriously, we’re lost.”
“We didn’t and we’re not.” Will unfolds his map again and consults the small print. “Look, we took the 57 bus to Upper Higgledown, cut across that field, took the road toward Farleigh Wallop, and now . . .” He stops when I begin to giggle. “What’s so funny?”
“Come on.” I laugh. “‘Higgledown,’ ‘Wallop’ — who comes up with these names?”
Finally, Will allows himself a grin. “They are rather silly.”
“And totally impossible to find,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. We’re bundled up in totally unfashionable jackets and scarves, but there’s nobody except the cows to see us. “If you admit you haven’t got a clue where we are, I’ll shut up. It won’t diminish, like, your masculine prowess, I promise.”
“Perhaps . . . I could have taken a wrong turn,” he admits as we pass another identical field.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” I survey the stretch of trees, grass, and cute cottages around us. When I joked to Emily about search parties, I wasn’t expecting it to come true. “I think we should keep heading in the same direction. I mean, we know it’s not back there.”
“Whatever you say, Natasha.” Will makes this dramatic little gesture and hands me the map. “I hereby relinquish all navigational duties.”
I laugh, mimicking his tone. “Why thank you, kind sir.”
We walk in silence for a while. The weather is finally thawing out now that spring is almost here, and I felt this urge to get out of the city for the day, take a break from all that studying. I even managed to speed through most of my reading for this week, so here we are: strolling through the countryside like we’re in one of those BBC America period dramas. I even have my very own chivalrous companion to protect my virtue, except, you know, it’s kind of late for that.
“So what is this house we’re looking for?” Will asks with a grin. “I’m guessing it’s pretty special to get you out on a hike.”
“Hey!”
“And you’ve only complained about not having a car, oh, five times today.”
“I wouldn’t have to complain if you English people realized cars are basic human necessities. I still can’t believe most of the kids at Oxford don’t drive.”
“There is a little something called the environment,” Will teases. “And people who actually want it to last.”
“Whatever,” I drawl, reaching down to pick a daffodil from the side of the road. “You think a few less SUVs are really going to make a difference? And I thought my math was bad!” Will looks like he’s going to fight me on this one, so I change the subject back. “We’re looking for Alma Mayall’s house. Well, I guess it was her father’s — yay, archaic property laws. Anyway,” I continue, “she was this pioneering feminist of her time, back in the eighteen hundreds. She wrote all these essays on voting rights and equality, and there are even rumors she had this totally scandalous affair with J. S. Mill.”
“Like, omigod!”
I push Will into a hedge. “Chauvinist pig.”
“Femi-nazi.”
We grin at each other.
“Is that it?” He nods over my shoulder. I spin around.
“Yes!” The cottage is thatched, with whitewashed walls and a little plaque on the gate. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Then we weren’t lost,” Will says, smug as hell.
“Oh whatever.” I push him again and head for the front gate. “See? ‘1824 to 1896, Alma Mayall.’” The front yard is overgrown, flowers dotted around in bunches and a tangle of shrubbery over the door. “Isn’t it adorable?” I sigh, clasping my hands together at the total picture-perfectness of it all.
Will just looks at me, loosening his striped scarf. “You’re becoming such an Anglophile.”
“Says the guy who downloads, like, ten different American TV shows every week.” I check my leaflet. “OK, so this place should be open to visitors. . . .” Cautiously, I push the door, half expecting to walk into somebody’s actual home. Inside, the hallway is silent and totally deserted, papered with a tiny rose print.
“Gone for lunch,” Will reads from a note on the antique-looking desk.
“Cool, we can just wander around. I hate having those guided tours; they’re always so dull and —” A side door opens and a woman comes out. She can’t be more than forty, but she’s dressed in this dowdy flowery blouse and a tweed skirt, with a button on her lapel reading, TOUR GUIDE. She glares at us.
“Umm, sorry.” I blush while Will tries to hide his laughter.
The woman keeps looking at us suspiciously, until Will steps forward and shakes her hand.
“Hello there. We’ve come from Oxford University. We were hoping to take a look around, but, of course, if you’re busy . . .” His polite thing works like a charm; in an instant, the disapproving expression switches into a smile. I don’t blame her.
“Students, of course.” She lights up. “It’s always nice to see the young people take an interest in Alma’s life.”
I let out a slow breath of relief.
Will nods along, an angelic look on his face. “Well, she was a pioneering feminist of her time.” As he steers the woman down the hallway, he throws me a wink. “Now you must tell me about her relationship with J. S. Mill. . . .”
The house is perfectly preserved, with all Alma’s old decor and things, and by the time I’m done looking through her letters (for any hint of that scandalous affair), Will is seriously in need of feeding. Luckily, that tour guide still totally adores him, so she directs us to a nearby pub for lunch.
“Ah, food!” Will bites down hungrily on a wedge of sandwich. “I thought I was going to die of starvation back there.”
“And we haven’t eaten since, what, that late brunch three hours ago?” I throw a chip — sorry, “crisp” — at him. The pub has tables outside, so we’re sitting in the sun by the riverbank. It may not be warm enough to actually take my jacket off, but leaving my gloves behind? Major improvement.
Will doesn’t say a thing until his plate is nearly clear. “Did you get enough material for your essay?” he asks, sweeping up the last of his crumbs.
I sip my lemonade. “It wasn’t required for class. I just wanted to take a look around.”
He looks at me admiringly. “You really are dedicated to your work.”
I blush. It’s getting harder to resist Will’s general cuteness, even though the end of the semester is in sight. I can tell myself “no dating” all I want, but then I’ll catch him looking at me with those dark brown eyes and something in me just melts. It’s not just the way he looks; it’s how he sees me. Like I’m worth something. I hope our friendship can last.
“Are you looking forward to going back to California?” Will says, as if reading my mind. “You must miss your family and friends.”
I wait to answer, clearing our things aside and hopping up to sit on the tabletop so I’m looking out at the river. Will moves to sit next to me.
“Yes, and no,” I say slowly. “I’m fine without my parents. We’re kind of not talking right now,” I admit. “And I miss my friends, but all the same . . . I feel like I’ve changed. I don’t know how that will work out when I’m home.”
“Changed? How?”
His face is so open and sincere that right now I’m almost tempted to come clean. I could just tell him everything, hot tub and all. I mean, he’s my friend, he cares about me, so maybe he’ll understand and —
He takes my hand.
>
I freeze, just feeling his skin against mine. I can’t even look at him for a minute. I’m too busy freaking out. What is wrong with me? I’ve done this before. Hell, the whole Internet knows I’ve done way more than this before, but here, now, with Will? This matters.
“Err, Natasha.” He clears his throat, and I finally pull myself together enough to look at him. Oh boy, he’s got his puppy-dog look on, the one that reduces stern old women — and me — to marshmallow. “You know your friendship means a lot to me, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to affect that. . . .”
I can tell he’s rehearsed this, he looks so nervous.
“But you have to know . . .” He pauses, blushing. “I . . . Well, that is to say, we . . .” His words fade out, and then the next thing I know, he lunges forward and kisses me.
Maybe if I was a saint, I would have pulled away right then, but I can’t help myself. I’ve wanted this for so long. I kiss him back. It’s soft, and sweet, and nothing like the sweaty make-out sessions I’ve had back home. He touches my cheek, gently, and I want nothing more than to just fall into it and forget everything . . .
But I can’t.
“Will.” I pull away, already hating myself. “I don’t —”
His eyes widen and he jerks back. “Oh. Sorry, I —”
“You’re a really great guy!” I say quickly as he scrambles down from the tabletop and stands there, awkward. “But . . .”
What can I say to him? I’ve been secretly hoping for this all along, but now it’s finally happening, I just can’t follow through. How could I even explain: “But . . . I can’t do this without telling you the truth”? “But . . . I don’t know what you’ll say if I come clean”? “But . . . I’m not brave enough to risk losing what we’ve got, or that person you think I am”?
No, it won’t work. I’m not ready to go back to being Tasha, not yet.
“. . . I kind of just got out of something. Back home,” I say, avoiding his eyes. I swallow, feeling like the biggest coward in the world. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I’m not ready.”
“Oh,” Will says again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —”
“No!” I interrupt. “It’s not your fault. I mean, it was nice, and I wish . . .” I sigh. Boy, do I wish.
“It’s all right, Natasha.” Will sends me a quiet look. “Really. You don’t have to explain.”
“But we can still be friends?” I ask, desperate. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t.” Will seems to pull himself together, standing up straight and fixing a thin smile in place. “We’ll be fine.”
I look down, wishing I could just take us back in time.
“Come on, we better make a start back to Oxford.” Will hooks his thumbs in his jacket pockets and nods his head toward the front gate. I slowly loop my scarf back around my neck and follow him out of the garden. “And this time, no complaints about the hike, all right?”
He’s looking at me, trying to act normal, so I laugh along. “No complaining,” I agree, my chest feeling hollow inside. “I promise.”
From: totes_tasha
To: EMLewis
Subject: will
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
oh em, i couldn’t do it. there he was, totally amazing & sweet & cute and i just couldn’t tell him the truth. there’s a chance he would understand, but how can i know for sure? guys get weird over this stuff, they just do. i couldn’t bear it if he started looking at me different. he says we’re fine, but i haven’t seen him since the trip and it’s been four days now . . .
i guess it’s a good thing, right? i mean, we’re going home in 3 weeks, and getting involved with him now would just make it harder to go home. and now i can focus everything on my classes and the presentation to the board and oh em, it’s such a mess!
xoxox
From: EMLewis
To: totes_tasha
Subject: re: will
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Maybe you need to give him the benefit of the doubt. He sounds like a decent boy, and if you don’t trust him, then you’ll never find out. Or not. Whichever you think! I’m in no position to give relationship advice — I may be over Sebastian for good now, but that just means I’ve got all this romantic energy to channel in the wrong direction!
I’ve got to run, the time slots for the editing suite are like gold dust, and Ryan will kill me if I miss our spot. Don’t worry!
xEmx
After spending three days locked in the editing suite with Ryan, I break. Squinting at a screen all day making minute changes to scene length and order may be the way to earn an amazing mark on our final project, but it’s not the route to mental health, happiness, and that sense of carefree California well-being I’m determined to maintain. I insisted on taking Thursday off, to have one whole day of “me time.” One blissful, glorious, stress-free —
There’s a light tap at the front door. I roll out of bed, pull on my fluffy robe, and cautiously crack it open.
“Ryan?” I step backward, surprised.
“Umm, hey.” He takes in my clothing. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Oh, no.” I pull the robe tighter. “Come in.” He slowly edges into the apartment. “Morgan’s out,” I reassure him, and watch his whole body uncoil.
“Cool.” He nods, jamming his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans.
“So . . .” I perch on the edge of the sofa and wait.
“Oh, right.” Ryan smiles sheepishly at me. “You weren’t answering your cell. I was thinking of heading down to L.A., just taking some time to drive and hang out. Do you want to come along?”
“I thought we were having a little time-out.”
“Right, from editing.” Ryan slowly frowns. “Did you mean —?”
“No!” I jump up. I’d planned out my whole day, but I need to be more spontaneous. Scheduling my spare time is just another manifestation of those control-freak tendencies I’m trying so hard to shake. “L.A. sounds great. Just give me a minute to get dressed.”
“I’ll be in the car.”
Ryan is horrified to discover I’ve yet to experience a road trip.
“But you’ve been here more than two months already. They’re like a mandatory national experience!” he exclaims as we speed down the freeway. It’s another clear, sunny day, and he’s rolled all the windows down, the breeze whipping my hair into a terrible tangle. I don’t care. There’s something exhilarating about the speed, the movement, the fast song currently blasting from the stereo — as if this is really a part of my life, instead of just a vacation moment.
“I haven’t had any reason to go anywhere,” I shout as the drum kicks up a notch for the pulsing rock chorus. “And back in England, well, we just take the train if something’s more than a couple of hours away.”
Ryan shakes his head. “I guess it’s up to me to educate you. Oh wait.” Wrenching the wheel violently, he suddenly spins us into another lane. I squeal and grip the seat as we speed down an exit ramp. “Sorry!” he says breathlessly. “But I figured you needed an authentic diner stop as part of your American visit.”
“I also need to stay alive!”
“C’mon.” Ryan laughs. “You’ll forgive me when you taste their cheeseburgers.”
He’s in a better mood. Whatever weight has been dragging him down these past weeks seems to have lifted.
We only drive another few miles before pulling into a car park in front of an old-style diner, like the ones I’ve seen on postcards. It’s long and low, with a flashing neon sign announcing “Angie’s” and peeling paintwork. I hop out of the car.
“Oh, I wish I had my camera. I keep missing all the best things.”
“Got it covered.” Ryan waves his mobile phone at me and pushes me over to the sign. I stand self-consciously. “You can do better than that!
” he urges. I begin to pose, awkwardly at first, but soon I manage to fight my way out of my own head and find myself mugging for the camera — blowing kisses and jumping around.
“I look ridiculous.” I giggle, leaning over to see the snaps.
“That’s the point.” Ryan grins, pushing open the heavy diner double doors. Immediately, I’m transported into a 1950s tableau, complete with long counter and faded-looking waitress in a pink uniform.
“Wow!” I grin. “It’s so . . .”
“Touristy and kitschy,” Ryan finishes, leading me to a corner booth upholstered in red leather. “But they do awesome disco fries.”
“What are they?” I slide into my seat and look around, enrapt.
“You’ll see.” Ryan rummages in his battered gray wallet for quarters. “Now, if this is the Americana scene, we need the right soundtrack. . . .” He punches a few numbers on the mini-jukebox next to us, and after a moment, familiar chords begin to play.
“‘Dancing in the Dark.’” I smile slowly. “I love this song.”
“The English rose likes Springsteen?” Ryan looks surprised. “Hmm. I didn’t see that coming.”
“What, it wasn’t in your character outline?” I tease, only half kidding, as the waitress comes to take our orders, dark roots showing through her platinum perm. “I’ll have one of the famous cheeseburgers. And a chocolate malt whip shake.” To hell with healthy.
After Ryan orders, he takes a sugar packet, thwacking it against the edge of the table in time with the song.
“You do that a lot,” I note. His restless energy doesn’t drive me insane the way it did a month ago, but it’s interesting the way he can never simply sit still. “And that scene thing . . .”
“Huh?” Ryan pauses.
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