“Right,” says Jamie, looking unconvinced by this, which I suppose is fair enough under the circumstances.
“So youdidn’tcome out here just to see me?” Jamie asks now, his expression unreadable. “Because when I bumped into you the other day, you said you were here on holiday. I thought it was just a coincidence, us meeting like that.”
“It was,” I say quickly. “Itwasjust a coincidence.”
To be fair, this is technically true, too. I had no idea the tour bus was going to drive right past us like that, did I? Jamie, however, is rubbing his chin now, as if he’s trying to figure something out.
“But then, last night, after you’d gone,” he says, “I remembered that you’d been to the bar the day before, looking for me. And, after what Chloe said, I wondered—?”
I twist the water bottle nervously in my hands.
“Um. Okay,” I say at last. “Here’s the thing. I’ve been… well, I’ve been kind of going through some … somestufflately.”
“Some stuff? What do you mean? What kind of stuff?”
“Oh, you know. The usual. Existential angst. Feeling like I’m not good enough. Wondering what to do with my life. You know how it is.”
Jamie smiles.
“Not really,” he admits sheepishly. “I thought you were doing okay? Better than okay, actually. From what you said at lunch the other day, everything seemed great?”
I bite my lower lip nervously.
“I might not have beencompletelyhonest about that,” I admit, turning to look out at the view so I don’t have to see his reaction. “I’m not doingbrilliantly. I mean, on paper, I guess I am. I have a flat, and a job — well, IthinkI still have a job. But I want more than that, you know? I just keep having this feeling, like, is thisreallyall there is? Do I really just have to keep getting up every morning and doing the same old thing on repeat? And for what? It’s like Biff Loman said: ‘to suffer fifty weeks of the year for the sake of a two-week vacation, when all you really desire is to be outdoors with your shirt off.’ You know?”
I glance around at Jamie, but it’s clear from the blank look on his face that he doesnot, in fact, know what I’m talking about. There’sabsolutely no recognition on his face at all. None of what I’ve said is resonating with him. Not even the bit about Biff Loman, which I was sure he’d have remembered from our high school English class.
How can he not remember Biff Loman?
“You want to take your shirt off?” he says, glancing eagerly down at my chest. “Itisreally hot today.”
“No, of course not. I just … it’s like that song I used to like in high school, remember?Fast Car?”
Jamie’s face clears.
“Tracey Chapman? Yeah, I love that one.”
“Me too. And I guess I just felt a bit like the woman in that song. Like I wanted to be someone, going somewhere, and it didn’t really matter where. I just wanted things to be different.”
“So you came here?”
“Yeah. It sounds stupid now, but I came across your Instagram. You know, the one for the bar? And when I saw that you were out here, it seemed like as good an excuse as any to make this my starting point.”
Jamie nods slowly, but I can tell he’s still not quite getting it. Too late, I remember thatFast Caris a sad song; that it doesn’t have a happy ending. That the woman in itdoesn’tactuallyescape.
And all of a sudden, I’m much less certain that I will, either.
“So, you kind ofdidcome here to see me?” Jamie says. He smiles disarmingly, a brief echo of the person he used to be. But it’s too late. All I can think about is how Jamie Reynolds is not the kind of person who knows what it’s like to want to escape your life. To him,Fast Caris just a cool song to play on the guitar, and Biff Loman is a character in a play he can’t even remember reading.
Which I guess makes me just some girl he knew in high school, and that shared history I thought we had nothing but a memory.
“Not really,” I tell him carefully. “I came here for me. It was just something I had to do. It didn’t really have anything to do with you.”
The words come out a little more bluntly than I’d intended them to, but as soon as I say them, I know they’re true. I’m notreallyhere for Jamie, despite what I’ve been telling myself ever since I found that diary. I’m here for me. Which is actually quite a liberating thought.
“Look, Summer,” says Jamie, who doesn’t seem to be listening. “I was thinking. Maybe we could get together later? Just me and you, I mean? I could swing by your hotel room later, maybe pick up a bottle of wine on the way. You could wear that red dress you had on last night. Well, for a few minutes, anyway.”
He licks his lips in a way that reminds me of the way our family dog, Snoop, used to beg for a treat. He’s grinning at me as if he thinks he’s said something really clever, and I suddenly have the horrible impression he’s used this line before.
